Read Online Speaking in Tongues by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online Page A

he said.
    She shrugged. “I don’t believe this.” She tapped her purse. Meaning the letter, he supposed.
    “Why do you think that?”
    “I was remembering something.”
    “Hmm?” he offered noncommittally.
    “I found a bag under Megan’s bed at home. When I was cleaning last week. There was a soap dish in it.”
    He noticed the woman’s tears. He wanted to step close, put his arm around her. Tate tried to remember the last time he’d held her. Not just bussed cheeks but actually put his arms around her, felt her narrow shoulder blades beneath his large hands. No memory came to mind.
    “It was a joke between us. I never had a dish in my bathroom. The soap got all yucky, Megan said. So she bought this Victorian soap dish. It was for my birthday.Next week. There was a card too. I mean, she wouldn’t buy me a present and a card and then do this.”
    Wouldn’t she? Tate wondered. Why not? When the pressure builds to a certain point the volcano blows—and it doesn’t care about the time of year or who’s picnicking on the slopes, drunken lovers or churchgoers. Any lawyer who’s done domestic relations work will testify to that.
    “You think someone made her do this? Or that it’s a prank?” Tate asked.
    “I don’t know. She might’ve been drinking again. I checked the bottles at home and they didn’t look emptier but . . . I don’t know.”
    “That’s not much to go on,” her ex-husband said.
    Suddenly she turned to him and spoke. “It’s not a hundred percent thing we’ve got, Megan and me. There’re problems. Of course there are. But our relationship deserves more than this damn letter. More than her running out . . .” She crossed her arms, gazed into the fields again. She repeated, “Something’s wrong.”
    “But what? Exactly? What do you think?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well, what should we do?”
    “I want to go look for her,” Bett said determinedly. “I want to find her.”
    Which is exactly what he’d seen in her purple eyes a few moments earlier. This is what he’d known was coming.
    Yet now that he thought about it he was surprised. This didn’t sound like Bett McCall at all. Bett the dreamer, Bett the tarot card consulter. Passive, she’dalways floated where the breezes took her. Forrest Gump’s feather . . . The least likely person imaginable to be a mother. Children needed guidance, direction, models. That wasn’t Bett McCall. When he’d heard from Megan that Bett had become engaged last Christmas Tate was surprised only that it had taken her so long to accept what must have been her dozenth proposal since they’d divorced. When they’d been married she’d been charming and flighty and wholly ungrounded, relying on him to provide the foundation she needed. He’d assumed that once they’d split up she’d quickly find someone else to play that role.
    He wondered if he was standing next to a Betty Susan McCall different from the one he’d been married to (and wondered too if she was thinking the same about him).
    “Bett,” he said to reassure her, “she’s fine. She’s a mature young woman. She vented some steam and’s going off for a few days. I did it myself when I was about her age. Remember?” He doubted that she did but, surprising him, she said, “You made it all the way to Baltimore.”
    “And I called the Judge and he came to get me. A two-day runaway. Look, Megan’s had a lot to deal with. I think the soap dish is the key.”
    “The dish?”
    “You’re right—nobody’d buy a present and a card and then not give them to you. She’ll be back for your birthday. And know what else?”
    “What?”
    “There’s a positive side to this. She’s brought upsome things that we can talk about. That ought to be talked about.” He nodded—toward the house, where his letter rested like a bloody knife.
    Logic. Who could argue with it?
    But Bett wasn’t convinced.
    “There’s something else I have to tell you.” She chewed on her narrow