“If that’s a yes,” Jake said, “it’s very half-assed.”
Zoe laughed. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a yes.”
Jake lost himself in the sweetness of her lips. He’d thought she’d been taken from him. He’d lived an entire wretched lifetime in that endless fifteen minutes in which he’d believed she was dead. He loved this woman completely. But there would be people who looked at them and wondered, people who wouldn’t understand.
“I have to be really honest with you,” he said, looking into her dark brown eyes. “There’s a big difference in our ages, and nothing we do or say is going to change that. I know you don’t care, and I don’t care anymore, either. But people—my colleagues—are going to look at me and look at you and think I’m getting away with something here.”
Zoe reached up and touched his face. “Your colleagues and friends are going to look at me and think I’m a poor substitute for Daisy.”
“You are,” Jake told her. “But then again, Daisy would be a tremendously poor substitute for you.” He kissed her hand. “I’m not looking for a replacement for Daisy. There’s no such thing. I’ll always love her—it’s important you know that because she’s part of my past. But there’s room in my heart for both the past and the future. And babe, you’re my future.”
There was so much love in her eyes as she looked at him he nearly started crying again.
“I love you,” she said.
Jake smiled. “I know.”
Epilogue
“You all right?” Billy Hawken asked.
“Yeah,” Jake said as the limousine pulled up to the church.
He looked at the kid. Kid. Jeez. The kid was a Navy SEAL with the somewhat dangerous-sounding nickname of Crash. The kid was also older than Zoe. The kid hadn’t been a kid in fifteen years. Heck, even back when Billy was ten, he hadn’t really been a kid. He was still far too serious, far too intense—except when he was with Nell, his wife.
Jake had heard the two of them giggling together until nearly two last night, up in the guest bedroom. Crash Hawken—giggling. Whoever would’ve thought it possible?
“Are you okay with this, kid?” he asked as they got out of the car. Kid. Jeez. Old habits died hard.
Billy didn’t hesitate. “I am. Completely,” he said. He smiled. “Zoe looks at you the way Nell looks at me. I’m happy for you, Jake.”
“I love her,” Jake told the young man who was the closest thing to a son he’d ever had, the young man to whom Daisy was the closest thing to a mother he’d ever had.
“I know,” Billy said. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, too.”
“This isn’t just a…a second-best kind of thing.” Jake felt the need to explain. “Zoe and me, I mean. But that doesn’t mean that Daisy wasn’t—and isn’t—first, too. God, does that make any sense at all?”
Billy hugged him. “Yeah, Jake,” he said. “You know, I had a dream about Daisy last night. She was having lunch with William Shakespeare. It was weird, but nice. One of those dreams where you wake up and feel really good.”
“Shakespeare, huh?” Jake laughed. “Cool.”
“Yeah.” Billy motioned toward the church. “You want to go in?”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Come on, kid. Let’s go get me married.” He put his arm around Billy’s shoulders, and together they walked up the stairs.
Zoe was a vision.
Walking toward him, down the aisle of the church, on her father’s arm.
Sergeant Matthew Lange, USMC, Retired.
Matt seemed like a really nice guy, a straightforward, honest guy. He seemed genuinely pleased that Zoe was marrying Jake. Lisa Lange, Zoe’s mother, was also honestly happy for her daughter. They were good people, solid people.
It was kind of cool, actually. He’d never had in-laws before.
His children had a chance of knowing at least one set of their grandparents.
His children.
Zoe smiled into his eyes as she took her place beside him, and he couldn’t help but think about last night. While Billy and Nell had been giggling in the guest bedroom, Jake and Zoe had been sharing their own secrets.
Such as the fact that Zoe wanted his baby. Enough to retire from her job as a field agent—at least temporarily.
It hadn’t been an easy decision to make. She was good at what she did. And the Agency would miss her, badly.
Jake suspected her decision was at least partly based on the fact that she knew how badly he wanted children. Daisy had been unable, and found the adoption process too painful, and…
He’d tried to convince Zoe that he would be okay with whatever decision she came to, but the truth was, his biological clock was ticking. Sure, he could father a baby when he was sixty-five, but how long would he be around to take care of that child?
Last night, she’d come to him with the ultimate wedding gift. And last night, they just may have created a small miracle.
Jake took her hand.
And as he promised Zoe all that he could promise her, he smiled.
“I love you,” he whispered as he bent to kiss his bride.
Zoe smiled, too. She knew.
Identity: Unknown
by Suzanne Brockmann
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
“Hey, hey, hey there, Mission Man! How ya doin’, baby? Rise and shine! That’s my man—open those eyes. It’s definitely the a.m. and in the a.m. here at the First Church Shelter, we go from horizontal to vertical.”
Pain. His entire world had turned into a trinity of pain, bright lights and an incredibly persistent voice. He tried to turn away, tried to burrow down into the hard mattress of the cot, but hands shook him—gently at first, then harder.
“Yo, Mish. I know it’s early, man, but we’ve got to get these beds cleaned up and put away. We’re serving up a nice warm breakfast along with an A.A. meeting in just a few minutes. Why don’t you give it a try? Sit and listen, even if your stomach can’t handle the chow.”
A.A. Alcoholics Anonymous. Could it possibly be a hangover that was making him feel as if he’d been hit by a tank? He tried to identify the sour taste in his mouth but couldn’t. It was only bitter. He opened his eyes again, and again his head felt split in two. But this time he clenched his teeth, forcing his eyes to focus on a smiling, cheerful, weather-beaten African-American face.
“I knew you could do it, Mish.” The voice belonged to the face. “How you doin’, man? Remember me? Remember your good friend Jarell? That’s right, I tucked you into this bed last night. Come on, let’s get you up and headed toward the men’s room. You could use a serious washing up, my man.”
“Where am I?” His own voice was low, rough and oddly unfamiliar to his ears.
“The First Church Homeless Shelter, on First Avenue.”
The pain was relentless, but now it was mixed with confusion as he slowly, achingly sat up. “First Avenue…?”
“Hmm,” the man named Jarell made a face. “Looks like you had yourself a bigger binge than I thought. You’re in Wyatt City, friend. In New Mexico. Ring any bells?”
He started to shake his head, but the hellish pain intensified. He held himself very still instead, supporting his forehead with his hands. “No.” He spoke very softly, hoping Jarell would do the same. “How did I get here?”
“A couple of Good Sams brought you in last night.” Jarell hadn’t gotten the hint, and continued as loud as ever. “Said they found you taking a little nap with your nose in a puddle, a few blocks over in the alley. I checked your pockets for your wallet, but it was gone. Seems you�
�d already been rolled. I’m surprised they didn’t take those pretty cowboy boots of yours. From the looks of things, though, they did take the time to kick you while you were down.”
He brought his hand to the side of his head. His hair was filthy, and it felt crusty, as if it were caked with blood and muck.
“Come on and wash up, Mission Man. We’ll get you back on track. Today’s a brand-new day, and here at the shelter, the past does not equal the future. From here on in, you can start your life anew. Whatever’s come before can just be swept away.” Jarell laughed, a rich, joyful sound. “Hey, you’ve been here more than six hours, Mish. You can get your six-hour chip. You know that saying, One Day at a Time? Well, here on First Avenue, we say one hour at a time.”
He let Jarell help him to his feet. The world spun, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
“You got those feet working yet, Mish? That’s my man. One foot in front of the other. Bathroom’s dead ahead. Can you make it on your own?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t sure that he could, but he would have said nearly anything to get away from Jarell’s too-loud, too-cheerful, too-friendly voice. Right now the only friend he wanted near him was the blessed, healing silence of unconsciousness.
“You come on out after you get cleaned up,” the old man called after him. “I’ll help you get some food for both your belly and your soul.”
He left Jarell’s echoing laughter behind and pushed the men’s-room door open with a shaking hand. All of the sinks were occupied, so he leaned against the cool tile of the wall, waiting for a turn to wash.
The large room was filled with men, but none of them spoke. They moved quietly, gingerly, apologetically, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. They were careful not to trespass into one another’s personal space even with a glance.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was just another one of them—disheveled and unkempt, hair uncombed, clothes ragged and dirty. He had the bonus of a darkening patch of blood on his dirt-stained T-shirt, the bright red turning as dingy as the rest of him as it dried.
A sink opened up, and he moved toward it, picking up a bar of plain white soap to scrub the grime from his hands and upper arms before he tackled his face. What he truly needed was a shower. Or a hosing down. His head still throbbed, and he moved it carefully, leaning toward the mirror, trying to catch a look at the gash above his right ear.
The wound was mostly covered by his dark shaggy hair and…
He froze, staring at the face in front of him. He turned his head to the right and then to the left. The face in the mirror moved when he moved. It definitely belonged to him.
But it was the face of a stranger.
It was a lean face, with high cheekbones. It had a strong chin that badly needed a shave, except for a barren spot marked by a jagged white scar. A thin-lipped mouth cut a grim line, and two feverish-looking eyes that weren’t quite brown and weren’t quite green stared back at him. Tiny squint lines surrounded the edges of those eyes, as if this face had spent a good share of its time in the hot sun.
He filled his hands with water, splashing it up and onto his face. When he looked into the mirror again, the same stranger looked back at him. He hadn’t managed to wash that face away and reveal…what? A more familiar visage?
He closed his eyes, trying to recall features that would’ve been more recognizable.
He came up blank.
A wave of dizziness hit him hard and he grabbed at the sink, lowering his head and closing his eyes until the worst of it passed.
How did he get here? Wyatt City, New Mexico. It was a small city, a town really, in the southern part of the state. It wasn’t his home…was it? He must’ve been here working on…working on…
He couldn’t remember.
Maybe he was still drunk. He’d heard about people who’d had so much to drink they went into a blackout. Maybe that was what this was. Maybe all he’d have to do was sleep this off and everything he was having trouble remembering would come back to him.
Except he couldn’t remember drinking.
His head hurt like the devil. Heaven knew all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep until the pounding in his brain stopped.
He leaned down into the sink and tried to rinse the cut on the side of his head. The lukewarm water stung, but he closed his eyes and persisted until he was sure it was clean. Long hair dripping, he blotted himself dry with some paper towels, gritting his teeth as the rough paper scraped against his abraded skin.
It was too late to get stitches. The wound had already started to scab. He was going to have a scar from this one, but maybe some butterfly bandages would help. He’d need his first-aid kit and…And…He stared at himself in the mirror. First-aid kit. He wasn’t a doctor. How could he be a doctor? And yet…
The men’s-room door opened with a bang, and he spun around, reaching beneath his jacket for…Reaching for…
Dizzy, he staggered back against the sink. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just this sorry T-shirt. And sweet Lord help him, but he had to remember not to move fast or he’d end up falling on his face.
“The Ladies’ Auxiliary is having a clothing drive,” one of the shelter workers announced in a too-loud voice that made many of the men in the room cringe. “We’ve got a box of clean T-shirts, and another one full of blue jeans. Please take only what you need and save some for the next guy.”
He looked up into the mirror at the stained and grimy T-shirt he wore. It had been white at one time—probably just last night, although he still couldn’t remember back that far. He pulled it up and over his head, gingerly avoiding the wound above his right ear.
“Dirty laundry goes into this basket over here,” the shelter worker trumpeted. “If it’s labeled, you’ll get it back. If it’s torn, throw it out and take two.” The worker looked up at him. “What size do you need?”
“Medium.” It was something of a relief to finally know the answer to a question.
“You in need of jeans?”
He looked down. The black pants he was wearing were badly torn. “I could use some, yeah. Thirty-two waist, thirty-four inseam, if you’ve got ’em.” He knew that, too.
“You’re the one Jarell called the Mission Man,” the shelter worker remarked as he searched through the box. “He’s a good guy—Jarell. A little too religious for my taste, but that wouldn’t bother you, would it? He’s always giving everyone nicknames. Mission Man. Mish. What kind of name is Mish anyway?”
His name. It was…his name? It was, but it wasn’t. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to remember his name.
Dammit, he couldn’t even remember his name.
“Here’s a pair what’s got a thirty-three-inch waist,” the shelter worker told him. “That’s the best I can do for you, Mish.”
Mish. He took the jeans, briefly closing his eyes so that the room would stop spinning around him, calming himself. So what if he couldn’t remember his name? It would come back to him. With a good night’s sleep, it would all come back to him.
He told himself that again and again, using it like a mantra. He was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. All he needed was a chance to close his eyes.
He went into the corner of the room, out of the line of traffic around the sinks and stalls, and started to pull off one of his boots.
He quickly pulled it back on again.
He was carrying a side arm. A .22-caliber.
In his boot.
It was slightly larger than palm-sized, black and deadly looking. There was something else in his boot, too. He could feel it now, pressing against his ankle.
He took his jeans into one of the stalls, locking the door behind him. Slipping off the boot, he looked inside. The .22 was still there, along with an enormous fold of cash—all big bills. There was nothing smaller than a hundred in the thick rubber-banded wad.
He flipped through it quickly. He was carrying more than five thousand dollars in his boot.
There was something else there, too. A piece of paper. There was writing on it, but his vision swam, blurring the letters.
He took off the other boot, but there was nothing in that one. He searched the pockets of his pants, but came up empty there, too.
He stripped off his pants and pulled on the clean jeans, careful to brace himself against the metal wall the entire time. His world was tilting, and he was in constant danger of losing his balance.
He slipped his boots back on, somehow knowing how to position the weapon so that it wouldn’t bother him. How could he know that, know what size jeans he wore, yet not know his own name? He put most of the money and the piece of paper back in his boot as well, leaving several hundred dollars in the front pocket of his jeans.
He came face-to-face with his reflection in the mirror when he opened the door of the stall.
Even dressed in clean clothes, even washed up, long, dark hair slicked back with water, even pale and gray from the pain that still pounded through his battered body, he looked like a man most folks would take a wide detour around. His chin had a heavy growth of stubble, accentuating his already sun-darkened complexion. His black T-shirt had been washed more than once and had shrunk slightly. It hugged his upper body, outlining the muscles of his chest and arms. He looked like a fighter, hard and lean.
Whatever he really did for a living, he still couldn’t remember. But considering that .22 he had hidden in his boot, he could probably cross kindergarten teacher off the list of possibilities.
Rolling up his torn pants, he tucked them under his arms. He pushed open the men’s-room door and skirted the room where breakfast and temperance were being served. Instead, he headed directly for the door that led to the street.
On his way out, as he passed the shelter’s donation box, he dropped a hundred-dollar bill inside.
Tall, Dark, and Dangerous Part 2 Page 69