Free The Third Victim by Collin Wilcox Page A

seemed to fit his expectations, evoking a certain show-biz aura. A stand-in, after all, could still be discovered. Playwrights could still pick up the phone to hear the magic promise of success at the other end. It still happened. Every day, somewhere, it happened to someone. Someday, it could happen to him.
    But next Christmas would be Josh’s seventh—and his thirty-first.
    And it had been a long time since he’d thought about his big break. Imperceptibly, the slogan had disappeared from his interior monologues. And when hope was gone, what remained? A few free lunches? Or, more like it, the offer of a cup of coffee?
    At the memory of Dick Wagner and his glossy girl friend with the cool green eyes, he felt his face and neck growing warm with embarrassment. It was, Joanna had once said, one of his endearing young charms. He could still blush.
    “What’s wrong with it, Daddy?” On the other side of the car, Josh was staring solemnly down at the engine. The boy’s grime-streaked chin just cleared the fender.
    “It’s the fuel pump. We have to get a new one.”
    “Can we get one now, Daddy?”
    “No, not now, Josh. It’s five thirty. The stores will be closed.”
    “Oh.” The boy continued to stare at the engine. Then: “Is Mommy coming home pretty soon?”
    Still wiping his hands, he nodded slowly. “Pretty soon, Josh.”
    “Oh.” Momentarily, the boy’s eyes were shadowed with disappointment. The message was clear. They’d shared an hour or two alone, driving home from the day-care center, stopping for ice cream, then working on the car. Josh was reluctant for their time together to end—reluctant to give up this man’s work they were doing together.
    Now the solemn eyes brightened. “Are you going to eat dinner with us, Daddy?”
    “I—I guess so, Josh. I—”
    A sportscar was rakishly rounding the corner, angling to the curb behind Cathy’s car. The driver was improbably handsome: a leading-man type, square-jawed, mod-barbered, sunglass-shielded. Still standing behind the Chevrolet’s raised hood, Kevin watched Joanna bid the driver a brief good-bye, then turn and stride up the driveway. Watching her come closer, he lowered the hood and stepped away from the car. She was wearing a summer dress. As she walked, the lightweight fabric molded the curve of her breasts and the long, slim line of her thigh. She was smiling down at Josh, who still stood close beside him.
    “Hi, honey.” Her small, serious mouth curved up into a warm smile of greeting. Beneath the graceful arch of dark brown eyebrows, her blue eyes were alight with a young mother’s pleasure.
    Did she pluck her eyebrows?
    He couldn’t remember—probably had never known.
    She was tousling Josh’s hair. “How’d it go today?”
    “Okay.” Now—belatedly—the boy moved against her, hugging his cheek to her thigh. As she returned the hug, she raised her eyes. Her voice was coolly neutral as she asked:
    “Could you fix it?”
    “No, but…” Kevin watched his hand make a choppy, ineffectual gesture toward the Chevrolet. “But I think I know what’s wrong. It’s the fuel pump, I think.”
    “How much will it cost?” As she asked the question, Josh moved away from her. Now the boy stood midway between them, looking from one to the other as they spoke to each other:
    “I’m not sure. Twenty dollars, maybe.”
    She frowned, but made no direct reply. Instead, still speaking impersonally, she said, “Are you staying for dinner? You didn’t let me know.”
    As she said it, the set of her mouth hardened. It was the prelude to accusation—the old, old problem between them. He wasn’t responsible enough—steady enough—adult enough, really. He should have phoned, shouldn’t have left her hanging. From bitter memory, he could recite it all, even though most of it would remain unsaid: silent, somber indictments. The worst kind.
    “I called you. But you were in a meeting.”
    “Well…” Momentarily her eyes held his, still