Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  It seemed natural to open his arms, and she’d stepped into them, enveloping him in a big hug. Her eyes sparkled, her smile was infectious, and it was all for him. He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, but she moved her face, and his lips touched hers, lingering a moment before moving away.

  “I’ve been going crazy here by myself,” she said. “I’ve already gone through three books.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Romance novels.”

  She grinned at his expression. “You ought to try them sometime. You might learn something.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m usually stuck reading briefing papers,” he said.

  She made her own face at that. “Which is why you aren’t any fun.”

  “Oh, is it?” he challenged with a smile. “I’ll have to see about that.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “I’ve brought you something,” he said. “It’s in the car.”

  She’d raised an eyebrow.

  “First get ready for dinner,” he said. “We’ll go to the best restaurant in town.”

  She’d disappeared. He went down to the car and pulled out the art supplies he’d purchased at a store in Washington. A sketch pad. Charcoal pens. Water colors. Even acrylics. An easel.

  He’d placed them in the corner, then approached her room, where she was combing her hair.

  She whirled around, a question in her eyes.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, and watched a glow spread over her face.

  “Thank you.”

  He went into the living room of the condominium, Sally by his side. She stopped when she saw the drawing materials. “I remembered how much you used to like to draw,” he said awkwardly. She had, in fact, loved art, and planned to study it in college until her artist mother abandoned Sally and Sally’s father. As far as he knew, she hadn’t touched a paintbrush since. Instead, she had flitted from one major to another, spending five years in college and finally graduating with a liberal arts degree that prepared her for exactly nothing. She went over to them, then looked up at him. Her face was tight, strained, as if a plastic mask had been stretched too tight, and he realized she wasn’t ready. He had hoped she was. But perhaps she never would be.

  He watched her struggle to regain her composure, the carefree attitude she so assiduously cultivated. “Does this mean I can’t go home yet?”

  Suddenly, he realized that she must have thought he was there to take her home. “I think it’s better if you don’t,” he said. “I told your boss there was a family emergency, and he said you could take unpaid leave as long as you wanted.”

  She stiffened. “You shouldn’t have done that. Not without asking me.”

  “Sally, someone else has died. The woman I told you about, Dr. Mallory, was attacked again in Georgia.”

  “She was killed?” Horror tinged her question.

  “No. Someone heard her scream and came to her rescue. The attacker was killed.”

  “Then … why can’t I go home?”

  “There was a second assailant. He got away.”

  “And you still think it might have something to do with … Grandfather?”

  “I’m becoming more and more convinced that it does.”

  “My mother?” It was one of the few times he’d heard her mention her mother. She’d divorced Sally’s father when Sally was fifteen.

  He shrugged. “She’s gone back to her maiden name and she’d been estranged from the family for so long that I doubt anyone would even think of her. She certainly wouldn’t have anything of your father’s or grandfather’s.”

  Uncertainty flitted over her face, and he wondered whether she was finally coming to terms about her mother. “Call her,” Sally urged.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I can’t,” she said adamantly.

  He reached out and touched her shoulder. “All right. But she’ll start worrying about you.”

  Sally didn’t reply, but he saw the doubt on her face.

  He wished he could wipe that doubt away. Sally had already believed that her mother had left her father for selfish reasons, that she’d never cared about her father, that, in fact, the divorce had led to her father’s suicide. He knew it wasn’t true, but she had never listened to him. Nor did he tell her that Chloe Matthews called him occasionally to inquire after her daughter, to make sure she was all right.

  “I don’t think that’s right,” he said gently. “You never gave her a chance.”

  “She killed my father,” Sally said flatly, “just as if she had pulled the trigger herself.”

  But Sally still cared, or else she wouldn’t have suggested that he call Chloe. Still, he didn’t think it wise to pursue that at the moment.

  “And you?” she said. “Have you asked Patsy to marry you yet?”

  Ah, pain returned with pain. “No,” he said.

  “How does she feel about you coming up here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t told her about this?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want her involved.” But he realized that if he really loved Patsy, he would have told her. Instead, he had been purposefully avoiding her these last few weeks. Excuses about work. About family. Except she knew that his only family was Sally, and he’d seen the questions in her eyes.

  She picked up a paintbrush. Dustin saw how she held it. The way a lover held her mate’s hand. With reverence. Then she quickly put it down. “I think you promised me dinner.”

  “So I did,” he said.

  “When are you going back?”

  It was Tuesday. He’d canceled appointments for today and tomorrow. He couldn’t stay away longer. “Tomorrow,” he said. “There’s a party I have to attend.”

  “In your penguin suit?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Are you taking Patsy?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes clouded slightly. She turned around and laid the brush down, then started for the door. “I’m starving. Let’s go.”

  MYRTLE BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Amy woke to the smell of coffee. She stretched, then realized she was on the sofa as her feet hit something hard. Still feeling sleepy and more than a little stiff, she sat up. Other aromas drifted over to her. She brushed her eyes with her hand and ran fingers through her hair. She was still wearing the same slacks and knit shirt she’d worn all day yesterday, and they were wrinkled and grungy.

  She was grungy.

  “Breakfast in ten minutes,” came a cheerful voice. “I’ve taken Bo outside.”

  She wanted to kill him. She did not feel cheerful or chirpy.

  Bo nudged her for attention, his tail wagging. She reached out and rubbed his ears, then barely suppressed a groan as she got to her feet. Her mouth tasted foul, she was sure her cheeks had the imprint of a throw pillow, and she’d slept so heavily that she felt drugged. She kicked off the blanket.

  Blanket?

  There hadn’t been a blanket last night. She regarded it suspiciously. Almost like a snake. No one had taken care of her for a long time.

  “You slept well.” The voice again. Sexy as well, damn it. It just wasn’t right at this time of the morning.

  She stumbled to her feet and made for the bathroom before he saw her. She took one look at herself. It was a lie that anyone looked good when they first woke up.

  Amy did her best to repair the damage. Just brushing her teeth made her feel a great deal better. Then her hair. A splash of water on her face. Finally a touch of lipstick.

  Her clothes were in the other room, but she was quickly running out of them. She had not brought many with her. This is not a date. You are running for your life.

  That thought brought all the nightmares tumbling back. The last thing she remembered was Flaherty looking through the files. Had he found anything?

  She straightened her shirt as well as she could. She would take a shower later.

  Breakfast. The smells filtering into the bathroom were in
triguing. All of a sudden she was hungry. Flaherty had cooked supper last night, and now breakfast. A man who could cook was a prize indeed.

  Except he wasn’t her prize.

  She stepped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. He had already set two places at the imitation wood table. Steaming coffee and large glasses of orange juice already graced the table.

  When she appeared, he scooped something out of the frying pan onto two plates and presented them with something like a flourish. Omelets. Hers looked and smelled terrific. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “A bachelor usually learns or starves,” he said. “But you’ve seen most of my repertoire now. Steaks and omelets.”

  She tasted it. It was terrific. One of the best she’d ever tasted. There were any number of subtle flavors. Some, like garlic, were readily identifiable. Others were not. She tried to think of that instead of the information he’d just dropped. It didn’t work.

  She couldn’t resist asking the question that had been nagging her. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Why?” It was none of her business, and she always, always hated it when someone asked her that question.

  “It’s difficult for a woman to be an Army wife,” he said. “You have to give up a great deal, including security. You move a lot. There’s a lot of loneliness. There’s damned little financial reward.”

  Amy thought she detected a touch of bitterness in the words. The slight smile disappeared from his lips. He took a long swallow of coffee, and she knew he was closing the subject. Had he lost someone?

  She changed the subject. “Did you find anything last night?”

  He put down the coffee cup. “Did your grandfather ever talk about writing a book?”

  She thought back. Her grandfather had a large library, almost all of it pertaining to the military. Mostly nonfiction. Some selected fiction. Toward the end of his life, when his eyesight faded, he would ask her to order books and she would read them to him. But writing a book?

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember him ever mentioning it.”

  “The notes were interesting.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated. “The notes didn’t seem to have any military value. They were more like personal reminders, observations.” He paused, then asked, “There weren’t any diaries?”

  “I never saw one. And he wasn’t the type of man who would keep them.”

  “What kind of man is that?”

  “He was never … reflective. He was gruff. Matter of fact. He had decisive opinions he didn’t give up easily. I never saw him write anything but a check.”

  His gaze bore into her. “You read the notes?”

  “I skimmed over them. I didn’t see anything.…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t know what she had been looking for. A smoking gun? Something dramatic? The notes had seemed innocuous to her.

  “What’s really interesting,” he said, “is that papers with notes stopped as of April. There were documents, but no notes. As if he found no reason for them any longer. Or,” he added, “someone removed those with private notes.”

  She should have noticed that. Or maybe she had. Is that why she thought of Jon yesterday?

  “You’re sure there couldn’t have been any more papers?”

  “No,” she replied. “I’m not sure. But I cataloged everything after his death. The estate had to be … liquidated because of taxes. Everything was sold but those boxes of papers and some personal items bequeathed to me. I didn’t know why he had saved only those boxes. He’d never mentioned them to me. Since they were in the attic, I just supposed he overlooked them. I went through them to see whether there was anything of value. I was working on my dissertation and didn’t have time to really study them, so I stored them along with some furniture and a few other items that had some importance to me.”

  “What furniture?”

  “His desk. It was a giant rolltop desk.”

  “Was it in your house?”

  She stared at him. “No. It’s still in storage in Kentucky, along with several other large pieces. I was in an apartment when my grandfather died, and didn’t have room for them. Then I just … didn’t have time to get them.”

  It was a lie. She had had time. She just had never been sure she wanted the desk in her cottage. It was huge, designed for a large study. But that was her excuse. She hadn’t been sure she wanted the memories, good and bad, in her new world. Yet she hadn’t been able to give it up, either. So she’d shoved it out of her consciousness.

  “I think we might look at it.”

  “Secret compartments?” she scoffed.

  “Nothing would surprise me now,” he replied so seriously that her halfhearted attempt at humor faded.

  “All right.”

  “First, though, I want to meet with the Eachan grandchildren,” he said. “It would be interesting to know whether they have had any of the same … experiences we have, or whether they have any documents.”

  “He was adjutant to your grandfather.”

  “And he served with yours. I wonder whether he had the same opinion of my grandfather as David Mallory did.”

  She recalled some of the notes. It had been obvious that her grandfather had not liked his grandfather, had thought himself the stronger man, but he had never gone beyond Brigadier General and Mallory had his second star.

  Amy finished the omelet, gave remnants of her toast to a patiently waiting Bo, and rose to pour them both fresh cups of coffee. “What was your grandfather like?”

  Irish played with his cup. “You said your grandfather was gruff and … apparently not very good with people. Mine was the opposite. He was warm and amusing, and never met a stranger. After the war, he stayed with the Army for a few years. He ended up teaching at West Point, then bought a ranch in Colorado. I think he knew every person in the county.”

  “And your father?”

  “He died in the early days of Vietnam. I barely knew him.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Then you grew up without a father, too.”

  “Not exactly. My mother married my father’s best friend, an Army helicopter pilot. He died in a helicopter crash six years later.”

  She felt her chest tighten. “It must have been terrible for her.”

  He was silent.

  “How did she feel about you joining the Army?”

  “She hated it,” he said quietly. “She hated the Army. She hated everything about it. I don’t think she ever forgave me for going to West Point.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “She felt it was a betrayal. I felt it would be a betrayal to my father if I didn’t.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She died three years ago of cancer,” he said. “She’d married a dentist, but I don’t think she was ever happy.” She heard the sadness in his voice. And regret.

  She was reminded again of the tragedies that had struck both their families. She wondered about the Eachan family as well.

  It was not unnatural that all three grandfathers were dead. They would have been near the century mark in years. But nearly all the members of the second generation were gone, too. And only four of the third generation remained. What were the odds of that?

  She cleaned up the dishes while he called Washington on his cell phone. After three calls, he hung up in disgust. “Dustin Eachan’s office said he was out of town for two days on family business. I get only the answering machine at their homes.”

  “Two days?”

  He nodded. “We’ll stay here today, then drive up to Washington.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  His mouth twisted in that appealing smile of his. “If you agree,” he said.

  She’d made her point. She was not arrogant enough not to recognize his expertise in an area totally unfamiliar to her. But neither was she a blind follower.

  “I should make sure I have everything ready for my tenure hearing,” she said. “Do you think it’s saf
e to call Sherry and assure her I’m all right?”

  “Use my cell phone,” he said.

  “They can’t track that?”

  “Technically, yes, but it would require very sophisticated equipment.”

  “But it could be done?”

  “Only a general location,” he replied. “If they can trace it, then we’re in real trouble. They will have more resources than I thought.”

  She considered that, then took his phone. Sherry should be home now that the semester was over. She looked at the clock. Eight A.M. here. It would be seven in Memphis. But Sherry was always an early riser. She usually ran for an hour before it got too hot. She dialed.

  Sherry answered on the second ring.

  “Sherry?”

  A sigh on the other end, then, “Thank God. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I heard about Jekyll Island. Everyone has. Some Georgia cops called, trying to find you. Where are you?”

  Amy wanted to tell her. Sherry was her best friend. But now she was paranoid. “I can’t tell you.”

  Silence. “There are questions now.…”

  Amy’s stomach churned. She had worked so hard for her tenure. There weren’t that many history positions available. She had one of the best, and only tenure would keep it for her. Jon had been her greatest advocate. Jon. How could she even think of herself when Jon was dead? No matter what he’d.…

  No. She wasn’t going to believe it of him. She was so tired of doubting everyone. Of questioning every value she had.

  She had to go back. She had to defend what was hers.

  “Tell them I’ll be back in time for the hearing. Until then, I’m resting with friends. Everything is fine. I’ll be able to explain everything.” She glanced up, saw Flaherty shake his head. She ignored it.

  A pause on the other end of the line. “Are you sure, Amy?”

  Amy hesitated. Was she? Safety was important. But so were other things. She’d worked for ten years for tenure. She wasn’t ready to sacrifice it. “Yes,” she said.

  A silence on the phone. “I’ll tell them you are still recuperating from the wound inflicted in their building. The doctor says you need plenty of rest,” she added in a self-satisfied tone. “I’ll also tell them that the attack in Jekyll Island was probably a result of the one in their hall. That should alarm them enough to give you a few more days. Keep safe.”