Longest Night

by Kara Braden

  “I was safe.”

  Anger flickered to life, but she was too tired for it to actually take hold. “You weren’t. Ian, when—”

  “Cecily, I—No, sorry,” he said, sounding unhappy. “It’s best for you to say whatever you need.”

  She glared at him. “This isn’t some mind game, Ian. I could have killed you!”

  “No, you—Well, you wouldn’t,” he said. “Not without provocation.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” she demanded.

  He took a breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Haven’t you been paying attention at all for the past week? I know what provokes your self-defense reflexes, Cecily. I sat next to you for two hours, and I was never in danger.”

  “God,” she whispered, looking away. Two hours. The sad part was that two hours was actually an improvement over some of her earlier episodes.

  “You won’t hurt me,” he repeated confidently. “I sat beside you for two hours, Cecily. I touched you. I handed you a mug of tea. Twice. Neither of which you drank,” he added in gentle accusation. “I promise, Cecily, you don’t have to worry.”

  “You’re wrong,” she insisted. “You don’t understand. Anything could trigger me. You can’t predict—”

  “I did.”

  Her thoughts, spiraling out of control, abruptly stalled. “What?”

  “I did. I knew it was a possibility. No, not a possibility. When we started our discussion, I knew something like that was inevitable.”

  “Why didn’t you stop it, then?”

  He sighed. “I wanted to get it over with. Now you can stop trying to hide, so I can—”

  “Is that what this was about?” she demanded in disbelief. “Me wearing a shirt to bed?”

  He glared and deliberately continued, “So I can stop hiding the fact that I know. I’ve known since I first saw you, after your shower.”

  She turned away and took a few breaths, trying to rationalize what he was saying, but she was exhausted and worn down and felt childishly resentful that he could function so damned normally while she couldn’t go twenty-four hours without nightmares, asleep or awake.

  “I see everything, Cecily. I put together the smallest minutiae, things most people never consciously acknowledge, into a coherent picture that no one else can see until I show it to them. It’s how I’m such a damned good lawyer.”

  She nodded, still refusing to look at him. On the surface, it all made perfect sense. Deeper down, on an emotional level, it was all kinds of fucked-up, but she had the feeling that was nothing more than a fear-based reaction.

  “The video,” she said, trying to stick to calm, cold logic. “How?”

  “The first day I had Internet access, I broke into my brother’s server and found your files. Most of it was redacted, but there was enough left for me to form a coherent picture. The rest, I figured out based on observing you.”

  He’d been sitting on this knowledge since last Monday, then. More than a week. She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “And you still stayed? You still—” She cut off awkwardly and gestured at the bed they’d shared just that morning.

  “With most people, the longer I know them, the more boring and predictable they are,” he said. “It seems to work backward with you.”

  “Fuck,” she whispered, shaking her head. Logic could only go so far against her emotional exhaustion. “I can’t do this now.”

  “I’m staying,” he said at once, as though prepared to defend his right to share the bed.

  She just waved a hand at the far side of the bed. She rose enough to push away the blanket and got under its comforting weight, fully dressed. Without hesitation, he followed suit. She started on her back, but she gave in after only a few seconds and rolled over to face him.

  “You really will sleep better under both blankets,” he said quietly.

  “You’re burning two days’ worth of firewood,” she answered, even though he was right. She was still cold, and she could feel the weight of his knowing stare. She sighed and said, “Fine. Just don’t crowd—”

  “I know,” he interrupted impatiently. He sat up and shook out his blanket over Cecily’s. Then he got out of bed, put his glasses on the nightstand, and started to strip off his clothes.

  Wondering if there had been a miscommunication, she said, “Ian, I’m not really in the mood…”

  With a huff of frustration, he asked, “In the military, did you sleep clothed?”

  “Of course… Wait, you’re stripping for contrast?” she asked, a smile flickering to life for the first time since everything had gone wrong.

  “You should as well.” He dropped his shirt on the floor and looked back over his bare shoulder. “If I wanted you out of your clothes for sex, you’d know it. This is only to help you sleep.”

  She surrendered, though more because it was damned uncomfortable to sleep in blue jeans than because his theory made any sort of sense. Then again, a whole battalion of therapists had accomplished virtually nothing. Ian had as good a chance as anyone else to accidentally stumble upon something to help her start to recover. And there was no sense hiding her scars, though she did keep her back turned when she took off her shirt. She made a point to get under the blankets as quickly as she could, hiding her scars from his sight.

  Two minutes later, they were both back in bed, this time under layers of blankets. Already, the heat had worn away the sharp edges of her post-blackout nervousness. She lay on her side, absently rubbing at the scarred entry wound on her shoulder. Another night, she might have tried a hot water bottle to soothe the ache, but right now, she wasn’t getting out of bed.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll give you a massage,” he offered.

  “Do you know how?”

  “Of course,” he said as though offended by the question. “It’s a useful skill. People talk when they’re relaxed.”

  She laughed and reached for his hand. “I hope that’s not how you get your clients to open up to you.”

  “Well, no.” He grinned, lifting her hand to kiss her fingertips. “But still, I’m very good at it.”

  “Modest, too.”

  Chapter 14

  October 30

  Cecily shifted her weight without lifting her feet, the movement silent despite the crust of half-inch-deep snow and fallen leaves that carpeted the forest. With every breath, the air in front of her fogged downward, deflected by the field glasses held to her eyes. She turned so slowly that Ian, watching for any sign of movement, almost didn’t notice the subtle contraction and extension of muscles as she scanned the area and then went still again.

  One corner of her mouth twitched upward in satisfaction. Slowly, she lowered the field glasses, taking care to catch the neck strap so it didn’t swing free.

  He was supposed to be helping to search for deer. He was positioned thirty yards away, with low-powered field glasses of his own but no rifle. She had started explaining Canadian hunting laws about giving him a rifle, only to admit that they were breaking those laws just by having him come out to help spot game. And then she had negated the explanation by saying, “No one’s going to check, in any case. The two part-time rangers around here are both from Pinelake. They don’t care, so long as the deer population stays stable.”

  Not that he particularly cared about deer. He watched Cecily instead, his mind filled with excitement as he took the measure of her patience. Early in his career, he had spent hours, even days, in alleys and abandoned apartment buildings or on rainy rooftops, observing potential witnesses. Stakeouts had been the worst part of his work. And while this deer hunt had lasted only hours so far, not days, she hadn’t shown the slightest sign of being bored. With anyone else, he would have attributed that lack of boredom to a dull, unimaginative mind, but not Cecily.

  He watched as she raised her rifle—the one she’d taken out two nights ago to defend against bears�
�and set it to her shoulder. She shifted position slightly, lowering her cheek to rest above the stock, right eye aligned with the scope. She was focused and alert, yet calm and perfectly controlled. He had no doubt that she was absolutely aware of his position, even though almost a hundred feet separated them.

  When the shot rang out, Ian couldn’t help but twitch in surprise. The echo filled the forest with sound. Two seconds after the shot, she lowered the rifle to hang across her chest on its sling. Her stillness drained away, and she grinned over at him, expression shadowed by the fur-edged hood for a moment before she pushed it back and ran a gloved hand through her hair.

  As he walked over to her, she asked, “Care to help, or are you sore from this morning’s exercises?” She picked up her frame pack and started walking toward the buck she’d shot.

  Curious, he followed, jogging to catch up. “I’m fine.” She’d finally bullied him into doing the stretches on his physical therapy worksheet, most of which involved him lying on the hard wood floor and wishing for wall-to-wall carpeting. “What about a second deer? You said you can take two.”

  She laughed, looking up at him with a grin that seemed to chase away the cold settling into his extremities. “As soon as I took the shot, the others were already running away. Besides, do you really want to try to carry two deer back? We’ll come out again tomorrow.”

  “I can think of better things to do tomorrow,” he hinted, grinning back at her.

  Mock-cheerfully, she answered, “Yes, and then we can spend all of January starving.” She elbowed him and then pulled the rifle sling over her head, offering the weapon to him. “Here, you can carry this. I need my hands free.”

  “For what?” He pulled the strap over his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable way to carry the rifle. He hadn’t held anything bigger than a .22 for over twenty years.

  “Field dressing. We need to remove the lower GI tract to prevent contamination, and we want the meat to cool as quickly as possible. Tastes better that way.”

  “Martha Christie,” Ian muttered, thinking back to one of his earliest clients.

  “Hm?”

  “Reminds me of Martha Christie. She called the police on her fiancé, who hired me to defend him after his arrest. She found a collection of knives and guns in his closet, along with traces of blood.” He huffed in remembered irritation. “It was from hunting. He forgave her, and they got married later that year. Sent me a duck in thanks.”

  She laughed, leaning companionably close for a moment before the terrain forced her to step around a half-hidden branch, parting them. “I have a waterfowl license. We could go out to the lake tomorrow, if you’d rather,” she offered.

  He glanced thoughtfully at her, barely noticing that they’d reached the fallen deer. “Preston goes hunting every year,” he said with a falsely casual air. “Deer, birds, all of that.”

  She dropped her pack next to the deer and crouched down to open it. “Can you help? If not, don’t worry. I’d rather you not throw up,” she said as she took out a coil of neon orange rope and a black plastic trash bag.

  “Not a problem. I’ve sat through postmortem examinations,” he said with more confidence than he felt. Postmortems were clean and clinical and scientific. Minutes ago, this deer had been standing and breathing. Thank God she’d felled the deer with a single shot. He wasn’t certain he could stomach tracking a wounded animal through the forest.

  Unaware of his thoughts, she looked at him across the deer, her grin a bit awed. “Postmortems? You really don’t live a very normal life, do you?” It didn’t sound like a criticism or accusation.

  He grinned back. “Normal is—”

  “Boring. Yes, I know,” she interrupted with a laugh. “Right, help me get this fellow on his left side, and drag his feet off to the right a bit.”

  Bracing himself, he lifted and moved the carcass as she directed. “You’re not.”

  She glanced down at the buck, frowning. “Not? Not what?”

  “Boring.”

  Releasing the deer’s weight with a grunt, Cecily straightened and took a folding knife from the outer pocket of her parka. She used a lever to open it without having to take off her gloves. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

  Ian smiled.

  ***

  It was almost an hour before Cecily finally made it back inside the cabin after butchering the deer and hiding the antlers in the quad. Though she usually didn’t take hunting trophies, she had plans for the antlers. She went to the sink to wash off her gloves, sniffing at the stew bubbling away in the Dutch oven.

  “God, that smells good. I’m starved.”

  “I thought so.” Ian leaned on the counter beside her with lazy grace, a smile playing at his lips. He’d showered, leaving his blond hair streaked dark. The cabin was toasty warm; a glance told Cecily that Ian had restocked the rack of firewood beside the kitchen stove.

  “How’s your back?”

  His smile turned into a grin. “Up for anything you’d like.”

  She laughed and dropped her clean gloves on the counter to dry. Turning away to hide her blush, she went to hang her parka by the back door. “I meant, you were carrying firewood. Did you hurt yourself?”

  “I’m fine. I suppose,” he admitted with a dramatic sigh, “that all the walking we do out here is good for me. Back home, the only exercise I got was in the gym, on the rare mornings when I had time.”

  Cecily huffed, warming her hands at the stove, thinking of the other exercise that he hadn’t mentioned. Of course, he probably didn’t lack for partners back home. Unreasonable jealousy twisted through her.

  At a touch on her arm, she turned and looked up into Ian’s eyes. “I also didn’t have much time for dating.”

  Startled, she blurted out, “How did you—”

  “Logical next thought,” he said reasonably, running his fingers up to her shoulder and back down in a soothing motion. “But really, there wasn’t time for much of anything besides work. How do you think I got myself into so much trouble?”

  Cecily smiled at him. “I think you attract trouble, and work has nothing to do with it at all.”

  Eyes bright, he ducked to brush a soft kiss over her cheek. “I got you, didn’t I?”

  Laughing, she swatted at him, and he backed away, wincing when he twisted out of reach. Worry spiked through her playful mood. “Go sit down,” she told him. “I’ll set the table.”

  Unable to surrender gracefully, he smoothed a hand over her hip and only retreated to the table when she poked at his arm again. “If I wasn’t at the office, I was investigating my cases, searching records, even attending autopsies.”

  Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. “That explains why you handled the deer so calmly.”

  “I’m not usually that close, but…” He shrugged and sat down. “Sometimes, my cases require specialized information. And it helps me think.”

  She set two bowls on the counter and ladled stew into each one. Ian had used a bag of the venison stock she kept in the freezer, and had added potatoes, onions, and stew meat. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not always the actual examination results that matter so much as the process. It’s methodical and precise—a tool for advanced thinking. Yes, sometimes something interesting is uncovered, but most often, a murder is a gunshot or stabbing or blunt trauma. But watching the examination forces me to think properly. It’s about focus, not the postmortem itself.”

  “That…makes sense,” she admitted slowly, picking up her bowl with both hands to carry it to the table. “I never thought lawyers and scientists would have so much in common.”

  “Logical thinking.”

  “What about your brother? Is he just as logical?”

  He took a deep, thoughtful breath. “He’s more passionate, I’d say. Impulsive. Growing up, he rarely did anything with much planning or foresight, thoug
h that’s changed now.”

  “Fortunately for me,” she said, spooning up some of the stew. She blew on it to cool it. “I’d probably be dead without him.” She sipped at the stew, letting the taste help ground her here, in the reality of her safe, warm cabin on the other side of the world from her nightmares. “I still don’t know how or why he sent a team after me.”

  He dropped his spoon with a loud clatter, splashing stew onto the table. “My God.”

  She looked up; he was staring at the table, frowning in thought. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m…I’m fine.” He darted a glance at her. “Preston broke the rules for you.”

  “What?”

  “Rules. Battlefield customs, whatever they’re called,” he said, picking up his spoon to give an irritated wave. “Shortcuts. I remember it now. He flew out to Iraq unexpectedly, at Christmastime. Our parents were furious.”

  “What do you mean, though?” she pressed.

  “The Marines were looking for you. They don’t leave their own. But Preston’s soldiers found you before they did. How?”

  He broke the rules, she thought, remembering the harsh reality of warfare and how frustrating it sometimes was to be hampered by military law. “But his troops were there on a military contract.”

  “Not all of them. That has to be it.” He leaned back in his chair and gestured with the spoon again. “Samaritan has contracts all over the world, primarily to provide security for civilians in hazardous areas. I’ve done contract review for them. Private security doesn’t need to follow military law. He must have gotten the video and sent the intel to one of his private groups.”

  “He… That was incredibly risky. Even passing intel like that…”

  “Right after 9/11, Preston was briefly sent to Israel. He…met someone. Her name was Lilit. She was IDF—the Israeli Defense Force. She was in the intelligence branch, training for Mossad. She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said automatically. By the look on Ian’s face, the woman’s death hadn’t been an accident.