Sheryl Nantus - Family Pride

He didn’t say anything as Jess dropped to one knee beside Bernadette.

Bernadette looked at Jess. “Thank you,” she rasped.

“Don’t thank me.” Jess’s fist shot out and smashed into Bernadette’s right cheek. Her head whipped to one side before bouncing back. Before the woman could recover Jess grabbed the limp white ruffles and pulled her up. “You don’t mess with my family. Ever.” She looked over at Bran. “I’m putting him under my protection right now. You mess with him, you mess with me.”

“I’m his mother,” Bernadette burbled through a mouthful of blood.

“That’s the only reason why you’re still alive.” Jess’s grip tightened. “Threaten either of them ever again and you’ll answer to me. Understand?” Her lips drew back, showing bare teeth. “And I never touched you.”

Bernadette nodded, staying silent.

Jess released her.

Bernadette began to weep, deep throaty sobs punctuated with short choking sounds.

Michael pulled himself into a sitting position, wheezing. He made no move to go to his wife.

Jess pointed at Michael. “Make yourself useful for once. Call 9-1-1.”

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed, unable to look away from the mewling woman.

Jess stood beside me and inspected the bloody gash in my upper arm. “Need a few stitches but you’ll be fine.”

I winced at her examination. “Fucking burns.”

“No shit.” Jess placed her hand on the sore spot she’d caused on the back of my neck. She rubbed it gently, trying to ease the ache.

I groaned.

“You did the right thing,” she whispered. “It’s a horrible thing to have someone’s blood on your hands.”

I nodded, unable to speak. The knotted muscles under her touch loosened.

“I’ll keep an eye on her until the cops arrive.” Jess nudged me to one side. “You two go sit down.”

Bran pulled me toward the couch. He didn’t say anything to his father, who lay a few feet away, cradling his cell phone in both hands.

“Damn,” he said, gingerly touching his swollen and bloodied nose. “There go my ruggedly handsome looks.”

“You’ll survive.”

“We both will.” He started to lean in for a kiss, hesitating at the last second to see my reaction. I knew it was from his bloody lips and chin—an instinctive fear.

I met him halfway, using my good hand to pull him close. I’d tasted him before.

He chuckled and licked his lips. “Thanks.”

I met him halfway before lowering him to the ground. “Don’t thank me yet.” I heard the sirens in the distance. “We’ve got a long way to go before this ride comes to a complete stop.”

Attersley shook his head, balancing his bulk against the corner of my sofa. I hadn’t seen him so confused since giving him a sudoku book for Christmas.

Around us strode paramedics and police, the first group taking care of Bernadette, Bran and myself—the second bunch collecting the pistol and mapping out the shootings.

The female medic tending to me finished bandaging my arm. “We’ll need to do X-rays to make sure no bones got hit but I’d say off the top of my head you got lucky.” The older woman clucked. “Going to have a nasty scar, though.”

“I’ll live with it.” I turned to one side as she made notes on her clipboard. Hank stood over Bran, who sat on the floor.

“So you claim your mother had Molly Callendar killed in order to get custody of the baby.” He scratched his chin.

I guessed it was Hank’s body language for “explain, please.”

“Having him kidnapped and delivered to her later provided the opportunity for her to declare Liam a distant relative and new adoptive son without having any direct connection back to her,” Bran said from where he sat on the floor, surrounded by discarded gauze and bandages. The paramedics had done a fine job of bandaging his nose but insisted he go to the hospital.

Hank waved his hand in the air, urging him on. A good cop knows when to listen and when to talk.

“If Liam was left behind he’d go into foster care and be released to the Callendars as the closest living relatives. Odds are they’d ask for a paternity test before agreeing to joint custody with Brayton and the jig would be up.”

“The jig?” Hank asked.

“David Brayton isn’t Liam’s father. Michael Hanover is.”

Hank didn’t react. No twitch, no shocked expression. But I knew inside he was falling-down drunk over this revelation.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

Bran gestured at me. “She’s the one who put the pieces together. Look at Liam and look at me, look at my father. He doesn’t look like Brayton—doesn’t take a genius to put it together. And I think my mother’s actions bear it out, don’t you?”

It was thin, damned thin. But it was better than trying to explain Felis scenting.

Hank grunted. The pen danced over his open notebook. He didn’t look at me. I was in trouble and it wasn’t the type a bottle of whiskey could make right.

“So you and her went sniffing around looking for the baby on your own.” The note of disapproval was loud and clear.

“We knew you were covering Brayton and Callendar.” Bran shrugged. “Figured we’d try something different.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” This was more for me than Bran.

“No concrete proof, just a theory.” Bran stood up. “You were busy trying to find a missing baby and a killer. We didn’t want to distract you when there could be nothing there.” He nodded in my direction. “Limited resources—no need to send your men on a wild-goose chase and waste your time. And we didn’t need my father’s name spread all over the papers as a possible suspect—I don’t have to tell you how fast a man’s reputation can be trashed on rumors and innuendo.”

Hank pursed his lips. It wasn’t forgiveness but it was a start.

“So you’re saying you found the kidnapper. And he is...” The detective’s eyes fell on me, harsh and unyielding.

He’d get along with Jess just fine.

“Dead.” I gave him the address of the cheap hotel. “He was dead when we arrived.”

“How did you track him?”

I didn’t even want to begin to describe that connection. I pointed at my feet. “Old school is still the best school. Got a tip through my sources. Convenience store close by told us a guy with a newborn came in looking for supplies. Followed up the tip and found him in a nearby hotel. Punk who’s uncomfortable with a newborn and buying diapers tends to stand out.” Tony Romano would back us up—he feared Jess more than the police.

“You found him dead.” Hank made it sound like more of a question than a statement.

I nodded. “We picked up Liam and put him someplace safe.”

“Someplace being with your friend.” Hank gestured toward Jess, who hovered a few feet away, leaning on the kitchen doorway.

She didn’t scowl, didn’t glare. Her face was a mask, hiding her feelings from everyone around us. I knew she was watching and studying and cataloguing things in her mind.

Jess never forgot her friends and enemies. I hoped Hank would make it on the friends list.

“We didn’t know who to trust.” It sounded lame, even to my own ears. “We hadn’t ruled out Bran’s father as a suspect. Michael Hanover is a pretty powerful man with police connections. We were worried the baby would disappear before we could get the full story.”

The senior detective studied me for a long minute. I could tell he believed half of it—which half was the question. And the difference between spending quality time in jail or walking free.

“Should I ask what your next move was going to be?”

I pointed toward the two Hanovers at opposite sides of the room, being questioned by uniforms. “We got a call from his father that he wanted to talk. We met him here and went over the situation, talked it all out. Until his wife showed up.”