The Return of Cassandra Todd Page 5

  “Yes, I told them . . . but I don’t know if they believed me.”

  She moaned and slumped back against the wall, wondering when the merry-go-round would wind down and the room would stop spinning. “I’m sorry for getting you involved in this. I’ll leave in the morning.”

  “That might not be a good idea. They’re probably waiting, hoping you’ll make a run for it.” She looked up at him in desperation. “Then what am I going to do?”

  Her host ran a hand through his short, brown hair. “Stay here in my apartment. Lie low for a couple of days. Let them think you did leave.”

  Shaking her head wearily, she said, “If we stay here, it will only make more trouble for you.” She was stating the facts, but she was also gauging the seriousness of his offer. Was he actually willing to shelter them?

  “I don’t see you have a choice.” He glanced at Justin and lowered his voice. “Run now and they’ll nab you. Go in the morning, they’ll follow you in the light.”

  “But what about”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“my son? I can’t keep him cooped up for two or three days.”

  “You’re going to have to.”

  She looked at Justin briefly and then nodded in agreement. But it was an uneasy agreement. She was getting her host seriously involved in this, and the situation was becoming complicated.

  “Exactly why are they after you?” the handyman inquired at length. “What’s going on, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Instinctively her hand went to her tender cheek as she tried to figure out how best to answer the question. She owed him an explanation because of his kindness. But how much did she dare tell him? The more he knew, the more dangerous it could become for him. She needed to protect him as much as she needed protection herself.

  She brushed a stand of hair from her forehead and dropped her gaze. “I’m running from my husband. He’s become physically abusive. And just lately he even threatened . . . ” Her voice choked on Justin’s name. But the horror and disgust on the handyman’s face told her he’d understood.

  Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  Justin dropped the monkey and hurried over to her. “What’s the matter, Mommy?” he asked, concern etched in his young countenance.

  Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she said, “Nothing, sweetie. Mommy’s okay.”

  She distracted her son with the monkey and then got to her feet, crossing to the window and standing with her back to her host. “I can’t believe I’m involving you in all this,” she said, turning to meet his gaze. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Layton,” he replied.

  “I’m Cassandra,” she said, extending her hand.

  She felt him tremble when they shook hands. His touch was warm and gentle—everything she wished her husband’s could be. “Thanks for what you’re doing, Layton,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much I—we—appreciate it.” She released his hand and dropped her gaze. “I dumped a lot of stuff on you tonight,” she said apologetically. “You must think I’m crazy or something.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  His response seemed genuine, and she felt a wave of relief spread over her. It was difficult to hold back the tears. She sniffed into the back of her hand. “It means so much to hear you say that,” she said.

  He reached out to wipe her tears. Alarmed, she backed away, and he dropped his hand. An awkward silence followed. Her gaze darted to him, then away. Could she really trust him? She’d been around enough men to recognize the lust that often flashed in their eyes when they looked at her. This guy, however, seemed to be genuine in his offer to help. But there was something else too—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  “Look,” he said at length, “I’m going to go talk with my boss and see if I can get any more information out of him. I need to find out what the men know, if anything. Will you be okay until I get back?”

  “Yes,” Cassandra said. “Justin and I will be fine. Just make sure to lock the door, okay?”

  “Of course.” He walked to the door and turned. “You and Justin use my bed, okay? I’ll turn out the lights so the apartment looks unoccupied.”

  “Okay. Thanks again for everything, Layton.”

  He nodded and closed the door behind him. When they were left alone, Cassandra cradled Justin in her arms and whispered nursery rhymes to comfort him. She felt more secure in the darkness where prying eyes couldn’t see them. Daylight was the worrisome time.

  She rocked Justin until his steady breathing practically lulled her to sleep. Her head bobbed several times.

  After getting to her feet, she carried him to the bed and lay down beside him. As she settled on the mattress, she felt herself beginning to relax. Whoever this Layton was, he appeared to be a good man, one she felt instinctively she could trust. She thought of the prayer she had offered before heading for the bus depot. A warm feeling came over her, as it had in the diner, and she realized that her prayer had been answered again. Another signpost. She had been led to another angel of mercy, someone to help and guide her.

  The last thought she had before drifting off to sleep was how she was being guided along, step by step. The going might be slow, precarious, and dangerous. But she had been led to this place. Now she needed to find out where to go next.

  CHAPTER 8

  TURNER ROSE EARLY the next morning following an unsuccessful attempt to get more information from Harvey. He sat on the edge of the couch and massaged his sore muscles and stretched his back. The couch was lumpy, and he’d had to sleep in a curled-up position.

  Besides the poor sleeping accommodations, it was unsettling to have Cassandra and Justin in his apartment. The memories continued to disturb him—it was becoming increasingly hard to stuff them into the back recesses of his mind. And to hear her address him as Layton made him feel awkward. He had known she would eventually ask his name, and he had already decided how he would handle it. He used his middle name so he didn’t have to reveal his high school connection with her. It would keep things simpler. She had been open with him about her relationship with her husband, but he still felt it best not to be open with her.

  As he got dressed, he heard two bare feet hit the floor in the bedroom. Moments later the door opened and Justin appeared in the doorway, wearing his pajamas. He wandered into the living room, thumb in his mouth, arm wrapped around the stuffed monkey.

  “Hey there, little man,” Turner said. “Did you have a good sleep?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Turner rummaged through the cupboard and brought out two boxes of cereal. The packaging held little kid appeal, but he decided he could make the contents more enticing by adding lots of sugar. “Which one would you like?” he asked.

  “This one,” Justin said, pointing to the box with a picture of a man smiling over a heaping bowlful of the cereal.

  “Good choice.” Turner poured a small amount into a bowl, added milk, and garnished it with a generous dose of sugar. He smiled at Justin and watched as the little boy stuffed a heaping spoonful into his mouth, milk dribbling down his chin. “How’s the cereal, little man?” he asked.

  Justin chewed for a minute. “Crunchy.”

  As Turner looked into his angelic face, he wondered what kind of father would jeopardize his relationship with so innocent a being. Deciding this might be the only chance to get information that was pure and unbiased, Turner asked, “When did you and your mommy leave home?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  It was an honest answer. Was Turner expecting the little boy to cite the day, hour, and minute?

  “Where are you and your mommy going?”

  “On an adventure.”

  “Are you going back to see your daddy?”

  A housefly caught Justin’s attention. He watched it zigzag back and forth across the table, amused by its indecisive direction.


  Turner shooed it away. “Does your daddy play with you?”

  “Sometimes we wrestle.”

  “Wrestle, huh? You’re such a strong boy. Do you beat him up?” Turner kept his tone purposefully light and melodramatic.

  Justin took another mouthful and giggled.

  “Does your daddy ever beat you up?” Turner’s throat went dry in anticipation of Justin’s response.

  “Nope, I’m stronger than Daddy.”

  Turner watched him eat, smiling at the thought of the little guy grunting and groaning in an effort to pin his father to the floor and make him beg for mercy. “But does your daddy ever hurt you?”

  Justin took another mouthful and didn’t answer.

  Hesitating a moment, Turner asked, “Do your daddy and mommy ever wrestle?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Does your daddy hurt your mommy?”

  “Sometimes Mommy cries. She comes to my bed, and I kiss her better.”

  Turner was about to probe deeper when the bedroom door opened. Cassandra came into the kitchen, wearing a T-shirt and jogging pants, her hair slightly tangled. She looked at him self-consciously, and then, when she spotted Justin, she looked a little embarrassed.

  “I didn’t hear him get up,” she said, padding over to the table and kissing Justin on the head.

  “I hope you don’t mind me getting him breakfast,” Turner said.

  Justin smiled at his mother and loaded his spoon for another mouthful.

  “Not at all,” she said, smiling gratefully at Turner as she pulled up a chair. “I must have been more tired than I realized. I slept like a log.”

  “No problem,” Turner replied, willing Justin not to say anything more about wrestling. The little boy remained busy with his cereal, slurping the milk from his bowl.

  “How was the couch?” she asked.

  “Great,” Turner lied, resisting the urge to massage his stiff shoulders.

  She looked at the cereal boxes sitting on the table. “I appreciate everything you’re doing for us, Layton. And I want to help pay for the groceries. Soon as I can get things worked out at the bank.”

  When Turner looked at her questioningly, she explained, “I have a safety deposit box in the bank here. It contains some stocks and bonds my dad left me when he died. I’m just waiting for the bank to process them.”

  Her dad had died? When had that happened? And where was her mom in all this?

  Without warning, she touched his arm lightly. “Thank you so much for everything, Layton. You’re a godsend.”

  Aware of her gaze, Turner stared straight ahead, refusing to meet it. “I’m just trying to help out.”

  “God directed us to you.”

  Turner pushed away from the table. “I doubt that.”

  She looked at him apologetically. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  He shrugged lightly. “God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said sincerely.

  He rose from the table. “I—I’d better be going. My boss will be waiting for me. And then I have an afternoon class to attend.”

  “College?” she asked.

  “Red Rocks Community College. Outdoor education, with a minor in psychology. I’m in my last year.”

  “I went to college until little Mister Buster came along. He changed everything, but I don’t regret it for a second.” She laughed under her breath. “Sorry, I’m rambling and I know you’re busy. I’d better let you go.”

  “Will you be all right? Is there anything you need while I’m gone?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. We’ll just camp out and watch the Cartoon Network.”

  “Make yourself at home. Help yourself to whatever you can find to eat. There’s not much, but I’ll bring more tonight.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, again, for everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” Turner said, looking into her eyes momentarily before shifting his gaze to Justin, who was slurping the last of the milk from his bowl. “See you, little man,” he said, wiggling his fingers.

  “See you,” Justin replied as he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his pajamas and wiggled his fingers in return.

  After nodding awkwardly to Cassandra, Turner headed for the maintenance room, struck by the morning routine he had just experienced. It felt so . . . domestic. But discomforting too. Out there somewhere were an angry husband and two other very threatening men who wanted to find her. But why was she the center of such an intense search? Turner pursed his lips. Cassandra wasn’t telling him everything.

  CHAPTER 9

  TURNER SAT IN the library later that afternoon, working on an assignment for his outdoor education class. He had to plan a hypothetical one-week recreation camp for a group of twenty-six people. The plan had to include a diagram of the camp setup, an outline of activities for individuals of all ages, a nutritious but budget-conscious menu, and a list of first aid supplies and emergency contact numbers.

  But he was having a hard time concentrating. Two people were hiding in his apartment, and that was not conducive to helping him focus on his studies. His life had suddenly become complicated. And he found it more challenging planning for the three of them than for the twenty-six people in his outdoor education assignment.

  His cell phone vibrated a short time later, and he flipped the cover open. “Hello?” he whispered.

  “It’s me,” Harvey’s voice sounded in the earpiece. “Look, I’m sorry for bothering you at school. Loretta would kill me if she knew. But something’s come up.”

  “Trouble, sir?” Turner asked, retreating to a corner of the library so he could talk.

  “You could say that, yeah.” Harvey’s voice rose in pitch.

  “You remember the woman and her kid that those two guys were inquiring about?”

  Turner felt a chill creep into his bones. “Yeah.”

  “Well, her husband’s here now, and he’s looking for her. Said he just flew in from Vegas because of a family emergency. I don’t know, maybe there’s been a death or something. Anyway I told him I didn’t know anything about her or the kid. He asked if anyone had talked to them, and I told him you did. And now he wants to talk to you. Let me put him on. Tell him what you know, and then maybe he’ll go away. Maybe they’ll all go away.”

  “All, sir?”

  “I just saw one of those two guys again who came calling last night.”

  “The oily-haired guy?”

  “The other one, the nervous one. He was going through the trash out back. Can you believe it?”

  Turner caught his breath.

  “Something’s definitely fishy,” Harvey said. “Why would those guys show up looking for one woman and her kid?” He sighed. “This business sure is stressful.”

  If you only knew. “I can talk to the husband and make him go away, sir. But I don’t want to do it over the phone. Have him wait. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, hurry.”

  As Turner stuffed his books and laptop into his backpack, he thought of the approach he was going to use. A plan was already formulating in his brain.

  When he arrived, he found Harvey in a state of agitation. The older man’s hair was even more unkempt than usual, and he was practically wringing his hands in anxiety. He quickly conducted Turner into the back office, where a figure with dark hair and broad shoulders sat in a chair across from the desk, his back to them.

  “This is our maintenance man, Turner Caldwell,” Harvey said. “Maybe he can answer your questions.”

  As the man spun around in his chair, a shockwave coursed through Turner. It was Brad Duncan!

  A flood of memories struck Turner with the force of a tsunami, and his muscles tensed as he faced his old nemesis. This was the jerk who tripped him in the cafeteria and made him do a face-plant in his food tray, who offered urine in place of apple juice, who put a dead cat in his locker and laughed when it came tumbling out. This was the football jock who
took delight in punishing his opponents on and off the gridiron.

  “Turner Caldwell?” Brad said, staring hard at Turner. Then his eyes widened in recognition. “Pancake?”

  “Turner. Hello, Brad.”

  Brad looked him up and down. “Man, you’ve changed.”

  Obviously you haven’t, Turner thought bitterly, remembering the details Cassandra had told him.

  “You two know each other?” Harvey asked in surprise.

  “We went through school together,” Brad said, rising from his chair and extending a hand that was just one size smaller than a baseball glove.

  Turner reluctantly shook Brad’s hand, aware of the raw power in the larger man’s grip.

  Brad Duncan was Cassandra’s husband!

  He had thinned a little on top and had thickened in the middle, but he appeared to be in good shape. Well-groomed and smelling of strong aftershave, he flashed the same smile that had appeared in the local sports page over the years. “How you doing, buddy?” he said enthusiastically, applying pressure to Turner’s hand. “It looks like you’ve been working out.”

  Turner was not swayed by the phony courtesy. Brad wanted something, and they both knew what it was. “A bit, yeah,” Turner replied, returning equal pressure to the handshake.

  “Turner is our maintenance man, and he goes to college too,” Harvey said, like a proud father. “Outdoor education, with a minor in something or other.”

  “Great,” Brad said, feigning interest.

  An awkward silence fell on the room. Harvey looked from one to the other and then cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll be out at the front desk.”

  When the two men were alone, Brad flashed another smile.

  “So you work as the handyman here?”

  Turner nodded stiffly. “You can’t beat free rent.”

  “Handyman, student—you’ve got quite the thing going.” Punching him playfully on the arm, he added, “Who would have thought we’d be here right now, catching up on old times.”