The Unsung Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I’ve got to use your phone.”

  David’s scanner was super high quality.

  Tom had taken one look at it, and suddenly David’s entire apartment had become Antiterrorist Central.

  Although Mallory couldn’t quite shake the idea that Tom was here only to keep her and David from spending the morning making love.

  But no. Tom had hugged her. After he’d found the pictures she’d taken of that man he called the Merchant. After he’d called in reinforcements to come take over David’s apartment. After David had realized they were about to be invaded and he’d started running around, making the bed, hiding the box of condoms she’d brought with her last night.

  Tom had held her tightly and whispered that he thought David was a good one, that he’d always known she was a smart young woman, that he was glad, deeply glad that she’d found someone who loved her.

  Mallory was glad she’d found someone who loved her, too.

  She watched David now, sitting at his computer, sending electronic versions of her photos back and forth to some other computer genius in California. Someone named WildCard. He sounded like one of David’s characters.

  And this whole scenario sounded like the plot of one of David’s graphic novels, too. International terrorist comes to wreak havoc on small-town New England. . . .

  It seemed pretty fantastic, but all these people—the big grim black man, Mr. Skeevy Cowboy, and the humorless woman with the most gorgeous skin and eyes who walked as if she had a long-handled rake lodged up her ass—they all seemed to think there was a real threat.

  And as long as David was having a good time showing off what his computer could do, Mallory was happy to hang out.

  They were trying to compare two faces—those of the Merchant before and after he’d had plastic surgery. They were trying to do a bone-structure analysis to see if the man in her photos could be the same as the man in Tom’s.

  The black man named Jazz sat down at the table next to her. “You take these pictures with some kind of zoom lens?”

  His shoulders must’ve been four feet wide. Mallory wondered how he fit in the seats at the movie theater or on a bus. “Yeah.”

  “Thought so.” He held her gaze. “He see you take ’em?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “You’re lucky. If you see him again, Mallory, stay away from him. No more pictures, you understand? If he knew you took the ones you did, he might’ve come after you. He’s killed for less.”

  Killed? For pictures? The hair actually rose on the back of her neck. “Are you serious?” Dumb question to ask Mr. Grim.

  “In fact, I think your uncle would probably appreciate it if you just stayed away from the hotel for the next few days.”

  Oh, God. “But David—he works there.”

  “He does?” He turned to look speculatively at David. “Doing what?”

  “He’s a waiter.”

  “Room service?” Jazz asked.

  “No, although they’ve asked him to work some of the room service lunch shifts. They’re really short staffed. Why?”

  Jazz smiled at her. He had a great smile. He could’ve made a fortune acting in toothpaste commercials. “David’s going to help your uncle save Baldwin’s Bridge from the bad guys.”

  “Oh,” Mallory said. “Is that all?”

  Charles looked up as Joe came onto the deck.

  “Kelly said you were looking for me?” Joe asked, his hat in his hands.

  Charles nodded, suddenly strangely uncomfortable. As if he were the employer and Joe the employee. As if he’d sent for Joe. Which he had, in a sense. But he’d meant for this discussion to be between them as friends.

  So he didn’t mince words. He just brought it straight to the bottom line.

  “Pain got pretty bad last night.”

  Joe looked searchingly into his eyes as he slowly sat down. “Is it better now?”

  Charles kept his own face impassive. “Comes and goes.”

  “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  Charles looked at his old friend. “Not now but maybe soon.”

  Joe gazed back at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. He may have spent his life as a simple gardener, but it was by choice. He was a very smart man, that Joe Paoletti.

  Still, Charles spelled it out for him. “When the pain gets too bad, then you can help me.”

  Joe was silent, and for the first time in years, his expression was unreadable.

  “You remember Luc Prieaux. The one I called Luc Un?”

  Joe was already shaking his head. He knew what Charles was asking, and his answer was either no, or no, he didn’t want to talk about this. Charles didn’t blame him. He hated having to bring it up.

  “I never asked you about him,” Charles said. “I never really knew for sure. I always just assumed that he was still alive when you found him. I . . . I heard the shot from your gun, you know.”

  Joe stared out at the ocean, his face terribly old. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm was brewing. “I’ve never spoken of this with anyone but God.”

  “I’m the only one who knows, Guiseppe. Besides, you did what you had to do to keep the rest of us safe. And see, I thought if you could do that—”

  Joe looked at him. “I did what I did for Luc. He was beyond saving, beyond talking, far beyond giving us away. He should have already been dead, but somehow, he still breathed. He was my friend, so yes, I did it. I put an end to his suffering. And not a single day has dawned since then that I haven’t remembered him, that I haven’t seen those eyes in that burned face. . . .”

  “You did the right thing,” Charles told him, his heart aching for his friend. “You showed Luc mercy and compassion. God would agree.”

  Joe just gazed at the horizon, tears brimming in his eyes.

  Charles looked out at the ocean, too, at his beautiful ocean. “I’m your friend, too.”

  Tears ran down Joe’s weathered cheeks.

  The pain stirred within him, an echo of last night, a hint of what was to come. It gave Charles the strength he needed to go on. To ask this impossible, terrible thing of this good man.

  “When I start a morphine drip,” Charles said, “it won’t be too hard to just . . . turn it up and let me drift away. Don’t let Kelly be the one to do it, Joe. I know you love her, too. Let’s not make this long and drawn out. Let’s make it as easy for her as we can.”

  Joe wiped his face with the heels of his hands.

  “I’ll give you a sign,” Charles told his oldest, dearest friend. “A sign so you’ll know when I’m ready to go. Like . . . like that Carol Burnett. Remember we used to love watching that Carol Burnett? Funny as hell, and beautiful, too.” He tugged on his earlobe. “She’d do this to sign off. To say good night. Do you remember?”

  Joe nodded, just once, his gaze never leaving the ocean.

  “That,” Charles said, “will be my sign.”

  A storm was coming. Kelly went into the garden to see if Joe needed help stacking the lawn chairs.

  But Tom’s friend Jazz had already beaten her to it. He passed her on the way into the house, but then turned back. “Excuse me, Kelly, got a second?”

  “Sure.”

  “The lieutenant’s had something of a tough day,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and him, and frankly, I don’t want to know. That’s not what this is about. I just . . . wanted to warn you, and maybe ask you to take it a little easy on him this evening. If you can manage that.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “That’s not for me to tell you.”

  Great. As if Tom would talk about it with her. “Where is he?” Kelly wasn’t sure if she wanted to know so that she could find him or stay far away from him.

  “Last I saw him, he was down by that old tree swing.”

  The tree swing. Her tree swing. And Kelly knew. She wanted to find him. Because if he was there, he surely wanted her to find him.

  “Th
anks,” she said.

  “Hey, is there a good pizzeria around here that delivers?”

  “Mario’s. Number’s on the fridge. Will you order enough for me and Joe? And Tom?”

  “Sure.” Jazz gave her one of his rare smiles as he headed into the house.

  And Kelly went back, behind the cottage, toward her old tree house.

  She slowed as she saw him sitting there. The wind was starting to pick up, and the leaves were showing their silver sides, dancing frenetically, noisily. But he still somehow managed to hear her coming.

  He turned away from her, and she realized with a jolt that he was wiping his eyes.

  Kelly stopped short, uncertain once more whether to stay or go.

  She almost left when he said, “Well, hey, look who’s looking for me. What’s the matter, babe, can’t wait until tonight?”

  She might’ve left, but his voice sounded so rough, so raw, she couldn’t walk away. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m just perfect, thanks.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “Too long to tell. Because after five minutes with me, well, you know what’ll happen. We’ll both have our clothes off.”

  She deserved that, she supposed. She gazed at him, uncertain of what to say. She’d apologized, several times. But obviously an apology wasn’t what he wanted.

  She had no clue what he wanted.

  “I think we’ll be safe enough out here,” she told him. “This is a little too high traffic. Even for me.”

  He might’ve smiled at that, but she wasn’t quite sure. It was getting darker by the minute.

  Kelly sat down on her swing, pushed herself off, stretching her arms out and leaning back to watch the leaves as they whipped in first one direction and then the other. “Remember that one summer we used to meet out here? I know, it was never official, we never planned it, but I always came out here hoping you’d be here, too. And for a while you always were.”

  Tom was silent. She glanced at him to make sure he was still there.

  “I always thought we had this unspoken agreement that whatever we said here, it wouldn’t go any further.” Kelly gazed at him as steadily as she could, considering she was swinging back and forth. “So. What happened today?”

  “What didn’t happen?” He nearly kicked the tree in frustration. “So much happened, I don’t know where to start.”

  How about after he left her bed last night. What had he been thinking? How had he felt? With his passion spent, was there only anger left? And why was he still so angry with her?

  He blew out a burst of frustrated air on a pungent curse. “I guess it started this morning, with Angela calling me because Mallory didn’t come home last night.”

  “Oh, God,” Kelly said. “Is she all right?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. She’s got a boyfriend, and she stayed at his place. I don’t know what Ang’s problem is. Mal’s eighteen. And she left Ang a note.”

  “Eighteen’s a little young.”

  “Mal’s chronologically young, but not emotionally. She’s been the adult in that family since she was seven.” He paused. “How old were you when you had your first, you know, sleepover at a boyfriend’s?”

  A personal question. Kelly couldn’t believe the way that made her heart race. “Nineteen. I was in college. I was . . . in love.” She rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t.”

  “That hurts,” Tom said. “Huh?”

  She nodded, tipping her head back again to look at him. “I don’t think I want to ask how old you were.”

  He smiled, but it was rueful. “You probably think I’m one of those guys who started having sex when they were twelve.”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, God, I knew it—”

  “I hate to burst your little fantasy about me as some kind of teenaged Don Juan, but you’re wrong. I was sixteen. And I was selective. Throughout high school, I slept with only four girls. Women, really. They were all in college, all more experienced than me, and all leaving town within months of when we first got together.” He paused. “Kind of like what we’re doing right now. Together with an end date.”

  “Are we together?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, his gaze palpably hot as it flicked across her body. “But I think so. I mean, we’ve been talking for over four minutes, and I’ve managed to keep my pants zipped. I think what happens in the next minute could be crucial in defining whether we’re together or whether we’re just two horny people who like to jump each other’s bones.”

  “So Angie called you,” she said.

  He laughed, but it was low, dangerous. “Yeah. Angie called and I tracked down David and went over to his apartment, intending to put the fear of God into him and to drag Mal’s ass home. Only it was so obvious that he’s completely in love with her, and she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. I mean, not since she was four have I seen her this happy. You met this kid, David, didn’t you?”

  Kelly nodded. “Briefly. He seems nice.” She cringed at her choice of word. Poor kid. Saddled with the curse of niceness.

  “He is. He looked me in the eye, and . . .” Tom cleared his throat. “He’s a good man. So I give ’em my blessing, and I’m about to leave the apartment when I see it. David’s got a camera, Mal’s been using it to take pictures, and on his kitchen table, scattered among all these other shots of people, are four photos of the Merchant in the lobby of the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel.”

  Kelly skidded to a stop. “Oh, my God, Tom, that’s great.”

  “Yeah. It got better, too, before it got worse.” He hunkered down, his back against the trunk of the tree, arms around his knees. “We used David’s computer to scan in the pictures and send ’em to a guy named WildCard. He’s the SO squad’s computer expert—he’s in California right now.

  “Turns out David’s an artist, and he and WildCard managed to take these new photos of the Merchant and run a comparison with the old photos, to see if, through computer analysis of bone configuration, it’s even possible this is the same man. And the answer comes up yes. Of course yes means there’s a seventy-five percent chance that they’re one and the same. There’s a lot of room there for doubt. So I figure before I call Admiral Crowley and hang myself out to twist in the wind, I’ll get more proof.”

  “Like . . . what?”

  “I figured getting my hands on the explosives he’s using to build this bomb might be a good place to start. Or hey, the bomb itself would probably even do the trick. So Alyssa Locke put on a dress and high heels and took one of the photos to the same desk clerk who checked the Merchant and his raftload of luggage into the hotel. She flashed the picture, flashed her legs, and—”

  “That is so sexist!”

  Tom laughed. “Yeah. And do you want to guess how long it took her to get the name?”

  “She got the Merchant’s name?”

  “Only the name he used to check into the hotel. It’s not his real name, you can bet on that. But in three seconds Locke and her legs find out he’s going by Mr. Richard Rakowski.”

  “Locke and her legs. God, I hate that.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the way the world works. Women can go places and do things to get information in ways that men just can’t. Jazz and Sam are so opposed to letting women join the SEAL teams, but it’s not because they don’t think a woman can get the job done. They think their own abilities will be compromised because they’ll be distracted.”

  The wind blew, hard, and a shower of leaves swirled down around them. Thunder rumbled ominously. But Kelly didn’t want to go inside. Not yet.

  “So you’ve got his name,” she said. “What next?”

  “David went to work—literally. The kid’s a waiter at the hotel, and they’re currently short staffed, particularly for room service. So we shined up Sam Starrett, brushed his hair, washed his beamish little face, and sent him with David into the supervisor’s office. While Sammy filled out a job applicatio
n, and the supervisor kept a sharp eye on him to make sure he didn’t steal anything off the desk, David covertly accessed the hotel computer and found that Mr. Richard Rakowski was in room 104.”

  “How could this be bad? It’s great you know this. You don’t have to wait for him to build a bomb. You can just catch him. Why not just bring him in?”

  “Well, for starters, because this is America, and when someone with no authority catches someone and takes them someplace they don’t want to go, it’s called kidnapping.”

  “But you’re a SEAL, an officer in the Navy—”

  “I have no authority here, Kelly. Which is why I need to bring some kind of proof to the attention of my superiors, who in turn need to bring it to the attention of the FBI, who will then apprehend this scumbag.” His voice hardened. “Don’t get me wrong. If I have to, I’ll risk kidnapping charges and grab him up. Starrett and Locke are watching his room right now. But after what we found out this afternoon . . .” He exhaled in disgust. “I’m sure they’re just humoring me.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “After learning he was registered to room 104, I did a little more research, and I was positive we’d got him. I found out room 104 is on the marina side of the hotel, on the concierge level—which is a fancy name for the ground floor. Room 104 also happens to be directly over the hotel’s oil tank in the basement.” Tom laughed in disbelief. “If I were going to take out the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel, that’s where I’d start. With the oil tank right there, you’d get the added oomph of all that fuel. And a ground-level blast would do the most structural damage. It’d bring down the whole front face of the hotel.” He looked at her, frustration in his eyes. “I was so sure.”

  “I don’t understand. Why aren’t you sure anymore?”

  “We went into his room.”

  He said it so simply, but Kelly knew it had been anything but. If Richard Rakowski was the Merchant, and a bomb was in that room, his door would have been protected in some way. Booby-trapped, maybe. She couldn’t even imagine the kind of security or warning systems the Merchant might have set up, but she knew that Tom could. And Tom and his friends had no doubt taken precautions. We went into his room. They surely didn’t just pick the lock, turn the knob, and walk in. It had, no doubt, taken grueling hours.