stepped over to his son, and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“John.” A stiff shake. “John.”
His son regarded Ben as he would a complete stranger and said, “You think it’s ransom?”
“John, it’s me … Ben.”
John pushed his glasses up and blinked hard. “ Ben? What are you doing … How did you … Who called you?”
“You should have, son.”
A voice from above: “I did.”
She had left him right after Gracie was born, determined that her only granddaughter would not be raised by a nanny. Ben had figured it was just an excuse, not that he blamed her; if he could have, he would have left himself a long time ago. She had made regular visits back at first, but the time between visits grew longer and longer. Five years ago her visits had stopped altogether, when she had two grandchildren to raise.
Now, seeing her at the top of the stairs, her red hair and fair complexion glowing in the light of the dome—still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—the love that Ben Brice had tried to drown in whiskey along with the pain returned with such force he thought his knees might buckle; instead, tears came to his eyes— she was still wearing her wedding ring. A devout Irish Catholic, she would never divorce her husband but could no longer live with a drunk; a devout drunk, he would never love another woman but could not live without a drink.
She descended the stairs, and Ben could tell that she had cried through the night. He knew because he had caused this woman to cry through many nights. Not that he had ever touched her in anger. Ben Brice was not a mean drunk. He was a silent one. The more he drank, the deeper inside himself he burrowed, battling the demons within and leaving his wife to cry herself to sleep. His soul was stained with her tears. Five years since he had seen her, touched her, held her, he ached to hold her now; but he stood paralyzed, like a buck private facing a four-star general.
She knew.
She came to him and buried her face in his chest. Ben pulled her tight and breathed in her scent as if for the first time. And for a brief moment, it was thirty-eight years earlier when the world still made sense. She sighed deeply, almost a cry, and he felt her slim body sag slightly.
“Oh, Ben. What if he hurts her?”
“We’ll get her back, Kate. We’ll pay the ransom and get her back.”
They stood holding each other as strangers and thirty-eight years of their lives rushed past—the good times, the bad times, and more bad times. Ben had always held onto the good times to get through the bad times; she had lost her grip ten years ago. Standing there, they didn’t have to say what they both knew: no time would be as bad as this time.
“Grandpa!”
Ben looked down at his grandson clutching his legs. The Hispanic woman arrived in a rush and out of breath.
“ Señor Sam, the oatmeal, you must eat.”
From below: “I don’t want no stinkin’ oatmeal!”
Ben Brice embraced his family. Except John. He was gone.
“What the hell’s he doing here?”
Elizabeth ambushed her husband as soon as he set foot in the kitchen; he flinched and his hands flew up to his face then fell once he realized she wasn’t going to slap him again.
“I don’t want that drunk in my house!”
John did not respond. Instead, he wandered into the butler’s pantry, as if hunting for a place to hide. She stared after her husband and shook her head: utterly useless in a fight .
“Mrs. Brice.”
Agent Devereaux was at the kitchen door.
Ben was standing at the staircase with his family and the young Hispanic woman when a middle-aged FBI agent appeared with Elizabeth. Ben looked at her and she looked away.
“Kate,” Elizabeth said, “would you get the photo of Grace from our room, for Agent Devereaux? And something she wore yesterday, something that hasn’t been washed. Maybe her school uniform. Chief Ryan needs it. He’s in the dining room.” She then said down to Sam, “Have you eaten
“John.” A stiff shake. “John.”
His son regarded Ben as he would a complete stranger and said, “You think it’s ransom?”
“John, it’s me … Ben.”
John pushed his glasses up and blinked hard. “ Ben? What are you doing … How did you … Who called you?”
“You should have, son.”
A voice from above: “I did.”
She had left him right after Gracie was born, determined that her only granddaughter would not be raised by a nanny. Ben had figured it was just an excuse, not that he blamed her; if he could have, he would have left himself a long time ago. She had made regular visits back at first, but the time between visits grew longer and longer. Five years ago her visits had stopped altogether, when she had two grandchildren to raise.
Now, seeing her at the top of the stairs, her red hair and fair complexion glowing in the light of the dome—still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—the love that Ben Brice had tried to drown in whiskey along with the pain returned with such force he thought his knees might buckle; instead, tears came to his eyes— she was still wearing her wedding ring. A devout Irish Catholic, she would never divorce her husband but could no longer live with a drunk; a devout drunk, he would never love another woman but could not live without a drink.
She descended the stairs, and Ben could tell that she had cried through the night. He knew because he had caused this woman to cry through many nights. Not that he had ever touched her in anger. Ben Brice was not a mean drunk. He was a silent one. The more he drank, the deeper inside himself he burrowed, battling the demons within and leaving his wife to cry herself to sleep. His soul was stained with her tears. Five years since he had seen her, touched her, held her, he ached to hold her now; but he stood paralyzed, like a buck private facing a four-star general.
She knew.
She came to him and buried her face in his chest. Ben pulled her tight and breathed in her scent as if for the first time. And for a brief moment, it was thirty-eight years earlier when the world still made sense. She sighed deeply, almost a cry, and he felt her slim body sag slightly.
“Oh, Ben. What if he hurts her?”
“We’ll get her back, Kate. We’ll pay the ransom and get her back.”
They stood holding each other as strangers and thirty-eight years of their lives rushed past—the good times, the bad times, and more bad times. Ben had always held onto the good times to get through the bad times; she had lost her grip ten years ago. Standing there, they didn’t have to say what they both knew: no time would be as bad as this time.
“Grandpa!”
Ben looked down at his grandson clutching his legs. The Hispanic woman arrived in a rush and out of breath.
“ Señor Sam, the oatmeal, you must eat.”
From below: “I don’t want no stinkin’ oatmeal!”
Ben Brice embraced his family. Except John. He was gone.
“What the hell’s he doing here?”
Elizabeth ambushed her husband as soon as he set foot in the kitchen; he flinched and his hands flew up to his face then fell once he realized she wasn’t going to slap him again.
“I don’t want that drunk in my house!”
John did not respond. Instead, he wandered into the butler’s pantry, as if hunting for a place to hide. She stared after her husband and shook her head: utterly useless in a fight .
“Mrs. Brice.”
Agent Devereaux was at the kitchen door.
Ben was standing at the staircase with his family and the young Hispanic woman when a middle-aged FBI agent appeared with Elizabeth. Ben looked at her and she looked away.
“Kate,” Elizabeth said, “would you get the photo of Grace from our room, for Agent Devereaux? And something she wore yesterday, something that hasn’t been washed. Maybe her school uniform. Chief Ryan needs it. He’s in the dining room.” She then said down to Sam, “Have you eaten
Similar Books
