by Sandra Brown
“Eight months ago.”
He didn’t voice regret, but she saw it in his expression.
“It was a blessing,” she said. “He had suffered for a long time and had no quality of life.”
Trapper settled his gaze on her, a question in it.
“Shall I back up and start at the beginning?” she asked.
“The day of the bombing?”
“Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to continue making snide editorial comments?”
“I’ll ration them.” When she gave him a reproving look, he added softly, “I’m kidding.”
“You’re so good at sarcasm, it’s hard to tell.”
“I want to hear your story.”
She took a deep breath and began. “It was a couple of weeks past my fifth birthday. We lived in Kansas City. Daddy had to be in Dallas for a business seminar. Mom and I came along so they could take me to Six Flags as a belated birthday present.
“Staying in the hotel was an adventure in itself. I’d never had room service before. Mom let me order our breakfast. After we’d eaten, we all rode down the elevator together. Daddy kissed us goodbye and got off on the mezzanine level for his meeting. Mom had planned a shopping trip for the two of us. She and I got off on the ground floor. I was skipping across the lobby toward the entrance when the bombs went off. The doorman was smiling at me, about to say something. I saw him just…disappear.”
Trapper turned his head away and looked through the windshield as he ran his hand over his mouth and chin. “Ten-forty-two. The first of them, ten-forty-two thirty-three to be exact.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because every ATF agent studies the Pegasus Hotel bombing. It’s textbook. All together there were six bombs, set to detonate simultaneously, but they staggered by several seconds.”
“It was like one huge blast to me.”
“What do you remember most clearly?”
“The fear. I couldn’t hear anything. I was unable to see for the smoke and dust. I couldn’t breathe without choking. I was screaming for my mother but couldn’t find her. Things were falling all around me. Crashing. I was too young to be afraid of death. The terror of being lost is my most vivid memory.”
“For a kid, that makes sense.”
“My mother was alive when firemen found her, but her chest had been crushed. She had extensive internal injuries and died in the hospital within an hour. My father survived, but his head and spinal injuries were so severe, he was paralyzed from the neck down. He lived hooked up to a respirator in a permanent care facility for the rest of his life.”
“Jesus.” Trapper looked away again before coming back to her. “None of the casualties were named Bailey.”
“Elizabeth and James Cunningham.”
“So how’d you wind up with a different name?”
“My injuries were comparatively minor, but I spent two nights in the hospital. Daddy was in ICU and on life support, so I was released from the hospital into the care of my aunt, my mother’s sister, and her husband, who’d been notified as next of kin and had flown to Dallas immediately.
“I’ve been told that there was a frenzy, especially among the press, to identify the little girl in the photo, which had already been reproduced by every news agency in the world.
“My aunt and uncle foresaw additional trauma for me if my identity became known, so they insisted to the hospital staff and the authorities that my name not be released. They wanted to protect me from the onslaught of media attention that The Major, you, and your mother were already being subjected to.
“My aunt whisked me off to Virginia, where they lived. For months after, my uncle commuted back and forth, overseeing Daddy’s care here in Dallas until he could be relocated to a place near their home.
“My uncle settled my family’s affairs in Kansas City, sold everything to help offset the expense of Daddy’s care. There was a memorial service held for my mother, but Daddy wasn’t well enough to attend. Because of his infirmity, and predictably short life span, he urged my aunt and uncle to legally adopt me and change my name to theirs. They had no other children. They reared me as their own.”
“What was going on inside your head?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you messed up by all the upheaval?”
“I was too young to fully grasp the magnitude of the tragedy. All I knew was that we’d been through something terrible. Mommy had gone to heaven and Daddy was very sick, and we didn’t live in our house any more. In Kansas I’d had a pet parakeet. I never knew what became of it. I missed my swing set until my uncle installed one for me in their backyard.
“Basically, I was a happy, normal child. But whenever I was taken to visit Daddy, he would sob inconsolably. Nothing unsettles a child more than seeing an adult cry. That was the worst of it. And the nightmares.”
“You had nightmares?”
“Yes. They subsided over time, but early on they were horrible, harsh reminders of the bombing, although I didn’t know to attach that word to it. I dreamed about smoke and choking and seeing blood. My mother was there, saying my name over and over. I would wake up screaming, telling my aunt and uncle that they were wrong, that she hadn’t died. She was alive. I could see her, hear her, feel her reaching for me and tightly squeezing my hand until…”
Trapper remained silent and still.
She swallowed. “Until her hand let go of mine. She used it to wave at a man running past us. She was crying, yelling at him to stop. Please. Help. He stopped and picked me up.”
“The Major.”
“I remember being hysterical. Fighting him. Trying to get back to my mother. I remember him clutching me against his chest and telling me that everything would be all right.”
“That was a lie, though, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but he lied out of kindness.”
Trapper didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked her when she had put two and two together. “When did you realize that your nightmare was actually a memory of the ‘something terrible’?”
“Not for years.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“I can tell you don’t believe that, but it’s true. No one around me ever referenced the bombing. I was a child. I watched Sesame Street, not 60 Minutes. The Oklahoma City bombing came a few years later, and I remember the grown-ups in my life being terribly upset, but it was irrelevant to me.”
“You never matched the date of the Pegasus bombing with the day your mother died?”
“That’s precisely how I eventually became aware. I was in middle school, about twelve or thirteen. On an anniversary of the bombing, one of my teachers mentioned it. When I got home from school, my aunt was sitting in the living room, looking at a picture of herself and my mother together. I asked her why she was crying. ‘I always get sad on this date,’ she said. ‘It’s the day your mother died.’ Suddenly it clicked. I realized why I had such vivid nightmares of smoke and fire, of my mother letting go of me and being carried away from her.
“My aunt and uncle were reluctant to confirm it. Justifiably, as it turned out, because once I knew, I became obsessed with the bombing. I wanted to learn everything about it. I read all the books, watched all the films and interviews with survivors. I’d seen that famous photo, of course, but I’d never paid much attention to it, because, again, it had no relevance to me.
“But when my aunt pointed me out, I saw not only myself, but also the face of the man who’d saved me. The Major became real when, up to that point, he was only the stranger in my dreams who’d responded to my mother’s dying plea.”
“Why didn’t you blurt it to the world then?”
“My aunt impressed upon me what an awful ordeal it would be for my dad. The Major had stepped into the role of hero naturally, as though born to it. But my dad was a soft-spoken, self-effacing man. Given his circumstances and frailty, it would have been cruel to thrust him into
the spotlight. I swore to my aunt, and to myself, that I wouldn’t go public with it as long as Daddy was alive. I upheld that promise.”
“For what? Thirteen years?”
“Roughly. During that time, I went on with my life, a happy, healthy, normal girl. I finished school, entered adulthood, pursued my career.”
“You were preparing for the day.”
“You make it sound more calculated than it was, Trapper. Unfairly. I didn’t want my dad to die. But he did. And yes, by then I had press credentials and an excellent forum. I began reaching out to The Major.”
He ruminated on all that, then said, “The name ‘Bailey’ wouldn’t have meant anything to him. You never told him who you were or why you wanted to interview him?”
“He never gave me a chance to speak more than a few words before hanging up.”
“You could have sent him an email. A letter.”
“I wanted to introduce myself in person. Besides, how many correspondences has he received over time from women claiming to be the rescued little girl?”
“Good point.”
“He would have thought I was just another opportunist.” She held up her hand palm out. “Don’t say it.”
“I won’t. Too easy.” The comeback had been as quick as all his were, but his dark brows were furrowed and there was no humor in his expression. “How many people know that you’re that girl?”
“My aunt and uncle and me. You make four.”
“If you go through with this, everybody will know.”
“Oh, I’ll go through with it, Trapper. With or without your help, I’ll find a way to make it happen.”
He swore under his breath and looked out the windshield again. He could have read the tow warning sign a hundred times during the amount of time he stared at it. She didn’t break his concentration.
When at last he turned back to her, he said, “You’ll have to do it without me.”
“Trapper—”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not giving up until I have a face-to-face with The Major.”
“Up to you if you want to try, but I’m having no part of it.” He slid on his sunglasses and started the car’s engine. “I hope you take rejection well. The Major won’t let you get your foot in the door before running you off. Have a nice life, Kerra.”
She had thought that hearing about the bombing from the viewpoint of a five-year-old survivor would have softened him. There had been a few moments when she felt that she’d struck a human chord, snagged a sensitive thread in his caustic soul, but apparently not.
He wasn’t even angry and edgy as he’d been last night. He was cool and indifferent. Further argument would only provide him more opportunities to be ornery and insulting, and she’d be damned before giving him that satisfaction.
“I wish I could say that it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Trapper. But all you’ve been is crude, rude, and a waste of precious time. Thanks for nothing.” She yanked the handle of the car door and pushed it open.
“One thing, though,” he said.
She turned back. “What?”
“If I had it to do over, I’d kiss you like you wanted me to.”
“Go to hell.” She slammed the car door, crossed the street, and didn’t look back.
She stormed through the entrance of her building and made a beeline for the resident concierge. The smiling young woman asked how she could be of service.
Kerra requested that her car be brought from the garage. “An hour from now.”
“What’d you get?”
“What happened to ‘Hello, how are you? I’m sorry for butting in on your honeymoon.’”
“I’m not in the best of moods, Carson, so cut the crap.”
Trapper had watched Kerra jog across the street and disappear through the glassy entrance of her apartment building. He then drove away, but only covered a couple of blocks before pulling into an empty loading zone and punching in his friend’s number.
Last night the favor he’d asked of Carson was to use every available resource to run a background check on Kerra Bailey.
“I didn’t get anything you couldn’t have gotten on your own,” Carson complained.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Like I haven’t?”
“And I have to go through legal channels to get information.”
“If you start nitpicking, then—”
“I repeat. What did you get?”
“I emailed it all about thirty minutes ago.”
“Thanks, but I’m driving,” Trapper lied. “Can you give me the bullet points?”
Carson huffed in exasperation but began. “When she was five years old, she was adopted by her aunt and uncle.”
“Do you know what happened to her real parents?”
“Court records of the adoption were sealed.”
The aunt and uncle truly had protected her identity and history. “Okay.”
“Grew up middle class. Apple pie Americana. No scandal. Straight and narrow and boring, if you want to know the truth.”
“Okay.”
“She attended junior college in her home town in Virginia before transferring to Columbia.”
“South Carolina?”
“No, Columbia University in New York. Graduated with a BA in journalism. She hopped around to various and sundry TV stations, never staying long at one before moving on, always to a larger market, till she landed this gig in Dallas early last year. Local network affiliate. She gets a lot of face time. Network uses her for regional stories that go national. There’s a bunch of her stuff on YouTube.”
Trapper didn’t admit to having watched hours of it.
“I have her car tag and driver’s license numbers.”
“If they’re in the email, I don’t need them now.”
Carson rumbled on. “She lives in downtown Dallas, one of those glassy condo buildings near Victory Park.”
Trapper didn’t tell Carson he’d just been there, but he did ask, “Alone?”
“The condo’s in her name, and that’s the only name on the mailbox. I made up some gobbledygook and talked to the concierge of her building. No roommate since she’s lived there. Let’s see…what else? Oh, she was arrested once in Seattle.”
“What for?”
“Protest march. There were numerous arrests. At her arraignment, she pled guilty, paid the fine.”
“What was she protesting?”
“A colleague was jailed for contempt of court because he wouldn’t reveal a source. She was guilty of passion for her profession and First Amendment rights, and that’s as sinister as she gets, Trapper.
“She’s square with the IRS. No debt other than her mortgage. Pays her bills on time. She’s ambitious. She’s got the goods. I gather an interview with The Major would be a real plum. End of story.”
Like hell it is, Trapper thought. “Anything else?”
“Nothing noteworthy. Bits and pieces. You want details, they’re in the email.”
“Thanks, Carson.”
“Can I get back to honeymooning now?”
“Just one more request.”
Carson groaned.
Trapper said, “Do this and then you can screw yourself blind.”
Chapter 4
Kerra brought her car to a stop within a few feet of the black SUV parked crosswise in the drive that led up to Major Franklin Trapper’s house. She left the motor running as she got out and cautiously approached the driver’s side of the truck.
Trapper, watching her through the side mirror, saw in her face the instant she recognized him as the person in the driver’s seat. She marched the rest of the way, and when she came even with the door, knocked hard on the window.
He lowered it. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Testing you, to see if you meant it when you said you’d do this with or without my help. I didn’t think you’d be that foolish, but since it appears that you are…” He hitched his head back toward her car.
“Follow me.”
She hesitated as though trying to decide whether to kill him, yell at him, or take advantage of his being here. She went with option three. She turned and stalked back to her car.
He waited until she was once again behind the wheel before dropping the SUV into forward gear and starting up the gravel drive.
The Major’s ranch house sat on a rise surrounded by a grove of trees now bare of leaves except for the conifers. Constructed of limestone and timber, the house was one story with a steeply pitched roof. Square columns supported the overhang above the deep porch that ran the width of the house.
Trapper brought the SUV to a stop a short distance from the front steps and looked at each tall window along the porch. He was certain The Major was watching their approach through one of them, but he couldn’t see him because of the glare.
Kerra joined him as he alighted from the SUV. “Whose truck is this?”
“I borrowed it from a buddy.” Carson had come through on the second favor, setting Trapper up with a garage and body shop that would loan him a vehicle while his car was being repaired. Mounted on a monstrous set of off-road tires, the truck was tricked out with all the bells and whistles.
Kerra was gawking with appreciation at The Major’s house and surrounding landscape. “Would you look at this?” she murmured.
“I’ve seen it. You ready?”
She tilted her head back and used her hand to shade her eyes against the western sun. “It pains me to say it, Trapper, but I’m glad you’re with me. I’ve suddenly got stage fright. Thank you for coming.”
“Don’t thank me yet. He could still sic a pack of dogs on us.”
“He has a pack of dogs?”
He smiled grimly. “I have no idea.”
“When were you last here?”
“Few years.”
“What’s the quarrel between you?”
“You want to interview him or me?”
She shook her head in frustration and started up the steps ahead of him. Before she could knock on the front door it was pulled open, and there stood The Major.