by Irene Hannon
Five minutes dragged by while the guy next to him ignored the bill and smoked his cigarette.
Dale began to sweat. Had he misread the man’s message?
Maybe this was some kind of sting operation, and the guy was an undercover cop. Although securing the drug this way had seemed the least traceable option, he was suddenly afraid he’d made a disastrous mistake.
Just as he was about to snatch back the money and abort the sale, the man repositioned his arm on the bar, covering the bill.
With his other hand, he reached under and palmed the cash.
Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he laid it on the bar next to Dale.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dale could see the pack was open. And it contained a small bottle, not cigarettes.
The man had come through.
Following his neighbor’s lead, Dale waited several minutes.
Then he casually picked up the cigarette pack and pocketed it.
As he rose, the man spoke in a low, amused voice.
“Have fun, Pop.”
Revolted, Dale turned away. The thought of using the drug for the purpose the man implied sickened him. Those who hurt or exploited innocent people were scum.
For him, the drug would serve a righteous purpose.
And it would do so soon.
Very soon.
The doorbell chimed as Mark came up the basement stairs in Nick’s house at noon on Saturday, and he took the last few two at a time. Wiping his hands on his paint-splattered jeans, he strode across the foyer and checked the peephole.
Now there was a pretty picture, he thought, his lips tipping into an appreciative smile.
Emily stood on the other side, juggling two large white sacks in her arms.
Flipping the deadbolt, Mark pulled the door open and grinned at her. “This is a surprise.”
Relief flooded her face. “I was about to give up. That was my third ring.”
“Sorry. I was in the basement cleaning a roller and I didn’t hear the bell. Welcome to the construction zone.” He stepped aside and ushered her in.
She took three steps in and came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening as she surveyed the interior. “Wow! While I was waiting on the porch, I came to the conclusion you’d been exaggerating about the condition of Nick’s house.”
He could understand why. From the outside, the stately, two-story, Federal-style brick structure was in pristine condition, with new tuck-pointing and freshly painted shutters. Set on an acre of ground amid towering oak and maple trees, it was an impressive edifice.
The inside was another story, as Emily had discovered. All of the rooms were in various states of rehab. The smell of fresh paint predominated, and a fine haze of drywall dust was suspended in the air.
“Nope.” He shut and locked the door. “The exterior is deceptive. Designed to lure in the unsuspecting.”
“No wonder Coop had trouble with his allergies.”
“It’s not that bad once you get used to it. So what brings you over?”
“Curiosity, for one thing. After all the talk about Nick’s house, I was dying to see it.” She winced and gave him a rueful look.
“Oops. Pardon the expression. Anyway, he told me to stop by anytime. When you called this morning to say the two of you would be painting the dining room today, I thought I might be able to bribe a tour out of him if I brought lunch.” She held up the two white bags. “If all else failed, I came prepared to barter some manual labor for a tour. I wield a mean paintbrush.”
He eyed her paint-smudged jeans and T-shirt. “They look like they’ve already done a tour of duty.”
“Yes. I . . . Grant and I did a lot of work at our house.”
Sensing she didn’t want to talk about that, he let the comment pass. “Unfortunately, Nick got called in a couple of hours ago.
The bank robbery case is about to break. But you can bribe me.
For the price of a sandwich and the offer of help, I’ll show you every nook and cranny in this place. And trust me, I know my way around. Nick’s had me crawling under stairwells, wedged into closets, and hanging from the rafters.”
Twenty minutes later, after a thorough tour, they sat down to enjoy their turkey sandwiches in the kitchen. As Mark unwrapped his, the back door rattled, and a second later Nick appeared.
“I’m convinced he can smell food ten miles away.” Mark spared his host a quick, amused glance and bit into his sandwich.
“Very funny. Hi, Emily. I saw your car. What’s up?”
“I stopped by for a tour. Mark obliged. And I brought food.”
“Healthy food too, I see,” he remarked as he checked out the sandwiches.
“It beats that tofu thing you concocted the other night that Coop almost gagged on.” Mark shook his head and turned to Emily. “We had to make an emergency pizza run.”
“You guys don’t know what’s good for you,” Nick countered.
“We know what we like.”
“They’re not always the same thing. Don’t let this bottomless pit eat all the sandwiches, Emily. I want to run upstairs and change. And I have to return a few calls.” He tossed a UPS envelope on the table. “Steve asked me to deliver this to you. It came late yesterday afternoon from Quantico.”
Swiping a napkin across his mouth, Mark picked up the envelope as Nick headed toward the stairs, noting that it was marked personal and confidential. Les’s name was on the return address.
Odd. His boss rarely communicated in writing.
“Do you mind if I open this?” he asked Emily.
“Not at all.”
Pushing his chair back from the table, Mark pulled the tab on the envelope and reached inside. A note from Les was clipped to the top of two sheets of stationery.
“Mark—this came to your attention two days ago. In light of present circumstances, I asked Christy to look at it. Sorry for the intrusion. Les.”
Puzzled, Mark removed Les’s note and glanced at the unfamiliar script. Flipping to the second page, he sought out the signature.
Adam and Barbara Wheeler.
The parents of the boy he’d killed.
Mark sucked in a sharp breath, and his heart gave an odd jolt.
“Mark?”
He heard the concern in Emily’s voice above the sudden rushing in his ears. Raking unsteady fingers through his hair, he lifted his head and looked at her. Apprehension tightened her features, and she’d stopped eating.
“It’s a letter from Jason Wheeler’s parents.” The words came out hoarse and uneven.
She set down her sandwich. “Is this the first contact you’ve had from them since the shooting?”
“Yes.” He looked at the letter and turned it facedown on his lap. “I thought I was doing okay, that I’d dealt with the situation. But I have a feeling this is going to tear me up all over again.” The words came out choked, and he wiped a hand down his face.
“You don’t have to read it.”
“Yes, I do.” He clenched his napkin into a tight ball and rose.
“Would you excuse me for a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
Gripping the sheets of paper, Mark stepped onto the back porch. Coop would have had a fit if he was here, Mark knew, sparing a quick glance toward the wooded common ground behind Nick’s property. As a concession to safety he moved into the corner, where clematis vines climbed right-angle trellises and afforded a degree of privacy and concealment.
He sat down in an antique wicker chair Nick had scrounged up at some garage sale, the fibers creaking as they accommodated his weight. Oblivious to the oppressive heat, he drew a deep breath, turned the pages over, and began to read.
Dear Mr. Sanders: Please forgive our long delay in responding to the letter you sent following Jason’s death. As you can imagine, this has been a very difficult time.
Your letter, however, touched us deeply. Until we received it, we had allowed anger to consume us. Anger at you, anger at the FBI, anger at
the junkie who chose to rob the convenience store that morning, anger at God. It has taken us weeks to work through that. But with much prayer and reflection, we have found some measure of peace.
From your letter, it was clear to us you carry a heavy burden of grief and guilt. We, too, grieve. We cannot offer you a reprieve from that, for the loss of a young life filled with promise is, indeed, a sadness of immeasurable depth. But we hope we can ease your guilt by letting you know we don’t blame you for the death of our son. From all we have learned, you acted in an appropriate, even heroic, manner. You did your best to stop the thief and preserve the lives in that store. Our son’s sudden, unexpected move could not have been predicted. Had you not acted, there is a good chance our son would have died anyway— and perhaps others, as well.
We have found great comfort in two Bible verses, and we pass them on to you in the hope you, too, will find them consoling. We also take comfort in knowing that while Jason’s life on earth was short, he lives on in a better place, with the Lord.
From Romans, “We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.”
And from the thirty-third Psalm, “Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.”
May hope and solace ease the burden in your heart. Our prayers are with you, and we ask for yours in return as we continue our journey toward healing.
The signatures blurred. Leaning forward, Mark rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head, letting the letter dangle from his clasped hands.
It had been years since he’d been overcome by tears. His work on the HRT demanded rigid emotional control, and he’d learned to turn an impassive face to the world. Whatever feelings he experienced as a result of the horror he saw remained contained. Even after the shooting incident, when he’d been raw and bleeding inside as well as out, he hadn’t shed a tear. The feelings were there, yet they’d gone unexpressed.
But the letter from Jason’s parents had done him in.
He knew people needed to find outlets for their emotions.
That’s why he and Coop had always pushed themselves to the limit in training. Physical exertion had been a release valve for the tension and stress and trauma of their job. And it had worked for many years. But after the shooting it had failed him. The intense effort he’d put into rehab hadn’t given him release from the emotional baggage of the shooting. Like the new patient Emily was worried about, Mark hadn’t found an adequate way to deal with the loss of an innocent life. His recent, tentative foray into prayer had provided some relief. But the understanding—and absolution—of the boy’s parents had been the missing piece.
The tears flowed down his cheeks unchecked. Tears of cleansing and gratitude and liberation. Thanks to the generosity and compassion of Jason Wheeler’s parents, he at last felt able to put that chapter of his life to rest and move on.
“Mark?”
The worried query filtered into his mind as if from a distance.
Without looking up, he handed Emily the letter in silence, not trusting his voice. Not wanting her to see his tears. He was grateful when she took it in silence and gave him the time—and space—to regroup.
Several minutes passed before she dropped down to his level and laid her hand on his knee. “They must be very special people.”
Her voice caught on the last word.
He wiped an eye on each sleeve of his T-shirt before he raised his head. Moisture clung to Emily’s eyelids too, he noted.
“I never expected anything like this.” His words came out hoarse. And ragged. “I thought they’d hate me.”
“You did your best, Mark. It’s obvious they recognize that.”
“I don’t know if I could have been as generous in their place.”
As the full measure of their benevolence began to register, it awed—and humbled—him.
“Faith can give people incredible strength.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
She touched his cheek, still damp from tears. “Could you use a hug?”
Instead of responding, he stood and drew her to her feet in one smooth motion, enfolding her in his arms. And as he clung to her, he gave thanks for the gifts he’d been given. Absolution from two strangers who owed him nothing, and the comfort of this extraordinary woman’s arms. Both imbued him with a strength that had nothing to do with bench presses or elliptical machines. The latter gave him the muscles to endure physical trials. Today’s gifts gave him a far superior strength: to simply endure.
“I wondered where you two had wandered . . . oops.”
As Nick stuck his head out the door, Emily started to twist free of Mark’s embrace. But he tugged her back, holding her firmly within the circle of his arms, her back pressed against his chest, his hands looped around her waist.
“Sorry,” Nick apologized. “I need to talk to you when you’re . . . when you have a minute, Mark.” Sandwich in hand, he beat a hasty retreat, letting the screen door bang behind him.
“Why do I always pick friends whose timing stinks?”
Emily turned her head to look up at him, a whisper of a smile hovering at her lips. “At least he made a discreet exit.”
“True. But something’s up. He never changed clothes.” He sighed and tightened his hold on her, bending his head to nuzzle her neck. “I have a feeling duty is about to call.”
He could feel the sudden tension in her body and knew what she was thinking. He’d studied a bit of psychology, himself. He was aware that an emotional download could leave a person shaky and off balance. That driving a car in that condition was risky. And that going into a volatile situation requiring sharp reflexes and absolute focus could be dangerous.
“I’m okay, Em.” He stroked her arms in a soothing, rhythmic motion, his tone gentle. “I’ve had a lot of practice compartmentalizing emotion. You don’t need to worry.”
“Okay.” She gave a stilted nod.
Stepping beside her, he draped an arm around her shoulders and led her toward the door. “Let’s find out what’s going on.”
As they entered the kitchen, Nick was standing by the sink wolfing down the last of his sandwich, his BlackBerry on the counter beside him.
“What’s up?” Mark asked.
“We’ve got some suspicious activity on the South Side, and we need to beef up surveillance there. I volunteered us.”
There was a lot Nick wasn’t saying. Mark could read it in his eyes. But Emily didn’t need to know any more. She was already spooked enough.
“No problem. Gets me off the painting detail, anyway.” He turned to Emily. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Thanks for the lunch, Emily. I may take you up on your painting offer another time.” Nick washed down the last bite of sandwich with a long swallow of soda. “Let me take a look around before you head out to the car.”
Mark helped Emily gather up the remnants of their lunch, and three minutes later Nick stepped back inside.
“You’re clear.”
Taking her arm, Mark went out the door first. Nick followed, waiting on the porch as he scanned the parklike setting.
“I don’t want to linger in the open,” Mark said as they reached her car. Pulling her close once again in a brief embrace, he brushed his lips over her forehead. “I’ll call you later about church.”
They’d planned to attend services together tomorrow, with Nick in tow, but Mark had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen.
“Don’t worry about it, Mark. It sounds like things are hopping on Nick’s case. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Always.”
She hesitated for an instant, searching his face, before sliding into the car.
Once she was out of sight, Mark turned back to the house.
He hadn’t given her that promise lightly. Nor had he lied when he’d told her he was good at switching focus.
Or he had been, until a certain Emily Laws
on had reentered his life.
His guilt over Jason’s death, Coop’s announcement about leaving the HRT, the job offer from Steve, the letter he’d received today—even the threat of their unknown sniper. He could temporarily forget all those things when the job demanded it.
Emily, however, wasn’t as easy to put out of his mind.
And there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
20
The organ swelled, and Emily opened her hymnbook for the final song. If things continued like this, she and Mark would never end up attending services together.
He’d sounded exhausted when they talked on the phone earlier. He and Nick hadn’t gotten home until after two in the morning, and when he’d called her at eight they were heading out again. He’d had no idea how long they’d be gone, but it sounded like he had another grueling day ahead of him. If all went well, Nick’s suspects would be arrested sometime in the next twelve hours. Mark wouldn’t be home until it was over.
Once that case was closed, more agents would be available to track down the shooter, Mark had told her. He’d assured her they were making progress, but she saw little evidence of that. As if there weren’t already enough loose ends to tie up on the shooting case itself, she knew he also owed Steve an answer on the job offer before he returned to Quantico next weekend.
To her surprise, he hadn’t pressed her about their relationship in the past few days. Just the opposite. He’d backed off a bit, keeping his displays of affection low key. A hug, a touch, a brush of the lips across her forehead. Perhaps he thought she had enough on her plate and was giving her space, she mused. He’d even downplayed her concerns about the job decision, assuring her other offers would come along if he passed on this one.
But this opportunity was a perfect fit for his skills, and they both knew it. She owed him an answer to his question. Was she willing to give their relationship a chance to develop into a serious commitment?
She’d been singing the final hymn by rote, her attention focused inward, but all at once certain parts of the lyrics began to resonate with her.