by Irene Hannon
“I already discussed it with Carl. They’ll take care of the interviews in their own jurisdiction, but there are only a few in the Oakdale zip code. We inherit the rest by default.”
“A good cluster of them are in close proximity to St. Louis metro. The others are scattered.” Coop scanned the pages. “We’ll have to pull in some of the region offices to assist in tracking these people down.”
“They’ll love that.” From his field agent days, Mark recalled his own distaste for requests for assistance from other offices.
In most instances, they were a nuisance . . . dead-end interviews or wild goose chases that took him away from his own cases and produced nothing.
“You have any other suggestions?” Steve prompted.
“Unfortunately, no. But this could take more time than we have if the guy is going to try again.”
“We’ve got ninety agents here. We can spread the interviews in our jurisdiction around. But first you and Dr. Lawson need to review that list. If either of you recognizes a name, that could expedite things.”
Mark checked his watch. It was approaching six. “We’ll stop by Emily’s on our way home and give her a copy. I’ll review it tonight too. By tomorrow morning, we should know if there’s anyone we should focus on.”
“We’ll hold off on the interviews until you both have a chance to look it over. And hope this guy is in no hurry to finish the job.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. I don’t recognize any of the names. I wish I did.” Emily tossed the multi-page document onto her coffee table, leaned back on the sofa, and tucked her legs under her with a frustrated sigh.
For the past half hour they’d been scrutinizing the license plate list. Mark had finished a few minutes earlier, with the same result, and he wasn’t any happier than she was.
“I guess we’ll be hitting the pavement.” Mark directed his comment to Coop, who sat in a side chair, ankle crossed over knee, nursing a soda.
“Tracking all these people down will be a massive job.” Emily looked from Coop to Mark. “Isn’t there any other option?”
“Not unless our guy sends us another clue that helps us narrow down the list,” Mark responded. “But I’m not complaining.
This is a big step forward. If he’s in here, we’ll find him.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt.
“He’s been quiet for the past week. Maybe he’s giving up, despite that note he sent you.”
“It’s possible. But I’m not counting on it.” His gaze sharpened.
“You’re not getting complacent about security precautions, are you?”
“No. Anything but.”
“Good. The arm’s looking better, by the way.” He examined the jagged wound, visible now that the stitches had come out and the bandage was off.
She brushed her fingers over the scar. “The doctor says I’m a quick healer.”
“That seems to be true. Physically, at least.”
When Mark’s loaded comment was met with silence, Coop looked from one to the other and rose. “I think I’ll step outside and give Monica a call. Let me know when you’re ready to head out,” he told Mark.
As the door opened, then shut with a quiet click, Mark moved over to sit beside Emily. “I need to leave in a minute.”
She sighed. “I know.”
“You look tired.”
“Must be catching. Have you checked a mirror lately?”
He wiped a hand down his face. There was no sense disputing the obvious. “I’ll be glad when all this is over and we can focus on more pleasant things. Like this.” He rubbed his chin against her hair, enjoying the feel of her soft curves pressed against him.
“What you said to Coop a minute ago . . . it’s true, Mark.”
Her soft comment surprised him. Knowing how skittish she was about the subject, he’d expected her to let his implication about psychological and emotional healing pass.
“You’ve got a lot to overcome, Em. I understand that.”
“You’d think with all of my training and experience, I’d be able to deal with my own fears. I know why I’m afraid to get close to people. I just can’t manage to apply in my own life the remedies I give to everyone else.” She huffed out an annoyed breath. “If nothing else, though, this whole thing has given me a better understanding of what some of my patients go through as they try to put their own histories behind them. And speaking of histories . . . how are you doing with the convenience store incident? With everything that’s been happening, have you had a chance to work through that at all?”
“Believe it or not, yes. I’ve accepted that I did what I had to do. The guilt, however, is another story. It’s still there, and
I suspect it always will be, to some extent. I’m hoping God will help me find a way to manage it. That’s what I’m praying for, anyway.”
“You’re praying?” She turned to give him a curious look.
Shifting toward her, he framed her face with his hands, brushing his thumbs lightly over her cheeks. “Thanks to you. If our paths hadn’t crossed, I doubt I’d have factored God into the healing equation. I’m glad you got me started on that journey, Em.” He stroked her hair, letting the silky strands drift through his fingers, signaling his intent a heartbeat before he claimed her lips in a gentle kiss.
“I hate to go.” His voice was husky as he rested his forehead against hers.
“The feeling is mutual.” She whispered the words, and her breath was like a warm caress against his face. “I figured out your plan, by the way.”
“What plan?”
“The plan to break down my defenses with kisses.”
“Is it working?”
“I don’t think I better answer that.”
A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I’ll take that as a very positive sign. Walk me to the door?”
He rose and pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion, keeping her hand in his as they moved toward the small foyer.
At the door, he turned to her. “Be careful.”
“Always. You too.”
“Sleep well.”
He reached for the handle, but when she touched his shoulder he turned back. To his surprise, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his.
The significance of the gesture wasn’t lost on him. Until now, he’d initiated every romantic encounter. Tonight, she’d taken the lead.
A slow, warm smile began at his lips and spread to his eyes.
“Good night, Em.”
As he stepped outside and waited for the lock to click behind him, Coop materialized out of the shadows in the corner of the porch.
“Everything okay in there?”
“Yes. Thanks for that timely exit.”
“Hey, I’m a sensitive guy. I can pick up vibes.”
“Right. Like the night we went out for pizza after running that killer CQB training route and you forgot you’d promised to take Monica to dinner. You didn’t exactly handle your phone call to her with a lot of finesse.”
He winced. “You would remember that.”
“She does too.”
“Okay, it was a mistake. A big one. But I’m getting better. I just need a little more practice. Which is hard to get when I’m gone for weeks at a stretch.” He gave Mark a pointed look.
“Tell Les about it. He’s the one who decided you should be my shadow.”
“Yeah. Like that’ll do a lot of good.” He waited while Mark slid into the passenger seat, then walked around the car and took his position behind the wheel. “Did you give any more thought to Steve’s offer?”
“Lots of thought. No action.”
“Does she know about it?” Coop nodded toward Emily’s condo as he backed out of the parking space.
“Yes. But she’s running scared. After her experience with Grant, guys in high-risk professions aren’t on her top ten list of favorite people.”
“Like I said before, love changes everything.”
Coop was right, Mark acknowledged. In his case
, anyway.
While he didn’t think he was head over heels yet, he was rapidly falling. He wouldn’t be considering a permanent move to St.
Louis if he wasn’t.
As for Emily . . . more and more, he was convinced she felt the same way. If he was an accountant or a doctor or a salesman, the risk factor wouldn’t be a barrier, and he suspected she’d have given him a green light long ago. But he couldn’t change who he was. He might be able to find a way to use his skills in a less risky position, but law enforcement wasn’t just a job for him; it helped define him as a person—in the same way Emily’s work helped define her.
He had a feeling she understood that.
But he wasn’t confident she could accept it . . . even if their future together hinged on it.
17
On Wednesday morning, Dale flipped through the magazine in Emily’s waiting room, trying not to appear nervous. The Lord had brought him here for a reason, he was sure of it. During the next hour, God would show him his next steps in righting the wrongs.
“Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Smith?”
He raised his head. The Mexican-looking receptionist was smiling at him. That radio talk show guy he’d begun listening to at night was right. The U.S. was being taken over by foreigners.
“No, thank you.” He buried his nose back in the magazine, hoping she’d leave him alone.
To his relief, she got the hint. Lowering the magazine a bit, he gave the headline of the story a disinterested scan . . . then read it again.
“Immobilization Drug: Attacker’s Best Friend.”
As he scanned the first few paragraphs, Dale’s heart began to thud. According to the article, the powerful, fast-acting drug was tasteless, odorless, and colorless. Soluble in liquid, a couple of teaspoons were enough to wreak havoc on the central nervous system. It immobilized without loss of consciousness, leaving victims responsive but passive and incapable of thinking clearly.
While the drug was illegal, the article suggested it could be made with common, available ingredients—and that the recipe was easy to find. The drug could also be sourced on the Net or easily purchased on the black market.
How that information fit in with Dale’s mission was a mystery. But somehow he knew it did.
Emily looked over the notes she’d taken during her phone conversation with Randy Miller as she prepared for her first meeting with Joe Smith. Age fifty-nine, employed by Aiken Concrete for twenty-four years, he had been considered a solid, dependable employee until the past month or so, when he’d become distracted and distant.
The cause was no secret. Two months ago, his sixteen-year-old son—an only child—had hung himself in the barn. Three weeks later, his wife had suffered a fatal heart attack. In total, Mr. Smith had taken five days off work for the two funerals. His stoic fortitude had amazed his supervisor and co-workers—until he’d begun making mistakes on the job.
The mistakes were a given, Emily reflected. A person didn’t suffer those kinds of blows without major fallout. She knew that firsthand. Fear was the legacy of her tragic loss. But now that Mark had entered her life, she’d faced her issues and was trying to work through them.
Based on the preliminary information Randy had given her— and his top-line assessment—Mr. Smith wasn’t even close to that stage yet. Meaning he could be on a direct path to a major breakdown.
Laying down her notes, Emily took a final sip of her coffee, set the cup aside, and headed toward the door to the reception area. A man with thinning gray hair looked up as she stepped into the waiting room.
“Mr. Smith? Emily Lawson. It’s nice to meet you.” She moved forward and extended her hand.
The man rose as she approached, folding his magazine in half as he tucked it under his arm.
He took her hand in an almost too-firm grip. About five-foot-nine, he had a lean but muscular build, suggesting he was accustomed to physical labor. Up close, his tanned, weathered face spoke of long hours in the wind and sun, while the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth conveyed prolonged strain. He wore jeans and a cotton work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy muscles in his forearms. Penetrating brown eyes, rather unnerving in their intensity, were fixed on her as he shook her hand.
“How do you do?”
“Please, come in.” She stepped aside and ushered him into her office, indicating the sitting area off to the side.
He chose one of the striped chairs and sat stiffly on the edge, twisting the magazine in his hands as he surveyed the room.
Considering his comment to Randy about the stigma of counseling, his nervousness didn’t surprise Emily. Her first order of business was to put him at ease.
Picking up her pen and notepad, she chose the chair at right angles to him. “Did Maria offer you something to drink?”
“Yes.” He gestured toward the Starbuck’s cup on her desk. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your morning coffee.”
“I must confess, today it was a double chocolate chip frap-puccino. And it’s long gone. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a beverage? Water, perhaps?”
“No thank you.” He twisted the magazine tighter in his hands.
“If you change your mind, let me know.” She crossed her legs and settled her notebook on her lap. “I spoke with Randy Miller about your situation. I’m very sorry for your losses, Mr.
Smith.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not surprising for that kind of trauma to have a negative impact on your work performance. Why don’t we talk about what’s been happening at your job?”
“I made a couple of mistakes.”
“I imagine you’ve been distracted.”
She waited for him to comment, but he remained silent, wary and watching. After several more queries about his problems on the job met with monosyllabic answers, she tried asking a few questions about his wife. Same result.
Consulting her notes, Emily took a few moments to regroup.
Joe Smith wasn’t the first resistant EAP referral she’d had, but she couldn’t remember too many who had been as tightly strung as this man. His rigid body posture, the mangled magazine in his hands, his intent but guarded gaze . . . no wonder his boss had been worried about him.
If he wouldn’t talk about his wife or his job, she doubted he’d open up about his son. The death of a child was always hard on a parent. And suicides were devastating. But she could try.
“Would you like to tell me a little about your son, Mr. Smith?”she asked gently.
“He was a good boy. He shouldn’t have died.” The man’s gaze bored into her. “It was wrong that he died.”
“The loss of such a young life is always a tragedy. I do some work with young people, and I’ve discovered that depression is often a very serious problem for teens. Do you think that might have been an issue with your son?”
His shoulders stiffened. “He had his blue days now and then, like we all do. But he was a strong boy. He would have been fine if he’d gotten out in the fresh air and enjoyed God’s creation, or read the Good Book, instead of holing up in his room.”
Denial. Emily ran into it frequently. “Depression can often be helped by treatment, in much the same way antibiotics heal an infection.” She strove to maintain a relaxed, conversational tone.
“And it often runs in families. Is there a history of depression in your family, Mr. Smith?”
“No, ma’am.” He stared at her, his face expressionless. “And my son wasn’t depressed. Just a little down.”
Now she was picking up another emotion. Anger, perhaps.
Possibly self-directed. Deep inside, he might be questioning his beliefs about the value of counseling and wondering if he could have averted the tragedy by seeking professional help for his son.
If that was the case, a sense of blame and a familial propensity to depression could lead to serious guilt and self-loathing—a dangerous combination.
The picture that emerged troubled her. While Mr. Smith
hadn’t offered her any direct insights into his thoughts or feelings, she’d gleaned a fair amount from body language and what was left unsaid. The bottom line was that he appeared to be poised on the verge of meltdown, his tension palpable. Some of it could be attributed to the counseling situation, which he clearly found uncomfortable. But she sensed it went far deeper than that and was sourced in roiling emotions buried inside.
Anger, guilt, grief, confusion. As far as she could see, none of those emotions had found an outlet. And they needed to. Or the pressure would build until it burst.
Today, however, was a wash. The best that could be said was that he’d shown up. All she could do was hope that Mr. Smith, like Jack Hanley, would recognize sooner rather than later that he needed help. Until he was ready to talk to her, however, there was little she could do except be available.
Rising, Emily moved to her desk, picked up one of her cards, and held it out to him. “I understand this situation is awkward for you, Mr. Smith. But I’d like to see you again. Now that we’ve met, I hope you’ll feel more comfortable in the future. In the meantime, if you’d like to talk, don’t hesitate to call me at any hour of the day or night. My exchange can reach me within minutes.”
“Thank you.” He took the card and slid it into his shirt pocket as he stood, tucking the magazine under his arm.
“May I set up another appointment for you? How about Friday or Monday?” She didn’t want to wait a week to see him again.
“Monday is okay.”
“Give me a minute.”
Rising, Emily flashed him a pleasant smile. But his expression remained impassive. Closed. Verging on hostile. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, she reflected. But as she slipped through the door to the reception area, closing it behind her, she was glad he’d come.
Because Joe Smith needed help.
Badly.
Dale stared at the closed door as Emily exited. She was smooth, he’d give her that. With her gentle, caring tone, she oozed empathy. He could see how his son would have been sucked in by her.
But her comments about depression had disgusted him. She made the blues sound like an inherited disease, like high blood pressure or diabetes. But it wasn’t a sickness. It was a weakness. And no one could help you overcome weaknesses except yourself. And God.