The encrypted cell phone from Barry rang, and I fumbled on the nightstand. Flipping it open, “What?”
“What is Kurt doing?” Barry barked.
I opened one eye, and groaned at the digital time flashing. “Barry, I had a long night. Who cares what Kurt is doing? The man earned the right for a little R and R.”
“No, he’s following your girlfriend.” The line went dead.
I stared at the phone. Blinked. Wait, what? Jumping out of bed, shoving my feet into a pair of nearby sneakers, I hightailed it to the living room. Jessup, Jason, and Doc held the couch.
“What is going on?” I yelled.
Jessup looked at the other two, back at me, cleared his throat and said, “Cornell is following Jillian. Kurt took off after him.”
“No, the VPOTUS said not to pursue him. It was a direct order. I’m not willing to go to prison for the fat, drunk bastard.” My gaze flicked from one man to the next.
“Middy, he ordered you not to pursue, and not to us to do it for you. We are within the parameters.” Jessup’s chin lifted a notch.
“You call the VPOTUS and tell him. He can’t clean up any mess we make right now. We’re walking a thin line!” I paced, pinching the bridge of my nose, torn between going after Jillian and ensuring her safety … and following the orders of the boss.
“No.”
I stopped, staring at them. In their faces I saw stubborn resolution to the path, and the love of the men who’d seen some of the same shit I had. The need to protect their own. Whether Jillian liked it or not, she’d acquired a pack of guard dogs willing to kill for her.
Chapter Thirty Four
“Cornell has to go permanently missing.” I looked at Doc.
He nodded.
I took a deep breath, “Let’s go.”
*
Jillian bought a small car from the local dealership and went south on I-15. My best guess was she headed for Salt Lake City, five hours away. She’d left three hours earlier from the dealership, meaning she was probably somewhere in Idaho, and would stop soon for gas. Kurt was an hour behind.
If Cornell was right on her ass, the minute she stopped he’d go for it.
It was one thing to know she’d left me, it was another knowing he’d take her life. He was a drunken psychopath.
As I pulled the map, Jessup and I made plans, Jason and Doc went into town, looking for the fastest vehicle possible. They called to say they’d bought a new Dodge Charger.
We piled into the black four door sedan, smelling of new leather, light on the weapons. Jessup had the wheel, second only to Kurt when it came to driving skills.
I sat shotgun, punching the dash occasionally, ignoring when Doc yelled at me for damaging the new vehicle. On the third exclamation, I turned and stared. His eyes grew round, and he paled. He didn’t say another word.
The cell phone rang, the caller ID saying it was Kurt.
“Well?”
“You driving?” his voice tinny and far away.
“No.”
“He’s got her. I just found her new car, there’s blood on the seat, and signs of a struggle. Call VPOTUS now.” He hung up.
“Fuck!” I punched the dash, shattering the plastic and breaking two knuckles. The pain was welcomed.
I dialed the VPOTUS. The conversation was short and brief.
Jason asked, “Well?”
“We’re not to make a big media mess, but we are to regain custody of Jillian.”
*
The Charger was pushed to the limit, slipping and sliding on the interstate as Jessup proved why he had the wheel. The car shot past one-ten on the dry areas, and according to Jessup, the handling was sweet on the curves.
I tried to contain the rage. I pulled the Sig, setting it on my lap, staring, counting the minutes by every breath I took.
“Doc, Cornell is mine.”
“Yes, sir, he is.”
The interstate flew, the scenery unnoticed as I planned every conceivable situation and how I was going to kill Cornell Smythe. Even if it put me in the looney bin, I was going to fillet his skin, his screams music to my ears. The thought of another drop of Jillian’s blood spilled in her new car, her attempt to start over, killed in a few hours, made everything seem small in comparison.
If I wasn’t so wrapped up in my family history, she wouldn’t have been alone. I would have been with her, and Cornell wouldn’t have harmed her. Her new situation was my fault. And I’d make it up to her by putting Cornell’s carcass at her feet, as I begged forgiveness.
*
Kurt waved us down at the Flying J truck stop off the interstate. We drove to the new white Dodge Dart, a small four banger, cute, and a match for Jillian. The driver side door was open, and as I stepped out of the Charger, reality ceased.
The driver seat of the Dart was soaked with blood, flowing into a puddle under the dash, some having dripped to the outside and frozen to the asphalt of the parking lot. If it was Jillian’s, I knew she had little to no time left. I could only hope some of it was Cornell’s.
“Call 9-1-1, let them know. Where’d they go, Kurt?” I asked quietly, in a hoarse voice.
“They continued south, I believe. I asked, people aren’t likely to forget his damn truck. Fucking thing spews black smoke out of those dumbass stacks he added. You’re two hours behind.” He stood five feet away from me, his body held in a subtle submissive pose.
“Let’s go.” I nodded once at Jessup. “Do we need gas?”
“Yeah, give me ten, okay?” He jumped in and parked at a pump, putting in a credit card and filling the tank.
Kurt closed the gap, “Aiden, keep your head, man. Losing it won’t help her.”
“Fuck off.”
He joined the others in the Charger.
*
The interior of the car remained silent, a nod at the engineers for creating a closed environment. I stared out the windshield, not seeing the shattered dash, the airbag in full view. The scenery, normally something I’d savor, was a blank space, like the place my mind and soul occupied.
Jessup pushed hard, into Utah, and Kurt interrupted the silence by making phone calls to local law enforcement. Doc called the VPOTUS, updating him. Another call to a friend of the Colonel’s. A third call to someone he knew in Salt Lake City.
I ignored the conversations.
In Odgen, Jessup slowed, and I watched for Cornell’s truck. I squinted, in the waning light, seeing black smoke a mile ahead on the interstate. I pointed.
*
Jessup moved behind the big red Chevy, and I could see Jillian. She looked asleep, but I had bets it wasn’t sleep so much as on her death bed.
“What do you want me to do?” Jessup looked at me.
“Does she have a seatbelt on? I can’t tell.”
Jessup leaned forward. “Yeah, she’s strapped in.”
“Flip the mother.” I put on the seat belt, put the Sig into the thigh holster and locking it down.
Jessup accelerated, and moved into the left lane. I could see Cornell in his side mirror, and breathed a small sigh of relief. He had blood oozing from a deep cut on his cheek. Jillian had fought back.
The interstate had only light traffic. Jessup swerved far to the left, and jerked the steering wheel to the right. It slammed the Charger into the truck’s vulnerable rear corner, lifting him temporarily. It succeeded in rocking the truck. Cornell weaved on the road but regained control. Jessup jerked to the left, and moved the front of the car in line with the center of the truck.
In his side mirror, I saw Cornell’s eyes widen, and his jaw drop, as Jessup slammed the car into the side of the truck.
The Chevy weaved, but he didn’t get control, and it ran into the steep median. It flipped to the sounds of tires screeching, white smoke, and the crunch of metal. Jessup stayed even with the truck, and we watched Cornell flying around the cabin. Jillian was slammed around the seat like a rag doll, the restraints keeping her in the passenger seat.
The truck
stopped, right side up. Jessup stopped the Charger and I jumped out. The Chevy hissed and groaned, smoke billowing from the engine. The doors were mangled, and I glanced around to find several cars stopping.
“Crap! They might have cell phones!” I yelled, and ran to the passenger side. The window was missing and I reached in, checking Jillian for a pulse. It was weak, and she was taking shallow breaths.
The guys were keeping the people busy and back from the wreck. Some were filming, and I realized I was not going to get the vengeance so desperately needed.
Police and ambulance arrived a few moments later, and I told them I was Dr. Jillian Winter’s husband. She could kick my ass for it later, but I was not leaving her alone for another moment.
As they loaded her into the ambulance, I jumped in, and glanced a shoulder at my brothers. All of them nodded.
*
I paced the waiting room, spending an hour filling out forms, waiting for the ER doc to talk to me. The door opened and a young man in scrubs caught my gaze, “Are you Mr. Winters?”
“Yes,” I scurried to him.
“She’s going to be okay. She’d been stabbed three times, but nothing major hit. She’s in recovery, I can give you a few minutes.” He held the door open.
I went through and followed him down several hallways into another room. Jillian looked small and pale, helpless. I was left alone with her.
Holding her hand, I dropped to my knees, keeping her hand against my cheek. Whispering, “I’m so sorry. I can never make any of this up to you. But one day, Cornell’s rotting corpse will be delivered to whatever doorstep you decide on, and you’ll know it’s over.”
I stood, pushing her dull red hair off her forehead, knowing it was entirely my fault. I loved her, and she was paying for it. It was best to leave her, let her get on with her life. I should return to the ranch. Stop sacrificing Jillian’s sanity and safety for my needs.
For the second time, I would have to walk away from a woman I loved. I was fairly sure my sanity wouldn’t survive it.
Chapter Thirty Five
The tequila left a trail of stinging pain down my throat, and I took a fifth shot. The world swam and tilted on an unknown axis.
Jillian left, on her own, without a word, or so much as a “Thanks.” I’d spent days in the hospital by her side, talking, and damn near committing outright murder in the ICU where Cornell was hooked up to machines. Slept on the floor by her bed, ignored the calls of Barry and my brothers … only to land alone in the house.
I pitched the shot glass against the wall, unsatisfied by the noise of shattering glass. She’d been released, and I didn’t find out until the next fucking day. I picked up the tequila, throwing it into the fireplace when I noticed it was empty.
“Bitch!” I screamed at the empty house, not sure who was the target of the fury: Jillian … or myself.
*
Winter broke hard on Dillon. As the holidays gave way to the New Year, two blizzards covered the small mountain town with three feet of new snow. As far out as my property was situated, it was no surprise the electric went out.
I stared at the fire, raging and hot, in the newly remodeled fireplace. I’d widened and deepened it, could cook in it if necessary. It threw off enough heat to warm the living room as well as keep half of the house above freezing. I guzzled the Jim Beam, watching the storm rage and create a blank canvas on which to see the memories I wanted desperately to remain hidden.
Through the glass pane, I could see the years slide by, switching as often as I took a swig of the bourbon. The light faded, but the picture slide show of “This is Your Life” continued. The room cooled and I looked away, realizing the fire died. I stoked it high, and sat on the couch. Closing my eyes, I let my head rest on the back of the couch.
The room tilted, and I fell to the side, but instead of straightening, I curled into a ball, allowing the tidal wave to crash through the carefully built walls. If I was going to drown, it was time to turn on the tap.
*
“Fozzy! Stop hiding! Fozzy!” the yells startled me awake. I knelt in the ruins of the closet, everything out and thrown across the bed, dresser and floor. The duffel containing the weapons remained safely locked, but I had to get a grip. The sleepwalking continued to get worse, and I often woke searching for either Jillian or the teddy bear. What I couldn’t admit while conscious, I searched for in sleep.
The image of the worn teddy bear caused a shudder. I needed Fozzy. A visual inventory of the mess said he wasn’t in the closet, on the bed, or the floor.
Sifting through the past month, I remembered the last place I’d seen him. I ran upstairs, to the room Jillian had stored her medical supplies. Nothing. The hangover didn’t appreciate when I ran to the bedroom where Jillian slept. I half expected to see Fozzy on the bed. I dove into the closet, searched under the bed, opened and shut every drawer.
I wasn’t sure if I should be upset at Jillian for taking Fozzy, or relieved she’d taken a part of me. The confusing mix gave me a pounding headache.
Giving up on sleep, I padded barefoot into the kitchen, only to find the beer gone. Rubbing a hand across the stubble on the top of my head, I searched for another bottle. The cupboards were empty of food, but at least a half-empty bottle of vodka occupied the freezer.
I drank the rest and stumbled back to bed.
The days and nights merged, as I drank heavily, unable to remain in the static foam for long. The dark hole I ignored opened wide, letting me relive every moment of the past decade. I could see the face of every human I’d killed, maimed, or tortured. I witnessed Jillian’s hell repeatedly, unable to create different outcomes, even in sleep. No matter what I wanted, or how I tried, the memories were relentless.
Only when drunk could I stop feeling when I fell into the past.
*
The drapes’ small opening allowed a sliver of bright sunlight to spread across my eyes. Groaning, I rolled away, hoping to go back to sleep. It didn’t work.
Swinging my legs off the bed, and stumbling to the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror. The five o’clock shadow was turning into a horrible beard, lines on the side of my mouth gave me a permanent scowl, dark circles and bags made gave a haunted look. I tried to remember the last time I took a shower or brushed my teeth.
Too busy feeling sorry for yourself instead of thinking what Jillian must be dealing with.
The thought was like a sledgehammer to my heart. I wasn’t worthy. Of Jillian, of Karen, of the people who needed me.
I was one selfish bastard. That shit was ending today.
Chapter Thirty Six
The razor slid across my skin. I’d brushed and flossed, slightly grossed out by the four times it’d taken to get my teeth pearly white. Once done shaving, I was taking a shower. For the first time in months, I could smell myself.
As I took more stubble off, I thought of Jillian. Three long months, and she wasn’t combat prepared. She’d been thrown into the fire, and I’d let her burn, thinking only of myself.
The thought choked the breath out of me, and I leaned on the sink, counting to ten. The anxiety pushed higher, and I wobbled. Falling backwards, I crashed into the wall, sliding down. The world squeezed to the size of a pin, taking my air with it. Thoughts tangled and blurred, none clear enough to concentrate on. Blinking, I tried to focus, and fought the nausea.
“What is happening to me?” I whispered. I knew, and didn’t need an answer.
Swallowing past the chokehold, I counted to ten repeatedly, thinking only of seeing the numbers. Not the fear Jillian may be dead, and I would never know. Or the terror she was likely dealing with, and only Fozzy to keep her company.
Get up, damn you, get up!
I crawled to the sink, using it to pull myself up. Every muscle shook, thoughts chaotic.
I’d found my Achilles’ heel.
*
The anxiety attack left me exhausted. I was fairly sure part of it could be attributed to the lack of eating, having live
d on an alcohol diet for so long. I slumped on the couch, gathering strength. I had to find Jillian, and decide what to do next. It was obvious she wasn’t coming back.
Forcing myself to stand, I careened to the office, feeling like a pinball game. The office chair, worn down in the seat by several Middleston butts, was close to the door. I sat and rolled to the desk. Opening the bottom drawer, I pulled out the false bottom, grabbing the small box with the old brass key and Dad’s letter.
The stacks of paperwork I’d sifted through offered a tantalizing possibility.
I lost reality to the last journal, the final story of Corrine and Alistair.
My great-great-grandmother was a pistol, and smart. I found the marriage certificate, she’d been forced to marry Ralph Smythe, and divorce wasn’t obtainable for most women. She’d done what she had to, and in the last pages of the journal, Corrine told the whole story.
*
I bought a Jeep Cherokee, and headed home. I spent the better part of the day packing only my favorite things, which turned into two duffel bags and one heavy suitcase.
I contemplated the four bedroom Victorian house built by Alistair and Corrine, the history of the Middlestons’ in two floors of wood, glass, and paint. I’d left all the papers, journals, and research in the office.
The front porch I’d spent countless hours rocking in the old chairs, talking to Dad and Jillian. The windows brought so carefully across the country a century before. The woodwork done by hand when my ancestors found the time. The love and secrets held tight in the foundations. The sacrifice of my great-great-grandparents to build a life in the wilds of Montana, and leave a legacy to their descendants. My dream of one day reviving the ranch, and raising children on the land I’d been born. The barn rebuilt to house good ranch horses.
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