Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  Taking Bo with him, he went to the motel office, where he purchased the local paper and picked up a free advertising publication. He also asked directions to Richmond, a precaution in the event anyone inquired.

  Another man, dressed in a pair of slacks and sport coat, was in the office. Irish hovered near a coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He was wary of strangers now. And these clothes didn’t fit this particular motel on a hot, sunny morning.

  But eavesdropping did have its advantages. The man apparently was a salesman for a magazine listing local motels and cottage rentals.

  Irish followed him out and caught him at his car. “My … wife and I really like this area,” he said. “Thought we would stay a bit longer, but we would like something on the beach. Something private.”

  “There’s a realtor who handles rental homes on the beach. Some real nice ones.”

  “I was hoping you might know of one where we don’t have to go through a realtor,” Irish said. He winked at the man. “I don’t, I mean we don’t … want anyone to find us.”

  A leer appeared on the man’s face. “You did say your wife?”

  Irish shrugged off the question. “Look, I’ll pay top price if you know of something.”

  “How long?”

  “A week.”

  “I might know of something.” The man’s greedy gaze assessed him. “I’ll have to do some phoning.” He looked down at the dog. “No one much wants dogs.”

  “As you can tell, he’s well-behaved.”

  “Cost you extra.”

  Irish nodded. “I’ll meet you back here in what … an hour?”

  The man nodded. “What room?”

  “I’ll meet you out here.”

  The salesman thrust his hand out. “I’m Jim Woods.”

  Irish took it. The hand was damp and the shake was weak, but that was good. He wanted someone who thought Irish had someone else’s wife and didn’t want any kind of record of it. He would probably be adding a handsome commission of his own, and wouldn’t want whoever owned the property to know it. A devil’s bargain.

  Irish went back into the motel office and poured another cup of coffee for Amy, then returned to the room, a very watchful Bo never moving more than two feet from him.

  Holding the two cups of coffee in one hand, he knocked lightly with the other. The door opened quickly.

  Amy was dressed. Her hair was damp and curling around her face. A touch of lipstick had brought color into her face. Shadows were still under her eyes, though, and she looked drawn and tense.

  She took the coffee, and her gaze met his. “I saw you talking to someone in the parking lot.”

  “A salesman for several publications, including real estate and motels,” he said. “I heard him talking to the manager. I thought he could help us find something for a few days. Without leaving records.”

  “And can he?”

  “He thinks so. He’ll be getting back to me. He thinks I’m trying to cover up an illicit relationship. Hiding from a husband.”

  She looked at him dubiously. “With a dog?”

  “That kind of complicates things,” he said with a half smile. “Still, he thinks there’s extra money in it for him.” He hesitated. “I’m getting short on cash. I plan to send for some, but it will take a few days.”

  “I have enough for what we should need,” she said. “And I don’t want to be paid back. You don’t owe me anything. You’ve already done more than … necessary. Far more.”

  He shook his head. “I’m as much involved in this now as you. I shot a man.”

  Her eyes darkened. “And you feel responsible. I know. But you shouldn’t. I had planned to look into the commission report myself after the tenure hearing. We don’t even know if … that’s what is behind this.” She stood a little straighter, and he could feel the determination radiating from her.

  She was trying to let him off the hook. The problem was, he didn’t want to be let off the hook. And that thought astonished him. He’d made it a lifetime goal not to get involved with others, particularly those of the female persuasion. He hadn’t wanted the noose around his neck, the interference in a lifestyle he’d chosen. Loneliness was not unknown, and sometimes he’d see a sunset in the mountains and wish he could share it. Or he would see a couple, their heads close together and smiles on their lips, and wonder what he had missed. Or see a father and son fishing on a pier. But then he would remember the pain that went with relationships. The recriminations and tears and screaming. The bitterness and often hatred.

  And the envy would fade, the emptiness would lessen. If you didn’t offer a part of your soul, it couldn’t be rejected. Mishandled. Destroyed.

  The way his stepfather had been destroyed.

  “Flaherty?”

  She was calling him that again. Her own mental mechanism for keeping him at arm’s length.

  She was far wiser than he.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about the next several days.” It was a bald-faced lie, but she seemed to accept it.

  “Maybe I should just return to Memphis and ask for police help.”

  “You tried that.”

  “But now there’s been a third attempt. Surely someone.…”

  “There’s probably enough now to bring in the FBI, but there’s no guarantee of witness protection,” he said.

  “My tenure hearing.…”

  “Under the circumstances, I would think you could get it postponed.”

  “The committee is scattering after the hearing. And there’s my.…” She stopped suddenly, and he realized she was going to say “house.”

  For a moment her face seemed to crumple, but then, like a piece of Play-Doh, it firmed again. He watched her blink back a suspicious moisture in her eyes.

  He wanted to reach out and pull her to him, but something in her eyes warned him against doing that. Just as it had earlier.

  She turned away. The television was on, and she looked at it, effectively shutting him out. It was obvious she didn’t want his sympathy.

  “I’m meeting him outside in an hour,” he said.

  “Can you trust him?”

  “I don’t think we can trust anyone, but there’s no reason he should think anything than what we want him to think.”

  “How much money do we need?”

  “He mentioned fifteen hundred, but I think he was just trying to see how much I was willing to pay.”

  Amy didn’t say anything, but went to her suitcase and reached inside. She pulled out an envelope and gave it to him. “There’s two thousand dollars in there.”

  “Did you rob a bank?”

  “Only my savings. I thought it the better part of wisdom to use it to have a future.”

  He privately vowed to pay her back, whether she wanted it or not. It would, he knew, set back plans for his ranch, but that was of little importance at the moment. Nothing was more important than getting Amy Mallory out of this in one piece. But after looking at the set of her chin and her cool eyes, he knew he would lose any argument now.

  Instead, he decided to give her some space. “There’s a mini-market up the street. I’ll get us something to eat.”

  “Orange juice,” she said hopefully.

  “And donuts. Unless I can find something better.”

  As he left, he saw her pick Bo up. The dog snuggled in her lap. She was looking at the television, but he knew she wasn’t seeing anything.

  The house was more than two blocks from the beach. It was small, little more than a cottage, but it had two bedrooms and a kitchen.

  At least, there would be some privacy, Amy thought. Someplace where she could retreat. She could finish what work she needed to do while Flaherty prowled her grandfather’s files.

  She hung onto Flaherty’s arm, pretending to be his paramour. Not so much pretend, she feared.

  She knew the cost was inflated, that their benefactor with the ruddy face and shiny pants saw an opportunity. The house was not prime beach property; it had a
“For Rent” sign in front and a shabby look. But at the moment it was a refuge.

  Amy watched as Flaherty counted out a number of hundred dollar bills. “You have to be out by next Sunday,” the man warned.

  Flaherty nodded. They hadn’t even signed any paper. She wondered if the real owner would ever know the place had even been rented. She doubted it.

  The salesman left. Flaherty looked at the place wryly. The furniture was used rental, but no worse than the motel.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” Amy replied. She felt safe. Temporarily.

  Flaherty inspected the kitchen. A usable stove, an old but clean refrigerator. Basic pots and pans. “I saw a store down the street. I’ll get a couple of steaks and salad makings.” He hesitated, then added, “Keep the pistol near you.”

  Amy felt her body stiffen.

  “Amy?”

  “I will,” she said reluctantly.

  “Good.” Then he was out the door, and the cottage seemed an extraordinarily empty place. She watched while he returned to the car. Then she looked around the cottage again. A washer and dryer would be nice, but no such luck. Everything was simply functional, with faded carpets designed to soak up water and sand. She took Bo out into the tiny backyard and he obliged by doing what was required while she stood outside sniffing the ocean air, aching to walk down to the beach.

  The boxes were inside, but if she locked the house, she wouldn’t be able to get back inside. Flaherty had the only key. At the moment she didn’t care if someone stole the damned things. They were soaked in blood. Figuratively, if not literally.

  She hesitated, then decided to go down to the beach. She left a note on the wobbly kitchen table. After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up the pistol and put it in her purse. Although the pistol was light, she felt as if her purse had taken on the weight of an anvil.

  She called Bo and went out the front door, locking it behind them. She crossed the street, walked a block, then found a path crossing the dunes down to the ocean. A hot wind finished drying her hair, and she leaned down and took off her shoes, burying her toes in the sand. She’d done that days earlier at Jekyll Island.

  She heard a sudden loud noise, and she froze. Those damned images returned. Men rushing her. Shots. Blood. Her heart pounded rapidly. Her mouth felt dry. She tried to tamp the panic, telling herself she wasn’t going to let it control her life.

  She forced herself to glance around. Another loud sound. Then she recognized the sound. A boom box had been turned on.

  Slowly, she tried to relax. She recalled how she’d experienced a jolt of fear when she’d seen Flaherty talking to a stranger. She wondered whether she could ever relax in a crowd or entirely trust anyone again.

  She’d trusted Jon. Explicitly. But something had been niggling at her lately. Why had he wanted those papers? Who had known he had them? She’d accepted his explanation of simple curiosity at the time. Yet she had mentioned them years ago, and he’d asked to see them only months ago. Had he known about the commission before its findings had been publicized?

  Or did she just question everyone now?

  Laughter jolted her from her dark mood. Glancing toward the water, she saw children bobbing up and down on floats in the ocean. Others were building a giant sand castle. No worries except for a particularly aggressive wave that threatened the fragile structure.

  The seeming tranquillity clashed with all the recent violence. It was difficult to think that until two weeks ago, her only concern had been the tenure hearing.

  Bo inched closer to her. He had been more clinging than usual since the invasion of her hotel room. A small girl ran up to them. “Can I pet your dog?”

  No ulterior motive here. “I think he would like that,” she said. And he did, as long as she was right there with him. Bo whimpered with pleasure as the child rubbed his ears. The mother called, and the child ran back to her, and a man and another child.

  For a moment, she wished she were that woman. Wrapped in the safety and comfort and security of a family unit. She’d wished that before, but she’d never been willing to compromise and her Prince Charming had never appeared on the horizon. Perhaps she’d wanted too much, expected too much.

  Or perhaps she was just suspicious of all relationships and unwilling to depend on another person.

  She heard the crunch of shoes on sand, saw a shadow darken the sand beside her. A tall, elongated shadow.

  She looked up. Flaherty was too damned handsome. Even when she was half-blinded by the sun, the planes of his face were ruggedly attractive. “Thought I might find you here,” he said.

  He sat down with a fluid ease and offered her a cold soda. Her brand. It was amazing what he’d learned about her in the past few days. He remembered every one of her likes and dislikes. It was … disconcerting.

  She took it, and it tasted good. Neither of them had had much to eat this morning, and she was beginning to feel the rumblings of hunger deep inside. Unfortunately, there were two kinds of hunger, especially when her gaze met his. She wanted to reach out and touch him. He was reality and substance in her new world of shadows.

  But that was too easy. She would never know how much of what she felt was real, and how much was fear and gratitude and even the dependence she didn’t want.

  She stood. “You wanted to go over my grandfather’s papers.”

  He nodded and unwound his long legs, standing in one easy, graceful motion. Drat him. He did everything easily. She wondered whether he had any self-doubts. She didn’t think so.

  She reached down and picked up her purse. Two guns between them now. Her pacifist mother would be turning over in her grave.

  Braced by a steak and beer, Irish attacked Amy’s boxes. It didn’t take him long to see a pattern.

  The two of them went through them together for a while, Amy translating some of her grandfather’s poor writing. Once he caught on, she moved away, saying that she wanted him to look at them without her input. Maybe he would see something she hadn’t.

  General David Mallory had evidently kept what he had for a reason, and that reason could be nothing but a book. He didn’t keep odds and ends. He’d kept maps with notations on them, orders received from the supreme command and obviously private assessments on how they worked, recommendations for major decorations, casualty list totals, personal observations on division staff and on the enemy command. It was obvious that he often disagreed with Irish’s grandfather, feeling that he was too cautious.

  The papers were dated from June 6, 1944—the Normandy invasion—and ran through April 30 of the next year. After that, the number of papers declined. There were terrain maps, orders from headquarters and from Irish’s grandfather Sam Flaherty. There was, surprisingly, a list of casualties, not just the total number, but individuals. Nothing else. No more comments on staff. No more comments on orders.

  A month later, as the American Army approached Berlin, the notes started again, but to a much lesser extent. Now they seemed more reminders to him, not events to be recorded.

  A soft breathing distracted him. Amy had fallen asleep on the sofa. Long, dark lashes fringed her eyes, and she looked lovely to him. The tenseness had left her body, and she looked peaceful for the first time.

  He felt the damndest urge to touch her. Nothing lustful, just to touch, to make contact, to soothe. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way before. Tender. As if a hole inside him was filling up, shoving aside an emptiness he’d been reluctant to acknowledge.

  She had been unbelievably game these past few days. Courage, he knew, came from unsuspected places. And she had shown it that night at Jekyll Island when she’d demonstrated both grit and good sense, throwing off the assailant’s aim at just the right time.

  It had emerged again when he’d shown her how to shoot. She’d hated every moment of it. Her body language and eyes told him that. Yet she had listened carefully and learned quickly.

  The simple fact was, he liked her. He liked the intimacy
that had sprung up between them, no matter how hard they had both fought it. He realized it was rooted in the circumstances. Danger was always an aphrodisiac. He’d learned that long ago. But the way he felt now went deeper.

  It scared the hell out of him.

  He looked at his watch. Two in the morning.

  He replaced the papers in the same order they had been in. He wasn’t finished yet. But he wanted her input. She had gone over the same material. Had she seen the same pattern as he had or had his military background guided him in a different direction?

  Irish stood and stretched. He thought about waking her but merely satisfied himself with finding a blanket in one of the two bedrooms and covering her with it. He didn’t remember ever doing that before, either. His hands hesitated as he pulled it over her shoulders, his fingers lightly touching her hair. They lingered there a moment, then he straightened reluctantly. For a moment, he watched the blanket move slightly with her breathing, then checked the doors and windows.

  Satisfied the cottage was locked tight, he turned out the lights and went into the bedroom he’d claimed as his. Damn, but it felt impersonal. Empty. Like his life.

  You like it this way.

  He’d told himself that for years, but now the sentiment didn’t have the same fierce pride and defiance it once had.

  He hoped for quick sleep, but he knew it would not come. He longed to feel her next to him. He longed to see the warmth in her eyes that had been there the day after the attack. His body, he realized, was tense with need.

  Still, he would try. He needed to keep his wits about him. They were one step ahead of a killer. He intended to keep them that way.

  sixteen

  MARYLAND

  Dustin felt the familiar ache in his heart as he watched Sally comb her long, honey-colored hair as she readied herself to go out to dinner.

  Watching from the door of her bedroom, he caught her glance in the mirror and smiled.

  He still felt warm from her greeting an hour earlier. Her eyes had brightened when she’d opened the door.