Laurie Campbell - Wrong Twin, Right Man

But even so, he felt a cramp of fear in his chest before reminding himself that Beth was surely fine, that he wasn’t losing anyone he loved.

Not again.

Never again.

“She can’t be on that train,” Rafe told Oscar, who shrugged and looked past him toward the police car at the corner. “Not Beth.” Not his wife. “She’s fine.”

The kid shrugged again, as if unwilling to comment, and Rafe felt his body tightening with the same reflex he used to feel before an attack.

“It’s a mistake, that’s all,” he said. The radio probably reported things wrong all the time, and some station must’ve been trying to stir up excitement by announcing a train wreck that had never taken place. “I just need to straighten it out.” A simple phone call would do the trick, and for the first time he found himself wishing he’d given in to Beth’s request that he carry a phone for those nights he worked late.

“The radio—” Oscar began, and Rafe cut him off.

“I’ve gotta find out what happened.” There, a pay phone across the street. No one there, either, which—if the phone still worked—would save him the two minutes it’d take to run back to the office. He sprinted for the phone and felt a surge of relief at the sound of a dial tone, then fumbled in his pocket for change.

Beth was fine.

He just had to—

Damn! Two nickels and a couple of bills, which meant he’d have to hit the bodega for change and then—

“Here.” Oscar dropped a handful of coins on the ledge beside him, then sauntered away as Rafe fumbled with the quarters. Where to call, somebody, who, the train station? Right, they would know, and from memory he dialed the number he’d called at dawn to confirm the nine-thirty arrival from Los Angeles.

Somebody had to know, he told himself as he listened to the phone ring. Somebody there would tell him everything was fine, that Beth was fine—she had to be fine, he wasn’t losing her. She had to be safe.

“The nine-thirty from Los Angeles,” Rafe barked at the clerk who answered the phone. “My wife is on there, and—”

“Sir,” came the reply, “there’s been a…a delay…and we’ll have all the information here. If you’ll please come—”

“No, I just need to know, is she all right?”

A hesitation.

“Sir, please come to the station and—”

He slammed down the phone. This wasn’t working, but everything would be fine. Beth would be fine. Okay, maybe they were having some problems, but he could fix that. Get everything straightened out, make her understand they still had plenty of time for a baby. He could fix anything, he just needed to find out what was—who could—

Morton, he remembered. The cop who’d helped him, under the radar, a few months ago when those kids needed a word.

Morton could find out. Except, damn it, he’d left the number back at the office.

Rafe took off running, fueled by the same panic that had once filled his nights as a matter of routine, back when you never knew who was coming after you. Nobody after him now, the streets were almost empty—although that didn’t necessarily mean anything—but all he had to do was reach the clinic, fumble with the door key, shaking, damn it! and there was nobody waiting for him, good, because he couldn’t protect anyone else right now, not until he found Beth.

There, the phone. Morton’s number, direct line, if the cop would just pick up, okay, no time for conversation, just identify himself and ask—

“Can you find out about a train wreck?”

“What, the derailment?” The cop’s voice was more curious than bewildered, which meant Oscar’s radio report might’ve been accurate after all. But that still didn’t mean there was anything wrong. Beth was fine.

“The one from Los Angeles,” Rafe said over a short, tight breath. “My wife’s on there.”

“Oh, man.” Morton sounded alarmed, but that was probably just the phone connection. Because everything was fine. “Hold on, let me see what—hold on.”

Beth was fine, he repeated to himself as he gripped the phone with a fist too numb to release, and paced the six-foot gap between his desk and the door.

Beth was safe.

She was on her way home right now.

Right. Right, although people didn’t always come home—look at Mom, look at Carlos, look at Nita and Gramp and Rose—but this wasn’t the same thing. It wasn’t like he depended on Beth.

Never had, never would.

So she had to be fine. It was just taking Morton a while to confirm that, but any minute he’d be back on the line with word that Beth’s train delay was nothing, a minor glitch…. And there he was now.

“Rafe?” The cop sounded uneasy, and he felt himself bracing for a blow before he could remember that everything was fine. “Look, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but—” Then Morton broke off. “Wait a minute, was your wife traveling with—”

“Her sister, yeah,” he managed to answer. Maybe there was a mix-up, maybe something had happened to her sister. Which would be hard on Beth, yeah, but as long as she was still alive— “Anne. They’re twins.”

“Ah, hell,” the cop muttered. There was a pause, during which Rafe scrambled for any prayer he could think of, any hope, any magic, and came up completely blank. “The sister’s being transported to emergency right now. But Beth…I’m sorry. She didn’t make it.”

No.

No, he repeated as he slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. That wasn’t possible.

It couldn’t happen.

It happens all the time.

No.

Not this time.

“She didn’t make it.”

Not Beth.

Not again.

But already he recognized the feeling—that same heaviness, that same hot pressure of tears—

No.

No tears. He had to move, Rafe knew, he had to move someplace, do something—

Not cry.

No. No point. He stumbled into the lobby, where if anyone was waiting he could find something to do, something besides crying, because he wasn’t crying, this was crazy, even with nobody here he still wasn’t breaking down—

It hurts.

No, it couldn’t. Beth couldn’t be gone, because he still needed to fix things. After the way she’d left, thinking that delaying a baby meant he didn’t love her, when he did love her—

But not enough.

Never enough.

Rafe felt a shudder rising in his chest and gulped it down, bracing his hands against the back of the cracked plastic sofa where clients waited for the lawyer on duty. He couldn’t lock the door, not when someone might show up any minute, but he couldn’t—

God, he couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t fix this.

He had to fix this! That was his job, fixing things, and he couldn’t stand here crying in the clinic lobby—

But the tears wouldn’t stop. No matter how he clenched his muscles, how rigidly he held his breath, for some reason there was no swallowing the—

Not here!

Rafe fled to the bathroom and slammed the door lock home, already feeling the torrent of heat swelling into his eyes, his throat. God, he was practically choking, and suddenly he was sobbing, and somehow he couldn’t seem to stop, couldn’t keep from gasping out the desperate plea….

No. Not Beth.

Not this time.

Please!

There was no answer, which he already knew was the only possible response, but even so he begged with all his heart, with all his hope, knowing all the while that it wasn’t enough. Crying wouldn’t help, nothing helped, and he had to get himself together, get himself out of here, get back to the kind of strength he’d spent a lifetime building so this pain would never come back.

It was back now, though, worse than he remembered from the last time, although by now he knew how to fight it. Knew how to move, knew to flex his arms behind his back, to stop those bone-jarring gasps for breath and count five, ten, fifteen…