When the Dead Speak

Chapter 82

Chapter 82

Jake stood on the bottom step of the patio. The sun was shining brightly, too brightly. He expected the skies to be crying, mourning his loss.

He had sent Frank to the Suisse Hotel, saying he would meet up with them at the Jenkins Art Center. Anger and revenge had propelled Jake down those grated stairs, off the rooftop. He had thought briefly of driving over to Preston's house and placing his Colt 9mm to the back of the politician's head, execution style. But there was something more pressing he had to do. Someone had to tell Abby and he wanted her to hear it from him.

How damn clever Preston was. Smarter than Jake gave him credit for. In his statement to the press, Preston had shown them the picture of Cain Sam had given him. Told them she had warned him he might be Cain's next target. Preston's hands were lily white, in Cain's death, Hap's, Samuel Casey's, and now Sam's.

Jake stood by the patio table and thought back to the first time he had stood in this same spot. So smugly he had clung to that videotape, congratulating himself for out-maneuvering the clever Sergeant Casey.

But he was the one who had been blind-sided. When he saw her with that mass of long, spiraling hair daring to be touched, the trace of wine clinging to her lips, that defiant glare in those blue eyes, he felt that first brick fall. And in succession they fell like squares of dominos.

"Jacob." Abby's face brightened as she stepped out of the house. Her gaze dropped down to his swollen hand. "What happened?" Gently she cradled his injured hand. Jake winced. He wrapped his good arm around her and held her close.

"I promised you I'd watch over her," he whispered. "I'm sorry I let you down."

Abby pulled away from him. She frowned when she saw the anguish in his eyes. She turned her attention back to his hand. "You should really have this looked at, Jacob. Come, sit down." They sat at the patio table. Abby turned away from him and looked out toward the flowering garden. A soft spray from the underground sprinkling system misted the flower beds. "I'll have to show you Alex's roses. They are finally opening up."

Jake pulled her to him, kissed the back of her head. She turned toward him, placed his left hand between hers and squeezed tightly. And waited.

"There was a car bomb." Jake could barely get the words out. All he knew was that three hours ago Sam was alive. For seven hours last night they had lived and loved for a lifetime. He wondered now if that had been Sam's idea all along. Sensing her impending death, she wanted to experience it all.

"Sam?" Abby searched his face.

He expected her to get hysterical, be emotionally overwrought. He didn't expect her cool detachment. She straightened up and lifted her face as though listening. Her eyes closed briefly. When she opened them, she spoke in a calm, confident voice.

"When I lost my first daughter, I knew the moment I awakened that she was dead. I could feel that her spirit was no longer of this earth." She cupped his face, stared so deeply into his soul that he almost felt her hopefulness, her certainty. "Not this time, Jacob. I can feel her spirit. My Samantha is still alive."