Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  Streeter turned around and took her hand in his and patted it clumsily. “Apology accepted, but really it’s not necessary. I just want you to realize that I have had a most enjoyable time with you. Maybe we can see each other again sometime—maybe the next time I’m in DC. You’ll make one hell of an agent for CID. They’ll be lucky to have you.”

  Streeter knew Liv was one of the most open and honest people he had ever met, but he hadn’t anticipated the question that followed. He had expected anger, tears, apathy, something other than how she responded.

  Almost childlike, she asked sincerely, “What did you mean when you said you never wanted to let me go?”

  He swallowed hard. He turned away from her and started for the door. “Just a term of endearment. A line. What can I say?”

  “Oh,” she choked.

  Seeing her from the corner of his eye, he knew his plan had worked. He had devastated her, and he’d hated doing it.

  He reminded himself that it was for her own safety. But he couldn’t take one more minute of this. “Look, I have to run. Everything’s okay here, isn’t it? We can still be friends?”

  He saw her nodding slowly, her arms limp at her sides.

  It took everything he had to keep walking away, not to turn back, to tell her it was all a lie. To protect her.

  He made two quick phone calls on her behalf: one to Phil Kelleher and a second to the man he knew would die protecting her.

  He made it out to his car, climbed in, and laid his head on the steering wheel.

  I WEPT.

  I tried to cry as quietly as I could into my hospital pillow. I didn’t want a nurse or the officer by my door rushing in to comfort me.

  I was hurting. But I didn’t need medical care or protection.

  Just all the king’s horses and men to put my heart back together again. It had suffered greatly.

  It felt like an old wound that had barely healed had been ripped back open. One of Cupid’s jagged arrows was poking around inside again. Only this time it was deeper. Not closer to, but in my heart.

  What is happening to me? When did I become so vulnerable?

  For most of my life, I’d had complete control over my emotions and had never once been accused of flightiness or superficiality. And it wasn’t like I’d ever allowed myself the luxury of grasping for attention, school-girl crushes, or human contact through one-night stands.

  It just wasn’t me.

  So what was I thinking this past week? Have I lost my frigging mind? Who have I become, wallowing around in this ocean of pain and sorrow?

  I had convinced myself that what Streeter and I had for the past several days was powerful and meaningful—much more for me than for him, clearly. I was normally such a great judge of character. I never once considered Streeter to be an opportunist or casual about anything relating to the human heart.

  Was I blind with grief? How did I let this happen?

  Then I realized I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to properly assess this new information. Streeter’s blow had left me too wounded not to be blinded by my pain.

  Deal with all this later, I told myself. Much later.

  I closed my eyes. I focused on the timing of monitored beats to slow the tempo of inhales and exhales. I controlled my breathing. I lay still and replayed his words over and over—stunned, for what seemed like hours. Until Phil Kelleher arrived.

  His voice scattered my thoughts. Deep, even, monotone. “I was instructed to give you a ride to your apartment after the doctor releases you. Then, I’m to escort you to Fort Collins for the evening.”

  I swiped at my face with the back of my free hand as if I’d been sleeping, making it appear that my tear-stained cheeks blossomed red from slumber rather than sorrow.

  “Thanks. I must have dozed off. I’m still waiting for my doctor to come by during her early rounds.”

  I scooted up in my bed and grimaced from the pain.

  He must have noticed. “You okay? Need help?”

  I tenderly touched my forehead. “I’m okay. Actually, there’s something you can do. Would you mind stepping out for a minute while I get dressed?”

  His left eyebrow arched.

  He nodded once and left my room, closing the door behind him.

  I scooted to the edge of the bed, careful not to tangle the IV tubes. I lifted the nearly empty saline solution bag off the hook and squeezed it like a sausage through the sleeve of my blouse and hung it back on the rack. I slid on my pants, socks, and shoes, straightened the covers of my bed, and sat in the recliner next to the window.

  Within seconds of finishing, the door swung open without a knock. The doctor’s expression seemed even less amused than yesterday afternoon. Apparently, she wasn’t happy with whatever Phil had told her, because she burst into the room with an expression so sour it was as if someone had squeezed a lemon on her chapped ass.

  “Most impatient patient I’ve ever had,” the doctor scolded. “I said I’d consider your release today. I didn’t promise.”

  “I have to get back to work, Doc,” I said.

  “You don’t have to do anything except rest and heal. You’re not taking this seriously.” She lifted the stethoscope to my heart and listened. I remained quiet until she pulled away.

  “I am taking this seriously. I take everything seriously.” I couldn’t help cutting a glance Phil’s way, soliciting some support for my claims.

  He didn’t offer anything.

  She went about her assessment without another word. She checked my vitals, my eyes, my reflexes, and read the charts and notes from overnight. She removed the bandage and examined my stitches and then instructed the nurse to replace the dressing.

  Before she was done, I explained, “I’ll do whatever you ask. You can trust me.” She caught my glance. “I just can’t take one more minute in here. Please. Too much time to think.”

  She hesitated and seemed to consider my request. She clearly knew about Jack and about the sabbatical the bureau had forced me to take.

  She finished bandaging, wrote some notes on my chart, and handed the clipboard to the assisting nurse. She sighed. “Alright, Agent Bergen. You win. I’ll release you but only to the care of Agent Kelleher for the next twenty-four hours.”

  I smiled, and he drew in a deep breath, as if the responsibility for me was the weightiest he’d ever carried. I rolled my eyes.

  “But that means every minute during the next twenty-four hours. You understand?”

  I nodded.

  “No exceptions. No excuses. No cajoling, convincing, or arguing.” She turned from me to Phil. “Don’t listen to any of her BS. She is not well enough, and her body doesn’t know better than I do as her doctor. Keep her movements to a minimum. She needs lots of rest and quiet activities.”

  “You do know she’s—”

  I cut Phil off. “That I’m going straight home from here. That’s where Phil is taking me.”

  “Good.” The doctor eyed me suspiciously and exchanged looks with me and Phil. “Then you are officially free to go home. The nurse will complete your discharge papers, and she’ll have you on your way.”

  My grin widened.

  “Not so fast. The nurse will go through your ‘At Home Care’ information that you will both need to sign.” The doctor stared at me and then at Phil.

  He sighed again, audibly pained. “A moonbeam in my hand.”

  That earned a slight smile from the doc. “Agreed. But you’re up to the challenge.”

  We were headed toward the bank of elevators in no time. No way would I admit how dizzy I was. And how much my head pounded with every step I took.

  Phil took me straight home from St. Joe’s Hospital and refused to wait for me in the car. I had not only wanted to shower in privacy but also to call my sister to cry on her shoulder for a minute and get her advice about how to fix the mess I’d obviously created with Streeter. But Phil remained close on my heels like my shadow, waiting for me in the living room while I showered and packed in
the rooms nearby.

  Beulah was nowhere to be seen. And neither were her lead or harness. Streeter had told me he’d take care of her, and he had.

  Within minutes I was packed, and we were on the road headed to Fort Collins.

  On the long drive north, I tried to remain focused on the case—on Dick Roth and the plan for tomorrow; not on Streeter. Only once did I press Phil for some answers.

  “What happened? To Streeter’s wife twenty years ago?”

  I noticed his lips purse and his fingers tighten on the wheel.

  After he said nothing for many moments, I asked, “Why is it such a secret?”

  “It’s not a secret. It’s a mystery. Only Streeter knows the real story. He’s never talked about it, Liv. And we all must respect that.” He was right, of course. But I didn’t want to hear it.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “His wife was killed. Murdered in their apartment.”

  I waited for a long moment. I thought that I could outlast him. But I couldn’t. “Come on, Phil. A little help here.”

  He said nothing.

  We drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Just as we arrived at the hotel, he added, “And he was devastated.”

  That part, I knew.

  Upon Phil’s insistence, Ole and I were going to eat at the hotel restaurant, which was sad. Fort Collins had so many great places to eat. And I was stuck here. I waited for Ole in the lobby. When he approached the doors, I rushed him, shouting, “Dismas!”

  I hugged my brother for a long time—maybe to avoid his judgment once he had a good look at my face, and maybe because I just needed a hug from home. Maybe because my short jaunt over to him caused some serious warbling of my mind. I really wasn’t well enough to do this. But I had to. For my own sanity.

  Ole was my limestone, the single rock representing our family business. He was just like Dad—a literal chip off the old block. I had found a piece of limestone with a corner still barely attached. I let it fall on its own over time, metaphorically representing that my brother was born of my dad and had eventually separated from him to become his own rock-solid self.

  He pulled away from me. “Genevieve? Are you okay?”

  I glanced back to find Phil. “Ole, I want you to meet Special Agent Phil Kelleher.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” my brother said.

  Phil raised an eyebrow. “I’m not Streeter Pierce.”

  “Aren’t you the agent who stayed with my sister when our employee was murdered in Fort Collins last year? Before she became an agent?”

  My brother was correct. And he had a fabulous memory.

  I noticed Phil smile.

  “Thank you, by the way, for keeping her alive and out of trouble.” Ole shook Phil’s hand. “That’s a huge accomplishment.”

  Phil waved his hands in surrender. “You’re welcome. But I cannot promise you miracles. There isn’t a soul on the planet who could keep this young lady out of trouble.”

  “True,” my brother said. “Want to join us for dinner?”

  Phil declined. “But I will eat at the same time you two dine to keep an eye on her.”

  My brother chuckled.

  “He means keep an eye out for me. Not on me.” I was not liking where this was going.

  Phil said, “Have it your way, Agent Bergen.”

  He swept his arm to allow us to be seated first. Then he selected a table for one out of earshot but close enough to protect me, if needed. I thought it was rather ridiculous. I was safe with Ole. Safe in Fort Collins.

  “Is he here because of that?” Ole asked, pointing to the bandage on my head.

  “Everything’s been blown out of proportion.”

  “Sure. And does Mom know?”

  I shook my head, which only brought stars fluttering into my vision. “But she did send me roses. As a welcome home.”

  “Yellow.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re having a streak of bad luck. Sure you don’t want to come back and work with me?” His eyes shone like cobalt.

  I knew he was deeply concerned about me and offered him a smile.

  We ordered dinner and drinks. I drained a Coors Light and ordered a second. We caught up on work, what was happening at the Livermore Quarry, and the plan for tomorrow morning when Dick Roth arrived. I explained everything we’d need to do and the care we’d take in capturing evidence.

  I thanked him for his help.

  My brother reached across the table and grabbed my hand. He’d never done that before. “Genevieve, listen to me just this once. I am truly sorry about what happened to Jack. And I’m worried about you. Can’t you reconsider? Working for the bureau has proven to be dangerous—even deadly.”

  He’d never talked so seriously to me about anything besides business. His honesty brought out mine. “The truth is I don’t care. About the danger, I mean. Or even the deadly. I love my job. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. And I’m pretty good at what I do.”

  I thought about the ticket to DC.

  I noticed him glance up at my bandage.

  “Most of the time,” I added.

  I almost told him that Streeter had transferred me to CID to be safer. But I didn’t. I hadn’t even begun to wrap my mind around what had happened earlier this morning yet. What Streeter had said to me; what he’d done to me. He bought me a fricking one-way ticket, without even asking my opinion about working for Doonsberg as an intel agent.

  “Be honest. What happened?”

  “A guy was paid to follow me, to confirm my address. But I startled him. He panicked and clocked me on the noggin. That simple.”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  I jerked my chin in Phil’s direction. “And I’ve had round-the-clock police protection ever since. Until we can figure this all out.”

  “I’m just worried that—”

  Suddenly, a flash temporarily blinded me. Ole stopped mid-sentence, stunned by the man who’d rapidly approached our table—a photographer or a journalist.

  Phil was right behind him by only milliseconds. And then he was escorting him away, probably interrogating him, and forcing him to delete the photo.

  My brother across from me appeared stunned.

  “This is about the case where Jack was killed. Apparently, the story has gone a little crazy, viral, since I’ve been gone.”

  “I’ve heard. That’s all the employees could talk about today, last week, the week before that. You’ve become quite the celebrity. Some people have been approached to sell photos of you for lots of money.”

  My mouth hung open.

  “Don’t worry. Not one has sold you out.”

  My heart swelled with pride. Great people. The best coworkers ever. I knew they’d have my back.

  He finished his beer and pushed his plate aside. “I don’t know how you handle all this stress. I couldn’t do it.”

  When we got up to leave, I hugged him again.

  He sighed when he let me go and said, “As hard as it is for the rest of us to stand by and watch, just be you.”

  That was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me.

  NOTHING ANYONE COULD SAY or do would stand in the way of Streeter protecting Liv.

  Not his boss, not his badge, and not his conscience. Not this time.

  He wouldn’t let Coyote Cries get away with this.

  His first order of business was to find out why Vic Webber had hired Julius Chavez to follow Liv and what he had told the beast behind bars. Streeter crouched behind the wheel of his car and stared at the locked office doors of Victor C. Webber, Attorney at Law. The sun was rising and had begun to climb.

  He glanced at his dashboard clock. It was just before nine.

  How late did attorney’s sleep, anyway? Forget banker’s hours.

  If Webber didn’t show in the next few minutes, he’d head for his home in Washington Park. He should have gone there in the first place and surprised him. But he was closer to his office than his house
and had hoped to catch him early at work. Apparently, that was not Webber’s style.

  He drained the last of his cold coffee and reached for the key. Movement in the corner of his eye made him stop. He cut his glance to his right.

  A small black Audi R8 revved into the lot—an expensive vehicle four times pricier than anything Streeter had ever owned.

  Must be Webber, he thought.

  The driver whipped into a space near the door and a long leg, shapely and bare, extended from the sports vehicle. She was wearing gold high heels.

  The buxom redhead adeptly unfolded herself from the car, hands full, bumped the door closed with her hip, and toddled toward the door. She yanked the handle and nearly toppled backward, apparently expecting it to swing open. It didn’t. It seemed to be locked tight.

  Nearly dropping her purse, she slung the strap back over her shoulder and swung her gaze across the virtually empty parking lot, barely noticing Streeter’s car. She frowned, shifted the coffee cup to her other hand, and tried the door again. It was still locked.

  She glanced around, removing her oversized sunglasses for a better look, in case she had missed something. Streeter didn’t budge. Her gaze skipped over his car, quick and dismissive. Apparently she hadn’t noticed it was occupied—by him.

  If Webber could pay his employee enough to buy an Audi R8, Streeter could only imagine what vehicle he drove.

  She hitched a hip and looked pissed. She wasn’t used to being greeted by a locked door. She appeared to be wondering how to handle the situation—one she hadn’t dealt with before—judging by her confused expression.

  The woman was striking, if a bit heavily painted and fluffed. Coffee in one hand, the large purse—one of those expensive brands—in the other, she gawked a third time around the parking lot, looking for her boss. She stared at her coffee, toddled back to her car, and set the cup on the hood. She hefted the purse to her hip, digging in the bag with her free hand. Then she stopped searching, slung the purse over her shoulder, and scratched the side of her head with her long, painted nails.

  Then she rushed to the passenger’s side of the Audi and opened the door. Leaning in, nothing but a well-shaped rump extending from the inside, she surfaced with a set of shiny keys—apparently a set she rarely used but kept in her glove compartment. Leaving the car door open, she hurried toward the office, stabbed the lock with her key, and pulled the door open. Her bosom heaved as if she’d exerted more energy than she was accustomed to.