“You’re the one who did that, not me. And if not for you, how many more would have died because of Joe’s scheme to break all those crazy yahoos out of prison?”
Because Janice—and Dickie, it turned out—had sounded the alarm, the FBI and local law enforcement had been able to stop all but two of the attacks before they started and managed to quash the two underway with only three lives lost. Another dozen terrorists had been arrested in conjunction with attempts to free violent Islamists from jail, but riots that apparently had been part of the plan broke out in two prisons, killing dozens of inmates. The FBI, of course, hailed it as one of the most significant counterterrorism operations in U.S. history, especially since it uncovered Darzi’s network of homegrown terrorists, the mosques where they’d been radicalized, and their training facility in the Nevada desert.
“I was just doing my job,” Janice murmured.
“So you say. I still think they should give you a medal.” Neither of us was likely to get one. The FBI team that raided my house apparently was getting credit for preventing the attack on the National Archives.
I felt heat rising into my face and scuffed a toe in the grass. “I never thanked you properly for all you did for me.”
She swatted my attempted gratitude away like an annoying gnat. “What are friends for?”
“Pish-tosh me all you want, but you went above and beyond. You could have lost your job, your entire career gone up in smoke.” Now she blushed. “I mean it, Janice. If it weren’t for you, Doug wouldn’t be able to work on getting all these charges dropped. He told me what you did. He could have spent his life in jail for treason if not for you.”
“He’s a good man, Zane. So are you.”
I was spared the embarrassment of trying to respond by the sound of the back door opening. I banged my hand on the grill as I turned to look and cursed the sling holding my arm in place. I pulled the strap over my head and worked my arm out of it as Ben Sturgis came down the steps and sauntered over.
“Should you be doing that?” Janice said.
“It’s a flesh wound, not a broken arm,” I grumbled, then brightened as Sturgis walked up. “Hey, Doc, I’m really glad you came.”
He hunched his shoulders and offered a sheepish smile. “Can’t say I wasn’t surprised by the invitation. But I’m very happy to be here.”
“Your lady friend—Tara?” Janice said. “She seems very nice. She’s someone special?”
“I’m beginning to think so.” He pinked, during an awkward pause, then shifted his gaze to me. “Say, I was hoping we might be able to chat.”
“I figured this was better than the phone or your office,” I said. “If we’re going to be spending time together, might as well get to know one another.
“Something’s wrong?” Janice said, worry creasing her forehead.
I nodded. “That’s a bit of an understatement, but yeah.”
“Then I’ll leave you two to talk,” she murmured.
“Stay,” I said. “Please. Doc, there’s nothing you can’t tell me in front of her. After all, this affects her as much as it does me.”
The questioning look on Janice’s face was as poignant and heartbreaking as any I’d ever seen, full of hope and unease, compassion, joy and sorrow all at the same time. I reached out and touched her cheek.
“Janice, I’ve been a damn fool not to see it before now, but you’re special to me, and I’d like to be part of your life. If that suits you, of course.”
She said nothing for what seemed an eternity, then the barest smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “I think that would suit me just fine, Zane.”
I gave a single nod and faced Sturgis. “Okay, we’re ready.”
Janice slipped her hand into mine.
“All right.” Sturgis scratched his head as if unsure where to start. “The bad news is what you, what we both suspected. You’ve got cancer. The good news is that it’s Hodgkins lymphoma, and you’re only in Stage Two. Your symptoms—night sweats, fatigue, weight loss—mean we put a ‘B’ after it. This is a lot to take in right now, but what it means is you’re in early stages of a highly treatable form of cancer. No one can predict the outcome for any particular person, but the survival rate at this stage is ninety percent. Your symptoms could mean it’ll be a little tougher, but your blood work looks really good, and I get the feeling you’re a fighter.”
He was right; that much information in one chunk was a lot to take in, but I had to grin at his last comment, feeling it stretch the stitches on my split lip. A large bruise lined my jaw.
“What gave you that idea, Doc?” I asked.
He matched my grin. “Good. When I get in on Monday, I’ll set up your treatment program, and get you started. I’ll be with you every step of the way. Okay?”
“I will, too,” Janice murmured in my ear.
I gave her hand a squeeze. “Sounds good, doc.”
The back door banged open as Preston burst through and ran into the yard wearing the heated vest that al-Qadir had given him. Lining properly sewn up, of course. I’d thought it would bring back bad memories, but he wore it like a badge of courage. Little Amy followed him out the door more slowly, helped down the stairs by Tara, who was patient and funny with her. I glanced at Ben and saw from the way he looked at her that she was more than just special. I knew that look. I’d seen it in the mirror before. He was head-over-heels in love.
Sally pushed through the door next, arms full with a large bowl of salad. From behind, Doug held the door open for her with one hand, then came out after her with a container of potato salad in the other. They all trooped over to the picnic table, Sally and Doug setting food on the table while Tara got the kids seated and settled. Janice gave me a kiss on the cheek and went to the table. Ben held a large platter, which I filled with food from the grill, and we joined them.
Chatter and laughter filled the fall air as food was passed and dished onto plates, and then quieted to contented murmurs as everyone tasted and chewed.
“Rachel called me,” Doug said after a bit. “Said she’s getting a divorce. Maybe moving back up here.”
“She called me, too,” I said. Doug looked surprised at that. “I told her she’s welcome to stay here until she gets back on her feet.”
“Well, she won’t have trouble getting a job. Not with her skill set.”
“What does she do?” Tara asked.
“She’s a nurse,” Doug said.
Ben chuckled. “You’re right. Healthcare is a growth industry.”
“We all seem to need it at one point or another,” I said with a smile.
I looked around the table, at the people who comprised my family of the moment, and realized that I could not have asked for a more perfect day or more perfect company. What al-Qadir had taken from me no longer mattered. I knew who I was, who I belonged with, and where I was supposed to be.
Suddenly, Sally’s face fell.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
Doug turned quickly. “Uh-oh, what?”
“My water broke,” she said meekly.
“Your…” He looked momentarily perplexed, then the light went on. “Oh, my God, it’s time. Right? You’re having the baby. We’re having a baby!”
She nodded as he jumped up and took her elbow to help her stand. The shocked silence abruptly ended as the table erupted in activity and voices talking over each other.
I watched the pandemonium and excitement swirl around me, listened to the wondrous sounds of life, and saw the range of emotions on the faces around me, from joy to nervousness and even disbelief, as we prepared to welcome a new member of the family into our lives. Gratitude spread warmth through me. A man had tried to steal my identity, but he could never steal what made it real.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Ed Stackler, whose keen editing helped shape the final story, and to early readers Tim Hallinan, Sheila Redling, Carl Christensen and Doug Powless for giving me the encouragement to put this out there.
&nbs
p; Also thanks to my design team of one—Anne K-J of AKJ Design, who absolutely rocks.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences either are figments of my imagination or used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, events, or locales is unintended and coincidental.
About the Author
Michael W. Sherer is the author of four books in the Seattle-based Blake Sanders series, including Night Strike and Night Blind, which was nominated for an ITW Thriller Award in 2013. His other books include the award-winning Emerson Ward mystery series, the stand-alone suspense novel, Island Life, and the Tess Barrett new/young adult thriller series. He resides in the Seattle area.
Please visit him at www.michaelwsherer.com, or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/thrillerauthor or on Twitter @MysteryNovelist.
Photo: Valarie Kaye-Sherer
Stolen Identity Page 36