by Rachel Lee
“I don’t need to imagine it. They’d either slam down the phone or laugh. Neither would be useful at all. Well, if Brigid went to all this trouble, there must be another name in here somewhere.”
They moved on to a different part of the shadow, hopeful as they had not been before.
A while later, Trace shocked her out of her intense focus, an intensity that was working her steadily toward a headache.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
She pivoted, surprised, to look at him.
“Non sequitur, I know. But every time I glance at you, I see you all over again.”
She felt her face heat slightly with an unaccustomed blush.
“Tell me to get back to work, my Valkyrie.”
She drew a sharp breath. His Valkyrie? Oddly, she didn’t mind at all.
“Okay, I’m out of line.” He shrugged, smiling ruefully. “Brigid wanted to be like you, not like Allan and me.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because I see all that’s admirable in you. I’m sure Brigid did, too. Anyway, I apologize. Way out of line.”
After a moment, she answered, “I didn’t think so.”
“Thank God. I don’t usually just blurt things.”
“You can blurt pretty things to me anytime you want.” Then, following a strong, unrestrained impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “My warrior from the skies.”
That drew a broad smile from him. “That’s the nicest way I’ve ever heard that.” Then he shook his head. “Two warriors need to get back to work. I know you’re leaving soon, Hills. Can’t be avoided. But I’m going to miss you like hell.”
Then, out of the blue, he was back in Afghanistan, in the midst of a firefight with shots raining down from the ridges above. He’d never know what triggered it. It had gotten better over the months of rehab, but here it was again, at the worst time possible. Was there ever a good time?
* * *
HILLARY SAW THE thousand-yard stare replace the usual warmth in Trace’s gray eyes, turning him icy, stiffening him. Then he jumped up, knocking over his chair, hurrying from the room.
She followed immediately. “Trace?”
“Leave me the hell alone. Just get out of the way!”
He didn’t know where he was going, just somewhere in his attempt to escape the tsunami of memories that took over his mind, that transported him to other places, other horrors. Bleeding, the repeated vibration of a rifle firing in his hands. The deafening sound of launching RPGs, thunderous explosions. Blood and gore, bodies shredded.
It had escaped his control. He couldn’t fight it now. It had won.
* * *
HILLARY HAD A pretty good idea of what was going on, but she knew there wasn’t a thing she could do about it except try to prevent him from harming himself while he relived battles. Relived not being able to trust anyone, not even the Afghans who had patrolled with him.
She’d learned that the hard way. She had a bullet scar on her upper arm, a graze but still a lesson. Friendly faces could conceal enmity.
Interesting, she thought distractedly, that neither of them had asked about the other’s scars except that once when she asked about his face. It was as if they didn’t see them. As if they’d assumed and understood.
But as for Trace, he stumbled around the house then broke out the back door, hurrying until he fell facedown in the snow. In the posture of an infantryman holding a gun forward to shoot.
If she touched him now, he might turn on her, might perceive her as an enemy. She had to stand over him and watch. God, she wanted to be able to do something for him. Anything to yank him back.
He wasn’t dressed for the snow or the cold. If he didn’t rise from this ice soon, he could grow hypothermic. Maybe even get frostbite.
Finally she did the only thing she could think of. In her harshest, strongest kaptein voice she ordered him, “Mullen! Soldier, stand up, damn it. On your feet now!”
At first he only stiffened more. Then as the order penetrated, he rose to his feet cautiously, looking around.
Keeping her voice stern, she said, “The firefight is over, soldier. Get your butt back to the operating base.” Thank God she’d listened to enough American officers to know the slang.
As he began to slip out of memories, his face slowly changed, losing its hard edge. It wasn’t over yet, but at least he headed back into the house. She followed him, but he stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door in her face.
“Leave me!”
She didn’t go away. Instead she stood guard, ready for anything. If he burst out of there looking to create mayhem, her hands would be enough. She clenched and unclenched her fists, preparing. Her heart ached for him.
These things took time, but she would have waited until the moon fell from the sky.
* * *
MORE THAN TWO HOURS passed before Trace emerged from his room. Without a word, Hillary motioned him to the kitchen and began to pump him full of hot chocolate. “Drink,” she ordered.
Still appearing a bit dazed, he didn’t argue.
She wondered if he’d eat oatmeal. He’d never shown any interest. He needed food. Food and sugar. She pawed through Maude’s bounty and eventually came up with a couple of pieces of peach cobbler and heated them in the microwave.
She pushed the plate in front of him. “Eat.”
At first he did so automatically, but gradually the present time returned. “You should have some of this.”
“You need it more than I do. I’ll find something else.”
“Time for another trip to Maude’s.”
Relief flooded her. He was on the way back. All the way back.
Eventually he spoke again. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? PTSD? We all have it to varying degrees. You just had a bad round.”
He raised his gaze to her. “You too?”
“Believe it. I’m just lucky.”
It was a while before he spoke again. Two more cups of hot chocolate. Then hot cider, as if the cold penetrated to his very bones.
“Did I hear you giving me orders?” he asked.
“Oh yes. You heard my best command voice. At least it brought you out of the snow.”
He winced. “Like that, huh?”
“Oh well. You’re in one piece. Mostly.”
“I have no idea what triggers it.”
“Who needs a reason? Maybe it’s staring at that photo of Brigid. Maybe some sound I didn’t notice. Or maybe nothing at all.”
“Makes me sadly unpredictable. It’s also embarrassing.”
“I himmelens navn.”
“What?”
She sighed. She’d spoken in Norwegian again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“Disgust, huh?” He appeared to brace himself for bad news.
“With your apology and embarrassment, yes. I was worried about you, especially when you were facedown in the snow. I was not disgusted.”
“Thank God for that.” A faint humor was beginning to reappear. “Something for you to eat?”
She returned to the refrigerator, pulling out a soggy-looking steak sandwich. “Share with me. My stomach aches right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop. I did that to myself. I could have just left you to it and gone back to the photo or found a book to read. You didn’t make me feel anything.” Except sorrow that he had to endure it.
“Pity. There are a lot of things I’d like to make you feel, and that’s not one of them.”
Relaxation began to return to her, and she smiled. “We’ll try that later.”
“Just don’t skip town before we do.”
“I could not imagine it.” After a couple of mouthfuls of the steak sandwich—at least the meat was still good—she rose and opened th
e curtains over the sink. “Snowing.”
“Maybe it’ll never stop this year.”
She laughed. “You’re spoiled.”
“Maybe so.”
“My father is already speaking of putting on his skis. Of the two of us heading into the mountains to camp.”
“In weather like this?”
“Of course. If we stayed in the house all winter, suicide might become a rising problem.”
“Likely along with the endless nights.”
She eyed him as she returned to eating. “You might like them.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Especially the endless nights.”
“You have a dirty mind.”
“I’m proud of it, too.”
After they cleaned up, they discussed what to do next.
“We need more food here,” Trace said practically. “We’ve managed to eat through most of what Maude gave us. The diner or the grocery?”
She considered. “I am not happy to leave the house unprotected. Not after the theft of the letters.”
“At this point, I don’t care. We’ll carry the photos with us in an envelope.”
Thus it was decided. Hillary had to admit a walk would be very welcome. Stretching her legs with a steady stride instead of a run. Feeling the cold on her cheeks, breathing icy air, watching snow fall. As close to home as she would get here.
They bundled up and walked with a fast stride, this time to the grocery, joking about how neither of them liked to cook.
“Is there anywhere I can get cross-country skis?” she asked.
“Rent them, you mean? I think so. We can stop on the way back from the grocery.”
That made her feel even better. Maybe Trace would join her. The traditional form of cross-country skiing, unlike the new form that was more like speed skating, was more like walking. Many people mastered it quite quickly.
At the grocery, they focused on items they could eat cold and items that were easy to cook, which included some frozen entrées. The butcher, Ralph, called them over and asked Hillary if she’d like him to order more fish for her.
“Please,” she said with a smile. “Salmon and cod, if you can get them.”
“Frozen or fresh?”
“I’d prefer fresh but frozen salmon will do. I already have frozen cod.”
Ralph grinned. “I’ll yank my contact’s leg on that salmon again.”
She felt pretty good as they departed the grocery with filled plastic bags. Then at the sports store, she found her rentals. She even persuaded Trace to try.
The boots were an easy fit for her, but the store owner eyed Trace.
“Do you have any idea how few people of your size want them?” He sighed and pawed through the boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling. “Hey,” he said happily. “Size twelve. Now what about gaiters and socks and poles?”
They left fully equipped along with large backpacks that would carry almost everything they had bought at the grocery and the sporting goods store. The skis and poles they carried over their shoulders. Waxless skis, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Success,” Trace said as they strode home.
“I think so. Now we have to decide when.”
“Since the roads are a mess and we can’t run, let’s make it soon.”
But when they reached the house, an envelope waited on the front porch, taped to the door.
“I think skiing just went off the schedule,” Trace said.
Hillary pulled the envelope off the door. “Be careful when we open it. There might be fingerprints.”
“I thought of the same thing. But gloves.”
She regarded the envelope unhappily. Gloves. In this weather they were already wearing them. “The letter inside.”
Trace was already unlocking the door. “Maybe. God, I hope it’s useful.”
Chapter Fifteen
Inside, they scrambled to put away frozen items or food that needed to be refrigerated. The envelope lay on the table as if it mocked them, seeming to grow brighter with each passing minute.
At last, with all the foodstuffs put away, their skis and accoutrements propped in the hallway, they sat as one to regard the envelope.
“What’s your guess?” Trace asked Hillary. “A threat or information?”
“A threat,” Hillary decided. “Given what happened to Allan and possibly Brigid.”
“My feeling exactly.” Rising, he went to get a filleting knife from the butcher block, then pulled on his glove liners once again. “Me or you?”
“You,” she answered. She ran her gloved fingers over it. “Too thin to be threatening.”
“Unless it contains powdered anthrax.” A horrifying possibility.
“This man could have used that on Allan. He prefers blunter methods.”
“I’d be inclined to agree, but we don’t know that we’re dealing with the same man.”
When he said that, she reached out for the envelope. “Let me.”
“Like hell.”
She looked at him and realized he wasn’t going to give ground on this. He’d already had a bruising day for his ego, and he was past caring that she was a soldier as well. She leaned back.
With the filleting knife in hand, he slipped it under a corner of the envelope and sliced carefully, a straight line across the top.
“Hold your breath,” Trace said.
She knew an order when she heard one, and she obeyed, but only after saying, “Hold yours as well.”
He cocked an eye at her. “You think I’m stupid?”
“Never, but if you’re going to warn me, you should be warned, too.”
His grin didn’t quite make it. A good attempt, though. “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, right?”
She smiled back, although she didn’t feel like smiling at all.
She watched intently as Trace slid a piece of paper out of the envelope. It sported a variety of colors. No powder showed or lifted into the air.
“Oh hell,” he said, looking at the sheet. “Have we slipped into bad movie?”
“This is real.”
“When did the movies ever care about that? No powder that I can detect. You?”
Impatient, Hillary rose and came around the table. Crooked cutout letters covered the page.
If you want to know what happened to Mannerly, meet me alone. More to come.
“Aw hell,” Trace said. “Taunting.”
“Basically useless, too. How long will he make us wait?”
“Until he tires of his game.”
The hours ahead stretched until they looked like days.
* * *
THE GAUNTLET HAD been thrown, Hillary thought. A challenge.
“We’ve got to prepare anyway, Hills. I don’t think he plans a meeting in the middle of town.”
“Not likely.” She pursed her lips. “Okay, he probably doesn’t have our kind of experience and training.”
“I doubt it,” he agreed.
“The skis may be more useful than I thought. I can see it, Trace. You just have to accept it.”
As if he followed her thoughts, he said, “Okay. He probably wants to meet me. You’ll have to put your skills to the test. Ski ahead of the time of the meeting and find a good, concealed location.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
Trace’s mouth twisted. “I don’t believe he’s going to be ready for an armed Valkyrie. I can just imagine you showing him your kind of hell.”
“We need a weapon or two.”
“Obviously I can’t carry one. I’ll look in Allan’s gun locker. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t have an AR-15 or AK-47. Semiauto. You want me to alter one to full auto?”
Hillary shook her head. “If I have a decent scope, I won’t need more than one shot.”
“Try not to kill him,” Trace said dryly. “We need the information.”
She answered just as dryly, “I learned a lot about shooting around body armor. Center mass won’t do it. Nor will hitting an artery or his head.”
“We understand each other.”
* * *
THE WAITING HAD BEGUN. Trace was the first to admit that he wasn’t good at waiting. He wanted action.
Hillary didn’t seem any happier about it, but when she asked him to pull out the photos, he took them out of the plastic bag that had been tucked under his jacket.
“Might as well,” he said.
An hour later, her phone rang again. He gathered it was her father, who must be unusually worried, to judge what she’d said about his previous call. He listened to Norwegian flow from her lips and decided it was a pretty language. He wondered if he’d ever be able to learn any of it.
When she disconnected, he said, “Your father?”
“Yes.”
“I thought he didn’t hover.”
“Hover?” It took her a minute to understand, then she grinned. “Not usually. This time he’s even more concerned because he can’t imagine any good reason why I would be taking a holiday here. He must have looked up Conard City on a map.”
“That would certainly raise questions. We’re not on a list of anyone’s preferred vacation destinations. At least we have mountains. What did you tell him?”
“That I’m on a mission. Then I thanked him for his concern and told him that I thought a squad of Norwegian special ops here would mess things up.”
Trace laughed outright. “It certainly would. Sounds like a father to me.”
She shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful. But this is hardly enemy territory.”
Trace’s expression changed. “I have no doubt that the two of us can handle this guy.” He paused. “Before we get back into the photos again, I think I need to check the gun safe and give you a chance to adjust the scope.”
They found a good selection of rifles, mainly for hunting. There was indeed an AR-15, semiautomatic. Legal in this gun-loving state and country.