Breach of Trust

by DiAnn Mills

  A glimpse back to home, when life was easy and problems centered on the farm. She remembered summer picnics spread on a tattered quilt with mismatched silverware and chipped dishes, horseback riding with blue ribbons and proud smiles. Fall ushered in hayrides and the sound of voices echoing across the night air, picking apples and biting into the sweetest crunch known to man. She recalled the thrill of ice-skating, sled rides in frosty snow, and the aroma of hot chocolate on a cold day. Spring was her favorite time of the year—new growth and animals born on the farm. Memories swirled through her mind. Each one was an invitation to venture back to a simpler time. But most of all, she remembered the love of her family.

  She would not look back. Tomorrow morning, she’d contact the life insurance company and take care of repaying the monies paid to her mom and dad seven years ago.

  The call to Wisconsin needed to be made. Paige’s fingers trembled, and she dialed the wrong number twice. She steadied herself and used the mental techniques that had once kept her alive to focus on what must be done.

  The phone rang once, twice, three times. A pause. A click. “This is the Olssons’.” Mom’s voice. “We aren’t able to answer your call right now. Carl’s doing something with the cows, and I’m cooking. Always cooking. Leave a message, and one of us will call you back. It’ll probably be me. Carl’s always too busy with the cows.” A tear slipped down Paige’s cheek. Mom hadn’t lost her sense of humor.

  Paige should be telling them this in person, at the very least over the phone, not via an impersonal message machine.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Mikaela. I’m sorry for what you are about to learn. The media has released information that will shock and hurt you. I’m sorry. So sorry. It was never my intention to deceive you, but to protect you. I . . . I . . . Please forgive me.”

  She slumped to the floor and buried her face in her hands. The past had collided with the present and breached the dam that had held back her emotions for so long.

  Keary’s heart had long since turned to charcoal, ever since his family had been killed, and his habits and even his reasons for helping kids were birthed in his own loss. Did it even make any sense? Children had been killed in the bombing eight years ago, and children had been killed in the villages where WorldMarc now drilled for oil. He’d destroyed countless lives with his lust for money, and he’d activated a quest for revenge that mocked her faith. She didn’t care if seeking revenge was wrong. The nightmare had to end.

  But first she had to concentrate on calming her fury. She needed to force the vibrating hate from her body and revert to her operative training. She was a Christian waffling between the tenets of her faith and an operative role that called on her to bring down an unscrupulous man and to protect those she loved. What kind of ethics did she live by?

  She tossed the suitcase to the floor and hurried outside to her front porch. In the darkness, she sat in the white rocker and stared across the road. The sound of cicadas and the creak of the rocker slowly caused the violence in her soul to subside. She prayed for guidance and wisdom instead of how she could kill Daniel Keary without leaving a mark.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Paige locked the door to her haven in Split Creek and tossed a few meager belongings into the trunk of her car. Keary had phoned again, and she’d given him the location of a psychiatric facility in Tulsa. Determination had given her hope and a plan. Before leaving, she contacted Palmer.

  “I heard about the press conference,” he said.

  “Figured that. Keary hasn’t won yet. His announcement may play right into our hands. I’m to check into a psychiatric hospital. Sorry to hear about Rosa and Gonsalvo.”

  “Mikaela, they’re fine. In fact, as soon as the news hit our door, we moved them and Nathan to a more secure safe house.”

  “He told me they were dead.”

  “He wishes.”

  Relief swept through her. “He’s also on to Nathan.”

  “We knew that was only a matter of time. I learned that my assistant has taken an apartment in Virginia with a male friend. That might be Keary’s link to our office. She’s being brought in as we speak.”

  And I need to know the mole in Split Creek. “What about Ty Dalton?”

  “He’s a little low on the food chain for Keary. The answer there lies in Zuriel, but he’s now in a box. Jason Stevens is connected somehow, and we have enough to arrest him, but he’s worth more to us free to continue business.”

  Depression slithered in and attached its tentacles to her heart. “Zuriel would have cut a deal. I feel like I’ve accomplished nothing.”

  “You’ve drawn Keary out of his hole and forced his hand. We know more than before. Tell me what your plan is, other than for him to think he’s got the election and his past right where he wants them.”

  “I want him to feel confident in arranging my death. With what I’m about to do, the media will take the story and run with it—a former CIA operative who had a breakdown during a mission and now stalks Daniel Keary has admitted herself into a psychiatric hospital. I’m going to stay there long enough for Keary to believe his past is safe; then I’ll check out of the facility and open the door for him to do his worst. I think with what he’s threatened and Zuriel gone, he’ll loosen his ropes and slip.”

  “Time is not on our side, but I see your point. I have a few things to do on this end too.”

  “What I fear most is his finding Nathan. I don’t want my son used as a pawn.”

  “Keary won’t hurt him.”

  “I know, but his intel has let him know that Nathan is his son, and he’ll be obsessed with establishing contact.”

  “I’ll make sure we can keep in touch.”

  “No matter what happens in the next few days, I want your word that you will look out for Nathan, Miles Laird, and my parents.”

  “You got it.”

  Chapter 46

  My plans have all fallen into place. After the clever way I exposed Mikaela, any judge in the country will give the governor of Oklahoma custody of Nathan. She nailed her coffin closed by admitting herself into the psychiatric facility. Of course, I gave her no other choice.

  Stevens is with his contact, and soon I’ll know where the CIA has placed Rosa and Gonsalvo and Nathan.

  Sheila appears in the doorway. “Your son is asking for his daddy to tuck him into bed. I thought you’d have time before we left for dinner.”

  My son. She has no idea what I’ll do to have my son. “I’m on my way.”

  Plan B means giving up the governorship.

  Chapter 47

  Shortly after midnight, Paige pulled off Interstate 35 for coffee and gas before taking the turnpike from Oklahoma City to Tulsa. She turned off the engine and hurried inside the gas station. The coffee tasted like it had been made the day before, but bitterness was a taste she’d grown to recognize. Before joining the company, she’d added cream and two sugars. Then she’d learned to drink it black and medicate herself with caffeine.

  She and Voleta had had some great conversations over coffee—Paige’s strong and black, Voleta’s sweet and caramel colored. They’d laughed about fashion trends, all of which Voleta had a tendency to follow, and men, most of which Voleta had a tendency to follow after too. They usually met early in the morning at the doughnut shop before Voleta had appointments and Paige opened the library. Her zany friend had eased the pressures of what Paige could not forget and the hopelessness of a future stained with blood from the past. Even though her friend wasn’t a Christian, she was definitely a blessing sent from God.

  Does God really send unbelievers as blessings? Paige supposed so. She took another sip of coffee. He certainly did in Paige’s case.

  Years before in a coffeehouse near Berkeley, Paige had chosen the path of keeping America safe. Convinced that was her purpose, she’d wormed her way into the areas of the world where only demons survived. Maybe she’d failed there, too, because she’d crawled out smelling as evil as what she’d tried to destroy.<
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  She buried the question in the black depths of her soul until she could work through it all again. Still the thoughts about Voleta persisted.

  Paige reached for her cell phone to check in with Palmer. They needed a means for her to keep in contact with him. Her phone wasn’t in the pocket in her shoulder bag. She searched through the other zipped compartments. Granted, her mind had raced with Keary and Miles and Nathan, but she wasn’t that scattered. When her phone still didn’t surface, she searched through her car.

  Her last call had been to Palmer. Then she’d anchored it in the console. No, she’d slipped it into her jeans pocket. Patting the empty pockets, she moaned. She must have lost it. Great. Maybe she had lost her mind.

  Chapter 48

  On Monday, Miles fought the urge to call and check on Paige. His stubbornness won out. Neither did he intend to head to the library. His mind raced with questions about the real truth. He hated to think that she’d lied to him about the CIA and Daniel Keary. As bizarre as her story had sounded at the time, Miles had believed every word. But everything Keary had said in his press conference ate at his gut. Paige and Keary involved? Mentally unstable people had a way of convincing others, and she’d lied for a living. Paige hadn’t denied any of Keary’s accusations. In fact, she’d walked away from Miles.

  “Deal with it.” That had been a harsh way to end their relationship—if there ever had been one.

  He recalled the night Keary had ridden the Channel 6 helicopter to congratulate the Bobcats on their win and Paige’s reaction to him. If what the politician had reported was accurate, then Paige’s reaction could have been a part of her mental illness. But the bomb . . . Certainly she wouldn’t have planted a bomb in her own car. Miles rubbed the chill bumps on his arm. He didn’t want to doubt the woman he loved, but logic gave credence to Keary.

  His mind refused to let go of last night’s press conference. The wary looks from the students, the sympathetic looks from the other teachers, the ache in his chest, and the lump in his throat plagued him all day and into the early afternoon.

  During his free period, Miles retreated to his office. He pulled out a multiple-choice quiz that he’d given the kids on Friday, but as he tried to grade it, his concentration failed him. Too many problems marched across his sleep-deprived mind. Chris’s performance on the field had improved, but not to the caliber that it needed to be for them to continue winning. In addition, Miles worried about Chris’s back injury. All of which Miles could have handled if Paige had not disappeared—cementing his fears that she was truly mentally unstable.

  A knock on the window of his office startled him. Chris stood in the doorway. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Hey, Coach. Got a minute?”

  This is not a good time. “A quick one.”

  “Uh, I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

  Miles relaxed. “Thanks. You and I have had our share of bad sacks lately.”

  “Can’t trust anybody.”

  Miles should have jumped in about trusting God, but neither his mind nor his mouth could form the words.

  “My dad moved back in last night.”

  Miles lifted a brow. “How do you feel about that?” Great, now he was beginning to sound like Dr. Phil.

  “Like . . . home started to be good with just Mom and me. But they’re going to start counseling today.”

  “Have you talked to either of them about what this means?”

  Chris pressed his lips together, as though the words he wanted to say would give away his emotions. “Both of them did the parent thing. I mean, they came into my room and made the announcement. And Dad said he’d go to church with us.” The bell rang, and he glanced at the door. “Anyway, Mom talked about forgiveness, but he didn’t say anything about what I saw that night at the hotel.”

  “Give him time.” Miles needed to take his own advice.

  “Yeah, right. Well, I came to tell you about my parents and to say I’m sorry about Miss Rogers. I really liked her. She helped a bunch of us with school stuff.”

  “I appreciate it.” The second bell rang and Chris cringed. Miles pulled a pass book from inside his desk drawer and scribbled out a note. “Here, you’ll need this.”

  “Thanks, Coach. See you after school.”

  After Chris left, Miles tilted back in his chair. He’d like to see the Daltons put their lives back together. Ty Dalton bothered him worse than a bellyache, but Ginny Dalton loved her husband.

  After football practice, Miles got into his truck feeling more miserable than he could remember in a long time. No point in following up on the latest Channel 6 news or attempting to phone Paige. He’d check on her and ease his conscience by making sure she’d not harmed herself. In her mental state, she might try something stupid. He considered phoning Voleta to meet him there, but no one answered at the salon.

  Miles drove to Paige’s house. Pride had stood in his way all day with the realization she’d lied to him, but nothing could change his love for her. If she needed psychiatric care, then she’d have the best. If she and Keary had once been involved, then who was Miles to throw stones? But she’d done irreparable damage to his heart, and he’d never get that close to her again.

  But what about the bomb in her car? The puzzle had picked at him all day. How could a person with a mental disorder obtain a permit for a gun? And who shot Walt? None of it made sense. Just before Miles had left school, a reporter had left a message for him to call. Fat chance.

  He drove through town and out the paved road leading to Paige’s house. He noted the cloudless blue sky with no hint of rain, but the weatherman kept promising relief from the drought. Miles pulled into the familiar gravel driveway while a fistful of questions pummeled him. One answer at a time. He scanned the area, and yet he didn’t know what to look for. The quiet did nothing to ease the fear that Paige might have given up on life. By now, the entire nation had heard the bizarre story. And what about her parents in Wisconsin, or was that another lie?

  Miles stepped from his truck and leaned against the closed door while studying the front of Paige’s home. The neat flower beds beside the porch steps, the white rocker, and her red, white, and blue milk can looked like a scene from one of Norman Rockwell’s paintings—rural America—not the home of a mentally disturbed CIA operative, or maybe ex-CIA operative. Everything that had happened since he’d interrupted Paige and one of Keary’s men that August night seemed incomprehensible.

  The search for Paige brought back the nightmare of searching for his younger brother after he’d disappeared. Miles had resolutely followed trails and bits of information from other druggies until he stumbled onto the rusty abandoned car that Bill had called home. There, his brother’s body lay sprawled out on the front seat—emaciated and covered in sores and scabs—scabs from selling the blood from his meth-infested body to other addicts. Miles had spent countless hours in his pastor’s office weeping buckets for the loss . . . the guilt . . . and the shame. He’d ended up running from the misery under the guise of starting all over to make a difference in kids’ lives. And until this moment, he’d believed he’d laid the bulk of it behind.

  God, I can’t find her dead. You wouldn’t bring me down this road again, would You?

  Miles craved answers about Paige and Keary. As far as he could tell, Keary didn’t have a single blemish on his record. He stood for all the good things the citizens of Oklahoma longed for. No one had a reason to question his integrity. No one but Paige, and she’d disappeared—or rather she’d run like he’d done in dealing with his brother’s death. Unless she was inside the house and not answering her door or her phone. He climbed the porch steps, noting the familiar creaks, the ones he and Paige used to laugh about. He knocked and listened for the turn of the dead bolt. A few moments later, he knocked a bit harder. For the first time in his life, he wished he had a lock-pick kit. Probably something Paige carried in her purse. When she still didn’t appear, he tried the knob, but it refused to turn.

  He walked ar
ound the house to the back door. They’d planted purple pansies two weeks ago, and she’d made a roast with potatoes and carrots. After dinner, they’d played Scrabble. She’d insisted upon using acronyms representing missions and committees from the CIA that meant nothing to him, and he’d objected enough times to win the game. She’d promised to teach him how to make his favorite oatmeal raisin cookies the next time they were together.

  Neither of them had spoken a word about Keary, but Miles knew her thoughts were there. As he’d watched her go about mindless tasks, he’d tried to guess what ran through her mind. Did it flow in a steady stream of suspicions? Did she always have her brain focused on the unusual? The old cliché bannered across his mind that you could take the operative out of the CIA, but you couldn’t take the CIA out of the operative. Or had it all been Paige’s fabrication?

  The back door was locked too. He peered in the kitchen window and saw nothing. Heaviness rested on his shoulders. What if she lay on the floor inside and needed help? Or worse? The windows around the house were latched. He could break one and set his mind at ease. His attention turned to the single attached garage at the side of the house. He jogged to the side door. Locked. He attempted to open the windowless garage door. Locked. He had no way of knowing if her car was inside.

  On the left side of the driveway, directly in front of the garage, he saw her silver cell phone. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He understood the technology to eliminate the tracing of any incoming or outgoing phone calls. No doubt she had it. After turning on the phone, he checked the call history. But any calls had been deleted. Her address book was devoid of any numbers. Not even the library, Voleta’s, or Miles’s own number. He glanced back at the house. If he had access to her computer, he could check the incoming and outgoing calls online.