Free In Harm's Way by Ridley Pearson Page B

He wanted to sleep here. He wanted to tell her he’d dreamed of this, fantasized about it and that it had exceeded all he’d imagined because one couldn’t imagine how at ease he felt with her. He felt transformed. If not for the kids, he’d run away with her if she’d have him, and it struck him that she would have him, that she’d have agreed, and he nearly laughed.
    “Go home,” she said.
    “Are you always this bossy?”
    “Only when I’m afraid of losing something.”
    “Not going to happen.”
    He placed down the cold teacup, crossed to kiss her on the cheek, but she offered him her lips and they kissed until the cat climbed off her lap in disgust.

11
    W alt received Wynn’s handgun the following afternoon and spent thirty minutes with the man’s attorney arranging the terms for a Boldt interview. He impounded the handgun, pending Wynn’s voluntary completion of a one-day weapons course the following week.
    He reached Boldt by Skype that night, explaining he’d heard back from NFL owner Marty Boatwright, and that both interviews were now arranged. Boldt said he’d make travel plans and get back to him.
    He watched the Disney Channel with his daughters, read with them at bedtime, and caught up with e-mails while Beatrice licked herself at his feet. It was the first normal evening he’d had in a while and he promised himself to make more of them. He’d quickly come to see that Fiona was right about his intolerance of silence, though dared not test it. He kept himself busy with simple tasks until utterly fatigued and fell asleep in a bed he’d once shared with Gail. Beatrice snored before he did. He slept without any recollection of dreaming.
    The following day, a Tuesday in July, Terry Hogue was announced from the front desk. He complimented Walt on the decorated 1867 rolling block Remington rifle hung in a glass box on the wall. They discussed firearms for ten minutes, Walt feeling no need to push the attorney.
    Finally, Hogue withdrew a sealed plastic bag and pushed it across Walt’s desk. Inside was a pair of black lace underwear.
    “They belong to Dionne Fancelli.”
    “Not exactly what I’d expected,” Walt said.
    Hogue slid a signed and notarized document to Walt. “His statement as to how this undergarment came into his possession and that it was passed directly to you.”
    Walt read the letter carefully. “A love souvenir.”
    “Their second, and last time,” Hogue said. “I questioned the boy repeatedly, Walt. They’ve had sexual intercourse twice. Other stuff along the way, sure. But only twice, the last time eight months ago. He’s willing to cooperate fully. It’s not him. I happen to believe him, in case you care.”
    “I care.”
    “I thought you might.”
    “What I told you before—that was straight. I’m not after him.”
    Hogue produced a second plastic bag. This one contained a cotton swab.
    “So that completes our end of the deal,” Hogue said. “I guess I should wish you good luck. My client would welcome the dismissal of him as a person of interest.”
    “Has she said anything to him about problems at home?”
    “He knew there were problems,” Hogue said. “The two times they attempted sexual intercourse failed miserably. And it wasn’t him, it was her. She became so overwhelmed emotionally that he withdrew, despite protection.”
    “And they didn’t try after that.”
    “No. And they didn’t talk about it. He brought it up only once. She blew up at him. They didn’t speak for days. He doesn’t know enough to have spotted the warning signs. He just thought she was too young and that he was stupid for having tried.”
    “He was right.”
    “Indeed.”
    “Okay,” Walt said, accepting a second letter pertaining to the swab.
    “If we can help you get the bastard, Walt . . .”
    “Thank you. My guess is, you already have.”
    Walt had the two bags packaged and shipped to the Meridian lab, knowing it would be several weeks, if he was lucky, before