Sins of the Past

by Dee Henderson

  “Planning?” Libby said. “So they aren’t already here?”

  “I pray not, or we’re looking at a terrorist attack beyond imagining.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Call the State Department.”

  Libby pulled the card Doc Graham had given her from the State Department for Brandt Dawson, the agent who’d arrived in town after Kat’s death.

  “I’ll call him,” Ben said.

  “So Kat was trying to defect to the U.S. and brought intel so vital that the U.S. would have risked upsetting the Russians by letting one of their star athletes defect,” Libby said. “I can’t believe Brezhnev just signed the SALT II treaty with Carter when all the while they had this planned.”

  “Politics and spies—both nasty,” Ben said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The meet was set with Brandt Dawson from the State Department at the Yancey airstrip.

  Ben couldn’t help but feel his past had come back to haunt him as they approached the airstrip. The suitcase bombs weren’t made of fusion weapons, but the compact size and theory behind them was frighteningly similar to the nature of what he’d worked on.

  He thanked God that Kat had managed to get ahold of the Russians’ plans and that they’d be turned over to the authorities. He prayed they’d be able to thwart the plans and nothing so disastrous would ever be launched against the country he loved. He might not love the politics at play, but he loved his country.

  The sun was full and bright, the air reaching a warm seventy degrees as the plane touched down.

  They waited as it taxied to a stop, the cabin door opened, and the stairs folded down.

  A man ducked his head out and signaled for them to come aboard.

  Jim entered first, then Ben, and finally Libby.

  The twelve-seater plane was impressive—leather seats, cocktail tables between the various groupings, a lavatory and rear compartment. Seemed too nice a plane for a government official to travel in, but maybe he had special ties. Or maybe the government had determined this handoff to be important enough they’d given him whatever he needed to get there as fast as possible.

  “Please, take a seat,” Brandt said. “I owe you a great debt.”

  The cabin door shut, and Ben looked up to find a second man standing beside it, gun in hand. “As does my country,” he said with a thick Russian accent.

  “This is Alexi,” Brandt said, gesturing toward the man. “My Russian counterpart.”

  Libby’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll take those.” Brandt pulled the file from Jim’s hand as Alexi aimed the gun at Libby’s head.

  A turncoat agent. Disgust burned through Ben’s veins. How on earth was he going to get Libby safely out of this scenario? He tried the best play he had. “You have what you want, so we’ll be leaving now.”

  “So you can tell the world what you uncovered and expose my identity,” Brandt said, pulling a gun of his own. “I think not. Kat tried that, and look where it got her.”

  “She called you for help in defecting and you turned on her,” Libby said, outrage burning in her voice.

  “I killed her. I turned, as you call it, decades ago.”

  “And now?” Libby swallowed, her panicked gaze flashing to Ben.

  “Now,” Brandt said. “We need you three to disappear.”

  Libby scooted forward on the leather seat. “People know we are here.”

  “So what? They’ll assume the big, bad Russians got you before you could reach me,” Brandt said. “I’ll play the sorrowful American agent mourning your loss.”

  Ben inched his hand toward his weapon.

  “Uh-uh,” Alexi said, yanking Libby from her seat and pressing the muzzle to her temple. “Hand it over.” He looked to Jim. “You too.”

  Brandt collected their guns. “Let’s get this bird in the air,” he said to Alexi. “We’ll drop them off over the ocean somewhere. Unlike Kat whose death Dmitri screwed up, you three will never be found.”

  “Dmitri?” Libby said. “Oh, you mean Rick?”

  Brandt chuckled. “So you figured that out, but as you saw, ‘Rick’ outlived his usefulness.”

  “You’re a monster,” Libby spat.

  “Perhaps, but I’m a very well-paid one.” He indicated for Alexi to release Libby and head to the cockpit. “I’ve got it from here.”

  Alexi shoved Libby toward her seat as he moved for the cockpit. Ben kicked his leg out, tripping her. Brandt’s gaze shifted momentarily, but long enough for Ben to lunge forward, knife drawn, stabbing Brandt in the chest.

  Ben used Brandt as a shield, wrestling his weapon from him, aiming and firing at Alexi as he turned.

  Alexi stumbled back and his gun fired, the bullet hitting Jim in the shoulder as he pulled Libby behind the seat in front of him.

  Ben fired again, and Alexi dropped.

  Libby sat on the back of the open ambulance, a blanket draped over her despite the warmer temps, her mind still scrambling to process everything that had happened.

  Ben stashed the folder in the back of his pants, flipping his shirt over it until they could hand it over to the proper authorities.

  “How will we know who we can trust?” She shook her head. “So many people weren’t who they seemed. So many let Kat down, me included. How am I going to live with that?”

  “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have.”

  “But I—”

  “If this entire crazy situation has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t wade in the past. If you do you’ll eventually drown. I didn’t realize it, but I was drowning until I met you. Letting the past consume and jade me. I can’t control the outcome of what happened in the past, and I certainly can’t control the future. That’s God’s place.” He cupped her face in his hands. “God has reminded me again that while there are bad people, there are plenty of good ones. Yancey is full of them. People you can trust with your life. And you can trust me with yours. You know that, right?”

  She leaned into his hold. “I do.”

  “Ah, Libby . . .” He caressed her cheek. “I meant what I said. I was drowning until you came. You reminded me to keep my gaze above the waves. Now, give this burden you’re carrying to Jesus, let Him carry it so you can walk on the water.”

  She clutched his hand in hers. “Only if you’re by my side.”

  Epilogue

  FIVE MONTHS LATER . . .

  Ben sat by Libby at the fire pit he’d built for them to enjoy while he continued working on his house. It was framed, paneled, and shingled. The only remaining work was on the inside. By spring it would be ready to move in to.

  Libby had remained in Yancey until her next tournament and then returned at the end of September when her season was over. They’d spent the last three months inseparable, and he never wanted that to end.

  He reached in his pocket and hooked his finger around the ring.

  Libby lay against his chest, a thick wool blanket beneath them and another above as the fire crackled at their feet. It was too cold to remain out long, but this was where he wanted to propose—her curled up in his arms, the flames dancing along her skin, illuminating her blond hair much as the lantern had their first night together in the storm.

  God had brought them through more than one gigantic storm, and he’d face a thousand more as long as she was at his side.

  He pulled the ring out and her eyes widened. “I guess I better be on one knee for this.”

  “I think you better forget the one knee and put that ring on my finger this instant.”

  He chuckled. Only Libby. “I take that as a yes?”

  She kissed her reply.

  “Feel free to answer like that anytime you like.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She smiled, staring at the ring on her finger. “I can’t wait to show my parents.”

  “My and Mom’s first trip to the Caribbean.” Libby had invited them both for Christmas with her family.

  “You guys wil
l love it, but this, here . . .” she said gazing at the house and the land surrounding them. “This is home. You”—she rubbed his chest—“are my home.”

  “And to think how it all started. One obstinate lady in sunflower rain boots.”

  “And one strapping Alaskan fisherman afraid of a little rain.”

  He laughed. “It’s hard to believe all we’ve been through.”

  “Crazy.” She nestled against him, intertwining her fingers with his.

  “Too bad we were sworn to silence and our kids will never get to hear the real story of how we met.”

  She rolled on her stomach, facing him. “You think about our kids?”

  “Of course.” He brushed her hair back. “Don’t you?”

  She smiled. “Guilty.”

  “Well, let’s hope we’ve gotten our fill of crazy and our kids can enjoy a nice, quiet, peaceful life.”

  “I don’t know that I wish a quiet life for them,” she said.

  He arched a brow. “You don’t?”

  “No. I hope they have the heart of adventurers, like their parents.”

  “Ah.” He smiled, kissing her. “Of course.”

  “And deep love for one another and for the Lord.”

  “Sounds like a great prayer for a great life.”

  She rolled back around, lying against him. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

  “Them?” He chuckled. “How many are there in that mind of yours?”

  “Three . . . maybe. No. I don’t want to have a middle child. That can’t be any fun.”

  “So four?”

  “Four . . . or”—she held up their joined fingers—“maybe five, a full handful.”

  “We have five adventurous kids who take after us, and we’re definitely going to have our hands full.”

  She smiled, lowering her lips to his. “I can’t wait. It’ll be the best adventure yet.”

  He couldn’t agree more.

  ONE

  Macey Adams wished she could remember the sins that haunted her. Because if she could remember, then maybe she would be able to figure out who was trying to kill her—or drive her mad.

  She stood with her back against the wall, a butcher knife clutched in her right hand, facing the kitchen door. Could he get in? She’d locked the doors and checked the windows. Just like she did every night. Tremors wracked her slight frame, and she wished she’d thrown a coat on over her sweatshirt. Anger surged through her along with the adrenaline. It was two in the morning. She shouldn’t have to be worried about someone trying to get into her house.

  Her eyes landed on the windowsill above the sink, where she’d left her phone after talking to her sister almost four hours ago. A conversation that had brought on the nightmare that had awakened her. Or had it been the noise under her bedroom window that had interrupted her restless doze? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

  All that mattered was that she’d come into the kitchen to get her phone, and now it wasn’t where she’d left it. And the window was open, letting in the freezing night air.

  The phone’s glaring absence mocked her, but that didn’t shake her nearly as much as the black hole of the open window. Had he been able to climb in? Was he in her house even now? Hiding? Waiting? She shuddered. Did she dare go outside and run? Or was he out there?

  Desperation choked her. She moved to the cordless phone on the counter and turned it on. Held it to her ear.

  Dead silence.

  Fear now had a stranglehold around her throat. No cell phone, no landline, no alarm. And a possible intruder in her home. A whimper escaped her lips, and one unsteady step at a time, she walked to the open window. Tremors shook her, but she had to close and lock it. She couldn’t leave it open. He could come in that way. If he wasn’t already inside.

  Close the window, close the window. Two more steps. She stood in front of the sink, staring at the window, bracing herself for someone to reach in and grab her. She almost couldn’t do it. Almost couldn’t lift her arms.

  Do it!

  She forced her arms up, grasped the window, and slammed it shut. She twisted the lock and let out a shuddering breath. No one had grabbed her, and the featureless face she saw so often in her dreams hadn’t appeared. She pressed a hand over her racing heart.

  Without taking her eyes from the window, she backed from the kitchen into the foyer. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she spun. No one behind her. But what about in the hall closet? She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

  Her wooden front porch creaked, and Macey stiffened, her blood renewing its rapid surge through her veins. She whirled to stare at the front door, at the knob. It gave a slight turn to the left then stopped. It jiggled to the right then again to the left.

  Terror clamped down on her lungs, and she struggled to breathe even as she stayed still, her mind racing, flipping through escape scenarios and discarding each one. But the wiggling doorknob told her one thing: he wasn’t inside.

  She tried to envision how she could protect herself. The knife in her hand would require close contact, and that was the last thing she wanted. If she went out the kitchen door and through the garage, he could see her. Could she climb out of her bedroom window? Maybe.

  Her head pulsed and a bright light flashed behind her eyes. Woods, trees . . . the feel of the rain . . . the pain of the gunshot wound in her shoulder, the smell of the freshly turned earth that was supposed to be her grave.

  She blinked fast, wondering at the images forcing themselves to the forefront of her mind even while she listened for the intruder. She knew she’d been shot six years ago, she had just never been able to remember the details.

  Her breathing now came in short, gasping pants and a fine sheen of sweat broke out across her forehead. Her fingers, clenched around the knife’s handle, protested the tight grip. She loosened them slightly.

  Silence slithered over her. Had he left? Her ears strained in the dark quiet. Or was he just waiting? Or perhaps looking for another way in?

  Minutes passed without another sound. Finally she dared to move to the front door, just to check the lock one more time. Then back into the kitchen to check that door. Also locked. But the top half of it was glass. Easily broken should he decide to smash through it.

  She turned away and let her gaze bounce from shadow to shadow. Did she dare turn on a light?

  Her spine tingled, and the hair on her neck stood up straight. She spun back toward the kitchen door.

  Saw the black face that had no eyes, no nose, no lips.

  She dropped to the floor and screamed.

  And screamed.

  And screamed.

  Chad Latham sat straight up in his lounge chair at the first terrifying cry. His blanket fell away from his shoulders and he shivered in the cold November night air as he tried to discern where the cry had come from. What was it? An animal?

  When the second scream came, he bolted from his deck toward Macey Adams’ house. By the third chilling screech, he’d already used his pile of firewood to enable him to vault over the fence that separated the two small yards. The roar of a car engine registered, but it was the direction the screams had come from that he focused on. Macey.

  He raced up the front porch and pounded on the door. “Macey, it’s Chad. Are you okay?” Sobbing reached his ears. Was she inside or outside? “Macey?”

  “Chad? Is anyone else out there?”

  He looked around. “No, it’s just me. Open up.” He heard rustling, shuffling, the click of the door unlocking. The door opened a crack.

  Concern for the fragile sound in her voice made him step toward her. “Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Someone tried to break in.” She backed up and let him in. He shut the door and faced her as she paced the small foyer. “I—I couldn’t find my phone even though I left it on the windowsill in the kitchen and the window was open, but I know I closed it and the alarm didn’t go off and then he looked in my door and he didn’t have a face and—”
She pressed her hands against her temples. “Ugh! Why can’t I remember?”

  “Whoa, hang on.” She wasn’t exactly hysterical, but she wasn’t making any sense either. He took her hand and led her from the small foyer into the open-concept living area. He gestured to the couch. “Sit down. I’m going to check everything, then you can tell me what happened.”

  “No!” She grasped his hand. “Don’t leave me.”

  The frantic fear in her voice stopped him. “Fine. Fine, I won’t go anywhere, but I need to call it in. The guy could still be in the area, looking to hit another house.”

  She ran a shaky hand over her face. “Right. Of course.”

  Chad stayed right next to her while he reported the attempted break-in. While he talked, she seemed to calm slightly, but shivers still shook her thin frame every so often. He went to the thermostat and adjusted it then lowered himself into the chair opposite her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I probably woke you up with my screams.”

  “I heard the screams, but they didn’t wake me.” At her raised brow, he shrugged. “I was sitting outside on my deck.”

  She blinked. “Oh.”

  His lips flattened. “I have my own memories that keep me awake. Probably not as bad as your nightmares, though.”

  “I hate nightmares,” she whispered. “Especially when I’m not even asleep.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She shuddered and goose bumps pebbled her bare arms. Her cheeks reddened. “You’ll think—”

  “What? I’ll think what?”

  “That I’m . . . that . . .” She lifted her hands in a hopeless gesture. “I’ve tried to leave the past behind, Chad, but it won’t let me.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  He pulled her against him and she let her forehead drop against his chest.

  Chad blew out a soft breath. He’d met Macey when she’d moved in almost two years ago. In those two years they’d spoken on a regular basis, shared a few late-night talks when they’d been iced in last winter. He’d even borrowed the clichéd cup of sugar two or three times, but he’d never scratched the surface of the shell she’d built around herself. If she’d shown an inkling of interest, he’d have asked her out long ago. But she hadn’t.