Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  Amy took him back to the room. Flaherty was still asleep. She felt his forehead, worrying about him, and thought about waking him. No. He’d had precious little sleep this past week.

  Instead she wrote him a note, telling him she would be right back. She put the time on the note, so he wouldn’t worry. Eight a.m.

  “You stay here,” she whispered to Bo, “take care of him.” Then she slipped back out, this time taking the car keys.

  She’d seen a fast food restaurant a block away. She drove there and picked up two large cups of coffee, two orange juices, four sausage biscuits, four steak biscuits, some French toast bits, and two orders of potatoes. She also bought a newspaper from a machine.

  He was awake when she returned. She heard the water running in the bathroom, and she set the two bags down.

  The door to the bathroom was open. He wore only his bathing suit, and she watched the muscles in his back move as he washed. He turned and gave her a wry smile. “No toothbrush. No razor.”

  “But food,” she said as the aroma of coffee filled the room.

  He came into the room and slipped on his jeans, then took a cup of coffee with a grateful sigh. “You have no idea how much I hoped you were bringing this.”

  She watched as he gulped down food. She ate not quite as quickly, sharing hers with Bo. “What do we do now?”

  “Get some clothes, first of all,” he said. “And something to shave with. Then I have to make some phone calls. After that I think we had better leave the area.”

  “I think you need more rest,” she said, looking at the burned spots and scrapes on his body. The wound that had opened had bled onto the bandage, turning it a bright red.

  “We won’t go far,” he promised.

  “Some doctoring first,” she said. “Sit down.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He took one last sip of coffee and placed the cup on the table.

  He looked devilishly attractive despite bruises and cuts. The new bristle of his beard gave him a rougher look, and his blue eyes were as vivid and bright as she had ever seen them. His body, despite old scars and new burns and scrapes marring it, was really quite … marvelous. Wide shoulders, muscled chest and arms. He was all muscle and power, with the grace of an athlete. She wondered whether he had played baseball or some other sport.

  It made her realize once more how little she really knew about him.

  And yet she knew everything she needed to know.

  She went to the bathroom and tried to find something to use to attend his wounds. Unfortunately the towels—all a pinkish color from tending him last night—lay on the floor. The two plastic glasses had been used for the wine last night.

  She took one of the dirty towels, ran it under hot water until she hoped she’d destroyed any germs, then returned to the room. All the salves and bottles and tape were on the table next to the bed.

  Her patient looked … patient. He raised an eyebrow as he noted the soaked towel in her hand.

  “It’s all we have,” she said apologetically.

  “I’ve had a lot worse wounds and a lot worse nurses,” he said.

  She sat down next to him and started cleaning the burns and scrapes and abrasions. “Where?”

  “South America. Bosnia. Florida.”

  “Why South America?”

  “I was with a drug interdiction team, training a military unit to find and destroy coca fields. There was a little objection to our assistance.”

  “While you were with the CID?”

  “No, I went to CID as a result. The command seemed to think I had a talent for working with my counterparts. I was transferred into the Military Police career field, attended the Police Officer Advanced Course, and did training in terrorism and counteraction, as well as other law enforcement courses. They said I had a knack for working with foreign nationals, so I was sent to Bosnia.”

  She knew that but wanted more details. “And were you good at working with them?”

  He shrugged. “No one was. We were involved in confiscating weapons and making sure they weren’t resold to one faction or another. Most serviceman are honorable, but there’s always a bad apple here and there.”

  “Like fifty years ago?”

  “It seems that way,” he said grimly. “What I don’t understand is why anyone cares now. That report would have died a natural death, noted by a few but dismissed as old news by almost everyone. Even if I did make some queries, it shouldn’t have started this level of violence.”

  She gently washed the salve from the burn areas, then swabbed them with peroxide. “Maybe it wasn’t you who started this … mess in motion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe Jon found something he didn’t share with me. Maybe he asked the questions that started all this. Otherwise why kill him?”

  “Would he keep something from you?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” she said. “We … were friends.” Her voice broke slightly. Everything had happened so quickly, she still hadn’t entirely absorbed his death, or its implications.

  His hand caught hers. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said softly, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  But she was still thinking that. She’d never stopped thinking that. If she had never given those papers to Jon.…

  Her hands hesitated. What if she had done the same thing to Flaherty? He thought he was the cause of all this, but what if she had led him into danger?

  Why had she never taken the time to go through those papers? And why had her grandfather kept them?

  Even as doubts about Jon continued to multiply, her hands kept busy, washing one cut or burn after the other, bandaging those wounds that were still bleeding slightly. It must have hurt, but he didn’t move through the whole process. Finally she finished.

  “Let me help you with the shirt,” she said, handing one of the new T-shirts to him.

  He winced slightly as he put his arms through the sleeves.

  Then he sat still for a moment, as if absorbing the pain.

  She sat down in the sole chair in the room. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. “I thought investigators just … sort of investigated.”

  “So did I,” he admitted wryly. “I think I’m getting too old for this.”

  “Have you thought about retiring?”

  He didn’t say anything. She wondered if he had thought about it. But he was already a lieutenant colonel, and now had been offered a command. If she hadn’t ruined any chance he had. “What would you do if you did leave?”

  “I have the ranch in Colorado.”

  She hadn’t expected that. But then she’d noticed his athletic grace. Maybe it hadn’t been baseball, but riding. Or perhaps both.

  “Did you ever play baseball?” she asked.

  Flaherty looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. After a moment, he nodded. “I played some in high school, then at the Point. Why?”

  “You walk like a baseball player. Or a horseman.”

  “Oh,” he said. “And how is that?”

  “Kind of a swagger.” That wasn’t it at all, but she wasn’t going to tell him he was graceful.

  “Ouch,” he said. “No one ever told me that before.”

  “It’s not too bad.”

  He grinned. “That’s a little better. I think.”

  “Tell me about your ranch.”

  “Isn’t much there now. My grandfather left it to me.”

  “General Flaherty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “I spent my summers there. My mother didn’t like it. She considered him a bad influence. Anything connected to the military was a bad influence. But then she married a dentist, and he and I didn’t like each other much. She sent me away to keep peace in the household. But she always hated Grandfather.”

  “You can’t blame her,” she said. “Losing two husbands to the military.”

  The side of his mouth crooked. “That’s why I never married. I saw
what the Army did to personal relationships.”

  He stood. His hand reached out for hers, and he pulled her up. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t want him to see the censure in her eyes. She knew it was there. She would have done anything for her mother. She had, in fact.

  His fingers went under her chin and forced it up until her eyes met his.

  “You can’t let anyone run your life,” he said softly, “or you make everyone unhappy. My father was a hero. I worshiped him as a boy. When he died, I vowed I would make him proud of me.”

  “Wasn’t that letting a dead man run your life?”

  “It would have been if I didn’t like the military. I’m a gypsy at heart. Always have been. The Army was all I ever wanted.”

  Gypsy at heart. He was warning her.

  “But you mentioned retiring.…”

  “And I will someday.” His voice was also cool.

  Someday.

  Amy shook her hand loose and turned away. She started putting the peroxide bottle and tubes and bandages in the bag. She put his old bloodied shirt in the trash can.

  “No,” he said. “I want to take it with us. We’ll drop it in a trash bin somewhere.”

  The words reminded her of how much danger they were in. For a few moments she had almost forgotten. She bundled up the stiffened cloth. Stiffened with his blood.

  “Ready to go?” she asked.

  “Yes.” His voice was still cool. Distant.

  “Do you want me to drive?”

  “I will,” he said. “You keep an eye out for anything unusual.”

  She didn’t protest. They had lost something in these past few moments, and part of her desperately wanted it back. And yet she couldn’t change it. What hadn’t he said?

  Don’t judge until you’ve walked in someone’s shoes.

  How often she’d heard that. Her mother had said it often, particularly when she had taken up with someone new, or invited a derelict to share their scanty meal, or after they woke and found half of their belongings gone.

  But she was judging him, and he knew it.

  She opened the door for Bo, then walked around to where the car was parked. The car keys were in her purse and she dug them out, feeling the pistol as she did so. She tossed them over to Flaherty, and he caught them easily. She waited until he unlocked the doors, then opened the door for Bo. When he was settled in the middle of the seat, she got in, Bo between them.

  She really didn’t have to do that.

  There was already a huge barrier between them.

  nineteen

  MARYLAND

  Sally’s life had always been tumultuous. Her parents’ marriage had been volatile. Her father had been a charmer, scooping her up in his arms and telling her she was the prettiest girl in the world.

  Her mother made her father’s life miserable and finally left him, dragging an unwilling Sally with her.

  She had just returned from her senior prom when her mother told her that her father was dead. He’d killed himself. The ultimate selfish act, her mother had said.

  Sally had never forgiven her for that statement, nor had she forgiven herself for dancing and enjoying herself when her father was in agony. She had not sensed it the day before when she’d talked to him. Maybe if.…

  But lives were full of ifs. She’d turned to the only person she felt would understand, her cousin who had always protected her, who had taken her to movies when her parents were having furious fights, who had convinced her that it was not her fault. Had tried to convince her. He had also tried to convince her that the fault in the marriage had not been Sally’s.

  Sally knew she had been wandering. For some reason, she couldn’t seem to really grasp anything of importance. She’d loved drawing as a girl, but she blamed her mother’s abandonment of her father on her mother’s own art and career. Art was the only thing that mattered to her mother, who now owned a little gallery in Sedona, Arizona.

  Sally received Christmas checks from her but sent them back. She simply didn’t want anything to do with her. Her mother had always been a distant figure, while her father had represented the only warmth she knew. Sally had always believed that if she hadn’t been in a hurry that night of the prom, she might—in some way—have prevented her father’s death. Her own guilt built on what she believed was her mother’s indifference to William Eachan’s death.

  After Dustin left, she stared at the art supplies for a long time. She was restless. She didn’t really understand what was happening, and Dustin had purposely been vague. But she’d trusted him so long that she obeyed.

  She was thirty-five. Anyone else would have their life firmly in hand. Instead, she still drifted among the shipwrecks of her family, unable to seize a life raft. Instead, she waited for someone to save her.

  It wasn’t a very attractive picture. She wondered why Dustin even bothered.

  She picked up the sketch pad and a charcoal pen, then curled up on a sofa, folding her legs underneath her. She looked at it for a long time, then her hand began to move across the surface. Slowly at first, then faster. A face began to develop. Strong. Aristocratic. The eyes were partially shadowed, though, the expression enigmatic. It was a face she knew well, but the essence had always escaped her. Dustin masked his feelings, moods, emotions. He was so many people that she never quite knew which one she was with. He could be intolerably sarcastic and mean-spirited, then the next moment do or say something so sweet that it would completely negate his earlier remarks.

  Who was the two-faced god in mythology? Janus?

  The sketch came to life as she darkened the cheekbones, brushed in the shock of hair that sometimes disobeyed his sense of propriety and fell on his forehead. She hesitated at the mouth. To smile or to frown?

  Instead she found herself turning his lips in a quizzical expression, as if even he himself didn’t know exactly who or what he was.

  By the time she finished, dusk had fallen and she felt hunger gnawing at her. Dustin had left just before dawn. She had heard him showering and had gone out to bid him good-bye. He had stared at her for a long time, then smiled, catching her hand in his.

  “You’re beautiful, you know,” he said, and she’d wondered whether she really heard a wistful note in it. She wanted him to kiss her, to lean down and kiss her as he had long ago in a stable when she had returned to her grandparents’ for a visit after her father had died.

  Her grandmother had found them. She’d lectured them both at length. They were cousins. The very idea was sinful and wrong.

  Later Dustin had spent an hour in their grandfather’s den, and the next day had left. There had been no goodbye, no note. She hadn’t seen him again for two years.

  So many years ago. And yet she still remembered that kiss.

  Nothing else had matched it. No other embrace had made her feel right.

  God knew she had tried hard enough to find its equal.

  Oh, he had kissed her since then, but they had been light, feathery, relative-type kisses. Not the intense need that had rocked them.

  It had rocked him, too. She knew it.

  She stared at the sketch. She had caught some of him, but not all.

  Sally finally put it aside. Time to go out and eat. Maybe go to the bar nearby, she thought defiantly. She remembered Dustin’s warning. But she’d been here five days now and had seen nothing suspicious.

  With that thought in mind, she went into the bedroom to change clothes and apply some makeup. Just a few hours away from this room. Otherwise she would go stir-crazy with all the thoughts of Dusty and the mess she’d made of her life.

  You’re just like your father.

  Shivers rocked her body for a moment. Her mother had accused her of that more than once, and as a teenager Sally had gone out of her way to prove her mother right. Now she was very careful about how much she drank.

  Am I, Daddy? Am I like you?

  Why couldn’t she take charge of her own life?

  Because she had no goal. No aim. She wasn�
�t good at anything but art, and being pretty. She’d discarded art, and being pretty meant nothing, especially now that she was getting older.

  You’re like your father.

  She looked at the paints again.

  Maybe she’d try another sketch and have just a sandwich tonight.

  She would go somewhere tomorrow.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Dustin knew he couldn’t keep Sally safe much longer. She was like a caged butterfly.

  He stared down at his messages. Among the stack were three messages from Colonel Flaherty, the last one this morning, just minutes before he came in.

  Damn it, the colonel wasn’t going to let go. Or maybe at this point, he couldn’t.

  He turned on his computer, and logged on to the E-mail. A message from his contact in the Justice Department. The police were looking for Flaherty and Amy Mallory for questioning. They were identified as being at a house in the Myrtle Beach area that was destroyed in an explosion. If that were true, why hadn’t they remained? Why would Flaherty risk his career by running?

  And how had they been identified? He called his friend at the FBI.

  “Should I know why you’re interested?” his friend said.

  “No,” Dustin said flatly.

  A silence. “You’re not mixed up in anything.…”

  “No,” Dustin said. “He called me a few days ago, something about our grandfathers.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Dustin. I’m going out on a limb for you.”

  “I’m not. And I’ll protect you. Just see if you can find out how Flaherty’s name surfaced.”

  “I’ll check on it, but if you’re not being straight with me.…”

  “Then you can do what you have to do,” Dustin said. “Thank you.”

  The phone clicked off, and Dustin wondered whether he’d lost one of the few friends he had.

  Flaherty must have checked on him. His name might well surface in some way. He would have to get to Flaherty first.

  He called in his secretary. “Judy, next time Colonel Flaherty calls, I want to talk to him. If I’m not here, give him my cell phone number.”