Word of Honor

by Terri Blackstock

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll give it to you as a trade. I’ll give you what I know, but you have to repay the favor.”

  Stan didn’t commit. “What did he tell you, Jill?”

  Jill knew Stan well enough to know that he would help her whether he committed to or not. “He has some kind of covenant agreement with this person, and out of some sense of honor, he won’t give a name. But I gathered that the guy is someone who served with him in Vietnam. He has a Purple Heart and a Congressional Medal of Honor, so it couldn’t be too hard to narrow him down. He apparently was wounded saving Jerry’s life. Brain damage. Jerry feels real conflicted about betraying him because of that.”

  Stan leaned back hard in his chair. “Anything else?”

  “No, nothing. I still don’t know how Jerry is involved, but at least you can get a name and maybe a picture, and catch this guy. The FBI could probably get that information in minutes. I want to know when they do.”

  “I can’t promise you that, Jill. A lot is out of my control here.”

  “Stan, my life is in danger. I want to know this guy if I run into him. And Pete Hampton’s life could be in danger, too.”

  A deep frown furrowed Stan’s brow. “Jill, do you have good reason for thinking that?”

  “It’s just common sense, Stan. If he thinks that little boy is a witness, then he’ll come after him, just like he came after me, and just like he came after Debbie Ingalls.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Find him, Stan. Lock him up.”

  Stan got up. “Wait here. I’ll go get the agents on this. Maybe they’ll prove competent, after all.”

  Jill waited, fidgeting all the while and watching the front door as Stan, Sid, and the FBI agents made phone calls and pounded on their computers. Every time someone walked into the station, she eyed them with suspicion, wondering if they were the right age to be a Vietnam vet. Anyone could walk in and hang around without being noticed. There were people everywhere: cops and perpetrators and people filing complaints.

  After ten minutes, Stan came back to his desk. “We’re still working on it, Jill, but we did just get a list of the men in Jerry’s unit. A lot of them were killed in action.” He handed her the printout. “That’s all I have so far.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  As Stan crossed the room and returned to the FBI agents working near the chief’s office, she took a pen from his desk and crossed off the names with the word deceased beside them, and saw that there were only five left. Jerry Ingalls, Jack Canady, Frank Harper, Michael Mills, Cliff Bertrand…

  Her breath caught in her throat. Cliff Bertrand, the postmaster, had been in Jerry’s unit? She got up and looked for Stan. He was standing beside an agent as he was talking on the phone and punching a computer keyboard. She almost tripped over a chair as she made her way to him.

  “Stan, did you see this list?” she asked. “Cliff Bertrand—”

  “Yeah, Jill, we saw it. There’s gotta be a connection here. We’re working on it right now.”

  “Do you think he targeted the post office because of this connection?”

  “Could be.”

  Jill realized she wasn’t going to get very far with Stan in front of the agents, so she went back to his desk. She crossed through Cliff’s name, and Jerry Ingalls’s name, and studied the three remaining names. Jack Canady, Frank Harper, Michael Mills…

  She knew better than to use the police computer, so she got out her laptop and plugged in her modem, got on the Internet, and began searching the databases she had at her disposal, for information about which one of these men had won a Congressional Medal of Honor. When she wasn’t able to find it, she tried keying in all three names and searching for a phone number. Jack Canady’s name came up, and she saw that he lived in Vermont. She picked up the phone and dialed it. An operator’s voice came on and said that the phone had been disconnected.

  Not one to give up easily, she did a search on the next person on her list, but found nothing. She was typing in the third name when two hands fell on her shoulders.

  She jumped and knocked over a glass of water. Grabbing a tissue to mop it up, she glanced back and saw that it was Dan.

  “Jill, why are you here?” he demanded.

  The question seemed unreasonable. “What?”

  “Did you come here to talk to Jerry Ingalls again?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And he gave me some leads, Dan.”

  “Jill, he’s dangerous. And it’s dangerous for you to be here. Do you realize anybody can walk into this place?”

  Though she’d already considered that, she acted as if she hadn’t. “It’s the police station, Dan. Where could I be safer?”

  “Probably anywhere but here. These cops aren’t worth the tin their little toy badges are made from if somebody starts shooting or leaves a bomb. You’ve got to get out of here, Jill. Have you forgotten how crazy this guy is?”

  “What did you do, anyway? Just drive by to check on me?”

  “No. We were coming back from a call and I happened to see your car out front.”

  “Dan, the FBI agents are this close to finding the guy’s name, and probably a picture of him. I’m staying until I see it.” She glanced at his arm. “What were you doing out on a call, anyway? You’re not supposed to be working.”

  “I just heard it on the scanner, so I went. I didn’t do anything much.” Dan looked at his watch. “I have a doctor’s appointment later today. I’m hoping to get my medical release so I can go back to work.”

  “Dan, you’re not ready.”

  “Sure, I am. The shoulder’s feeling fine. Now, if you insist on staying here,” he said, setting his foot in a chair and leaning on his knee, “then I’ll just have to stay here with you.”

  She struggled not to grin. “Fine. If you think you’re a better guard than a couple dozen cops, you can guard me.”

  Dan pointed to the sergeant whose desk was beside the front door. Technically, no one should get in without going through him. But the paunch-laden officer was reading a magazine. “Look at that guy,” he said. “Sitting down on the job, reading a magazine. You tell me how he’s gonna protect you if that killer bolts in? What’s he gonna do? Beat him with a copy of TV Guide?”

  “He’s got a gun.”

  “He’s not gonna have time to use it, Jill. This guy is too good.”

  “Dan, I’m not leaving here until I know something, and that’s that.” She went back to her computer, torn between anger and the mildly pleasant feeling of having someone care about her.

  “All right,” he said. “Then I’ll just sit right here with you.” She didn’t argue, but got back on the Internet. She found the number of the third guy on the list, and dialed it. A machine picked up.

  She moaned as a man’s voice told her he wasn’t home but that he’d get back to her as soon as he could. She thought of leaving a message, but something told her not to. If this was the man who had blown up the post office, and run her off the road, and tried to blow up Debbie Ingalls’s house, she sure didn’t want him to know she was checking up on him.

  She hung up the phone and moaned.

  “Who are you calling?” Dan asked.

  She looked up at him. “I’m trying to get in touch with someone from Jerry Ingalls’s unit in Vietnam. The killer won a Congressional Medal of Honor. I have three names, I just don’t know how to find out which one it is. I thought if I talked to one of them…”

  “No way,” Dan said. “You can’t just call them up. What if word gets back to him that you’re close?”

  “It could,” she said. “You’re right.” She studied the list again. “Dan, I found out that Cliff Bertrand was in their unit.”

  He frowned. “Cliff was in the army?”

  “Yep. I don’t think it was a coincidence that it was his post office that was targeted, do you?”

  “No.” He thought for a moment, then began to look at the screen over her shoulder. “The
re’s gotta be an easy way to find out about a Congressional Medal of Honor.”

  She looked behind her at the group of agents and cops around the computers near the chief’s office. “I’ll bet Stan knows by now, and he’s not telling me.”

  “Stan? I’ll get it out of him.”

  Jill realized that he might have more clout with Stan, as a comember of Protective Services. He got up and headed toward the activity, but Jill couldn’t stay back. She hurried to catch up with him.

  “Stan, have you got the name of the killer yet?” he asked point-blank as he reached the police detective.

  Stan shot them a look that said he couldn’t talk in front of the agents. But thankfully, one of them turned around and addressed Jill. “So Ingalls told you the guy had brain damage? Did he say anything about any physical abnormalities?”

  Jill shook her head. “No. What kind of abnormality?”

  “Missing fingers,” the agent said, turning back to his screen as a list scrolled across it.

  “No, he didn’t say anything about that.”

  “The kid did,” the agent said. He sat straighter. “Here we go. Guys, we have a match.”

  “Which name?” Stan asked.

  “Frank Harper.” He typed in a few more things, then looked up at the other agents. “We’ve got to track down a picture of this guy and get it to the television stations immediately, along with an 800 number so people who’ve seen him can call.”

  Jill’s heart threatened to pound right through her chest. She had known the killer was out there before, but somehow, knowing his name and his history made it all the more urgent.

  “One problem,” the agent said, typing frantically on the keyboard. “He’s been in the psychiatric ward of a Veterans Administration Hospital in Jackson, Mississippi, for twenty-five years. If he’s there, how could he have done the bombing?”

  Stan jerked up a telephone and got the number of the VA hospital in Jackson.

  “No wonder Jerry is so loyal to him,” Jill said softly. “I guess you’d feel pretty loyal to a guy who saved your life and wound up in a mental hospital for the rest of his life.”

  Stan routed his call to the administrator and identified himself as a police officer in Newpointe, Louisiana. “I’m looking for information on a patient of yours. Frank Harper. Could you tell me if he’s still a patient there?”

  Stan listened, frowning. “What do you mean, technically? You’re kidding. Disappeared how?”

  Jill looked at Dan. They had their man.

  “Then you do consider him violent. Do the police you reported this to have any information on where he’s been? Can you tell me who I can get in touch with about that?” He bent over and began to write the name of a Jackson police officer. He stood back up. “Could you tell me the nature of his illness?”

  He took a few more notes. “How did this happen?”

  More notes.

  “Could you tell me…does he have all of his fingers?” He glanced at the agent who was looking up at him, listening, and shook his head that he didn’t.

  “I appreciate your help. Yes, please do. And I’ll get in touch with the Jackson PD. Thank you.” He hung up and looked down at the federal agents who were staring up at him, then at Dan and Jill. “He escaped a couple of weeks ago. Overcame an aid and got away. Apparently stole about a hundred dollars from a petty cash drawer in one of the offices. He’s there because of a brain injury sustained in Vietnam after he saved some of his buddies. A mine went off. Somehow it blew some of his fingers, and he hasn’t been right in the head since. He’s normally heavily medicated with antipsychotics and antidepressants, but of course, he hasn’t taken them since he broke out.”

  One of the agents grabbed up a phone and Stan’s notes. “This the number of the PD in Jackson?”

  “Yeah,” Stan said. “They’ve managed to trace him to a few places, but haven’t caught up with him yet.”

  “I got a picture!” one of the other agents said, turning his monitor so that they could see. “This one was of their unit in Vietnam, but it’s really old. Here’s one from the hospital a couple of years ago.”

  Jill went to the screen and stared down at it. She had never seen that face before. His hair was scraggly and long and peppered with gray, and his eyes looked drugged and vacant. He wore a beard which needed a trim. If he’d shaven or cut his hair, he could look totally different. But the fingers were unmistakable. He couldn’t disguise those easily.

  “You know this man?” the agent asked her.

  “No,” she said. “So this is the one who tried to kill me?”

  The agent didn’t answer. He was printing the photographs out and calling a television station.

  Jill felt sick and rushed to the ladies’ room. She threw up in the toilet bowl, then washed her mouth out at the sink. She looked in the mirror. She was white, and dark circles underscored her eyes. What had come over her? Just the sight of the killer had turned her stomach upside down.

  Dan was waiting beside the door when she came out. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. It just…kind of caught me off guard.” She looked up at him. “Dan, I’m going to represent Jerry Ingalls.”

  He looked pained. “Jill, you can’t.”

  “Why not? Now that I know who did it…”

  “Jerry Ingalls could still be involved. There could be a whole group of them.”

  “But I don’t think he is. I think he’s an innocent bystander who feels a debt to this man because of some covenant he made with him once. He needs a lawyer, Dan.”

  “But not you, Jill. It’s not your job.”

  “Then whose is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, his face reddening. “But you’ve gotta know that if you do this, you’ll make this Harper guy even madder than he was before. This may be exactly what he was afraid of. The reason he wanted you dead. He’ll come after you with everything he’s got. He’s mentally ill, Jill. I don’t want you in his path.”

  Jill didn’t especially want to be in his path, either. “Dan, I appreciate your feelings. Really, I do. But I can’t help thinking that God put me in that motel room for a reason, and that he yoked me with the Ingalls family for a reason. Like it or not, he did.”

  “I can’t believe God is telling you to do this.”

  “But you’re not listening objectively.”

  His face softened, and he took her hands and pressed his forehead against hers. “You’re right, kiddo. I’m not.”

  It was as close to an admission of love as he had given her, and warmth flowed through her. It was almost enough to make her back down. But not quite. “Will you trust me on this? Will you not go berzerko if I follow my gut on this?”

  He closed his eyes. “All right, Jill. Go tell Stan that you’re going to represent him. But I can’t promise that I’ll let you out of my sight until Frank Harper is caught.”

  “Come on, Dan. Your job is much more dangerous than mine, and I can’t make you stay away, even with a torn shoulder. You walk into fires, into caving buildings, deal with explosions…”

  A slow grin crept over his face, conceding defeat. “Okay, you win. I’ll try to quit hovering.”

  She shook her head and pressed a kiss on his lips. “Don’t do that. I kind of like it.”

  Holding hands, they went to tell Stan.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Issie Mattreaux knocked on the door to Ray Ford’s office, which was attached by a breezeway to the Midtown Fire Station. Ray yelled, “Come in,” so she pushed through the door.

  “What’s up, Issie?” he asked, only glancing up for a moment before going back to his paperwork.

  She sat down on the old couch facing his desk. Her uniform had a stain on the leg from an IV bag that had sprung a leak earlier, and brown streaks of iodine stained the front of her shirt. “I was…just wondering if you’d had the chance to find Pete Hampton’s dad.”

  Ray set his pen down and leaned back hard in his chair. “I’ve made a few
calls. Talked to his sister, who I remembered lived over in Baton Rouge. She was pretty shook up when she heard about Mary. I think if she knows where he is, she’ll find him.”

  Issie looked down at her hands. “So you think he would return your call?”

  “He might,” Ray said. “I knew him okay when he lived here. He went to my church. I guess you could say we were friends. ’Course, he kind of kissed all his friends good-bye when he hauled off and left his wife. I don’t know what in the world gets into some people.”

  Issie contemplated that for a moment. There had been a time when she had been among the “some people” he spoke of. The things that had thrilled her before seemed suddenly too heavy to carry.

  “Maybe I’ll try her again today,” Ray said. “She’s probably been thinkin’ things over. She’s a decent person, I think. Maybe she’s come up with some ideas where he might be.”

  “Too bad you can’t go over to the police station and get some of the feds to find him.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Maybe I could get Stan to do it. Thing is, he’s been so busy with the bombin’ and findin’ the dude who almost killed Dan and Jill, that he ain’t had time to think.”

  “But he has a vested interest,” Issie said. “Celia’s at that hospital night and day. If he found the dad, maybe she could come back home and take care of herself.”

  “Good point,” Ray said. “I’ll call him.”

  She slapped her knees and got up. “Well, I just wanted to check. Poor kid’s been on my mind a lot.” Her lips trembled as she got those words out, and Ray regarded her with thoughtful eyes.

  “Issie, do you need to talk to a counselor? That bombin’ was pretty heavy, and you ain’t the only one havin’ some problems. I’ve had some others come in here real shook up, and they’re bigger and tougher than you.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  “I hear you been spendin’ a lot of time at Joe’s Place.”

  She grinned. “I always spend a lot of time at Joe’s Place.”

  “Yeah, but you ain’t been puttin’ ’em away like you been doin’.”