Oh sure, they’d shared a bed, even recently, but knowing something’s there and having to look at it were two entirely different things. Now was not the best of times for her to dwell on his scar.
He eased up off the bed and crept into the bathroom. Only after he’d guided the door shut and turned the doorknob’s lock, did he feel comfortable removing his shirt.
The abrasion sprawled across his side and around toward his back, much like an old-school kidney operation scar. If only that’d been the case.
One of Marcus’s assailants had taken a three inch pocket knife to him after the gang had attacked him mercilessly—his punishment for marrying outside his race.
The scar remained a constant symbol of what Marcus had done wrong, and the reason Cherilyn had chosen to leave the marriage.
He ran his fingers over the abrasion and tried to push the unwanted memories aside, opting to turn on the water. As usual, Marcus hoped the shower would wash the ghastly images from his mind. Maybe someday that’d work, but he doubted this would be the day, anymore than it had been yesterday.
The shower’s mist rained down over Marcus, cleansing his body and filling his thoughts with images from the past. One particular day, above all others, was the bane of his existence.
It wasn’t the memory of the assault that was a constant irritant for Marcus. That day was easy in comparison. The source of his misery was the day he woke up in the hospital and found his wife draped over his hospice bed.
There wasn’t a single spot on his entire body that didn’t hurt. Even his eyelids were encumbered with agonizing pain when he opened them. Reality was hazy at best, and it took a few seconds to realize where he was, and why.
Cherilyn was sleeping, but her eyes looked reddened and swollen shut. They, along with her pallid face, gave away her damaged state. The worn and crumpled Kleenex clutched loosely in her hand confirmed that she’d been crying.
Panic ricocheted through Marcus and he tried to sit up. Pain ripped through his chest, side and back. He relented to the pressure, sinking back into the bed with an escaping moan.
Cherilyn sprang up like a pop tart. “Marcus...?” She addressed him in a weakened voice that matched her fragile appearance. Her scrutinizing gaze scanned him quickly. He knew the look well. His wife was surveying the damage.
“What’s up, baby?” The words raked over his hoarse throat. He’d practically kill for a drink of water.
“Honey...?” Her tone held a more hopeful pitch, now that she’d obviously realized he was awake and in possession of his mental faculties. “How do you feel?”
As if sensing his thirst, she reached for the hospital issued pitcher and cup. Iced water speckled and splattered the bedside tray as she filled the plastic receptacle.
“Probably as bad as I look.” He grasped for the cup but hadn’t anticipated the weight of his hand. Glancing down, he was stunned to see both his arms wrapped in bandages. Marcus closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. He needed to think, but wading through all the haze was proving difficult.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked and paused, her face slipping into a mask of regret. “Here.” She set the cup down on the tray. “Let me help you.”
Marcus’s eyes were swollen and, while it was true, he felt like he was peering at the world through thin slits, he had no trouble seeing Cherilyn’s pain as it slid down her cheeks in trails of silent tears.
She found a straw, ripped the wrapper off and stuck it inside the cup before guiding both the siphon and the vessel toward his mouth.
Marcus sucked but got nothing. Maybe try a little harder. He called every muscle to action and ignored the pain that accompanied his feeble attempt at getting a drink of water, but still nothing.
Tired, he turned his head away and closed his eyes.
“Marcus...?” she said in a gentle pleading tone and draped her hand warmly over his. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he mouthed the word, but couldn’t be sure if any sound came out. His head pounded and he felt himself slipping back toward the darkness.
He didn’t want to go back there, into the slumber of nothingness, but it mattered little, and he couldn’t be sure how long he’d stayed when he woke again.
But, true to form, the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again was Cherilyn, looking like she’d lost her best friend.
Seeing him awake, she forced a smile over her rigid face, leaned over and brushed her lips against his forehead.
“How long was I out?” he asked, thinking his voice sounded heartier than before. He felt stronger.
“Not long.” She cleared her throat and choked back her concern, but it escaped in her brittle tone. “How are you feeling?”
She forced a smile and he knew it was nothing but a bid at misdirection. “Much better now,” he said, just to let her think she’d succeeded in her as of yet unidentified goal. “How long have I been in here?” he asked, fleeting images filling his head of the attack that had brought him to this place.
“It’s been a while.” Cherilyn eased into the chair at his bedside, still clinging to Marcus’s hand, and gave him a forced smile, as if that’d stop the tears soaking her eyes. “But the doctors have assured me that you’re getting better every day.”
“Good,” he said, feeling like he was thinking clearer than he had in a long time. “I’d like to go home.”
Finally, his mind was no longer draped in cobwebbed confusion. Clear thoughts of why going home was such a good idea filled his psyche. It’d been too long since he’d relished the heat of her naked body against his. Having those thoughts come to life, literally, filled him with a smile.
Damn, he must be getting better.
Wrapped in carnal thoughts of Cherilyn, the realization came slowly that she wasn’t nearly as happy about his potential release.
“What?” he asked, trying to put his budding anxiety under lockdown. “What is it?”
She shook her head slowly and her expression hardened. “We can’t go home.” Tears pooled around her beautiful, clear-blue eyes.
“Why not?” What was he missing? Had something happened at the house?
“They almost killed you, Marcus!” A terrified look accompanied her desperate plea, and he almost forgot he was the victim.
He drew a deep breath and instantly regretted it when his lungs twisted in agony. “And they’ll pay for that, too,” he said, holding his breath, hoping the pain in his chest would soon subside.
“We don’t even know who they are.” Cherilyn wasn’t arguing with him for argument’s sake. That wasn’t part of her makeup.
Suddenly, Marcus was more concerned about his wife’s intentions than the identity of his attackers. “What are you saying?”
“We have to face facts.” She kept her practiced smile plastered on but it didn’t mask her torment, not from Marcus.
The facts? Was she serious? The facts were that they loved each other and she was his wife. “What facts?” He got the feeling that she saw the facts as something entirely different.
“The fact that you and I—” She’d gotten control of her tone but it did nothing to keep the tears from sliding down her cheeks. “We were kidding ourselves.”
Damn. Times like this, Marcus hated being right. They weren’t on the same page at all. “We’ll leave here,” he said. “We’ll go somewhere else.”
“Where would we go?” Her hopeless tone suggested she didn’t consider that an option. Not a viable one anyway.
“I don’t know.” He shuffled through the wild thoughts and practicalities alike, looking for an answer. “We’ll get transferred,” he verbalized the thought as it crossed his mind. Making it up as he went along, he continued on, “considering what happened, we won’t have any trouble getting new orders.”
Cherilyn shook her head slowly and it seemed to reinforce her belief that they’d come to the end of the road. “You think a transfer will keep you safe?” From the look on her face, sheer doubt, she didn’t think so
. “You think the Marine Corps is going to keep you safe?” A sense of neuroticism had set a definite shrill in her tone. “The Marine Corps isn’t going to keep you safe. They can’t keep you safe.”
“Cher...” Marcus objected even though he knew he was losing ground, “you’re my wife.”
“And I always will be.”
But that hadn’t been the case, at all. A few months later, Marcus had received the divorce papers. He’d signed them and mailed them back to the attorney in question, mainly because he’d figured if she was serious enough to make the gesture, then she must want the disconnection.
Marcus shut the water down and dried off with the plush towel hanging over the shower door.
He couldn’t help but wonder if Cherilyn had lived to regret her decision to dissolve their marriage. He didn’t imagine that her stance had changed much over the years, but he regretted it. He just hadn’t realized it until now. Clearly, he still had feelings, strong feelings, for his ex-wife.
After drudging up the past, Marcus foresaw a night of tossing and turning. And, he’d dream about it too, no doubt.
The next morning, he was still tired after a restless night. He was thankful when Cherilyn said it was time to leave. Maybe, once in the car, he’d finally get some sleep.
Several dreams later, at daybreak, he awakened fully recharged, but with the attack from so long ago weighing heavily on his mind.
The memory of that night haunted him still. He’d tried therapy over the years, to no avail. He’d never been able to completely drive out his troubling demons. Eventually, he’d found a way to shove the nightmare toward the back, darkest corner, of his mind, and only occasionally did it creep back into his thoughts, reminding him of all he’d lost.
Marcus’s judge, jury and executioners had never been identified. And, even though he’d told himself many times that he was over it, deep down inside he still hated them for what they’d done. They’d taken away everything good in his life. His wife. There was a small part of him that hoped they all burned in hell.
His recovery from the near fatal beating was slow-going. Cherilyn wouldn’t have been able to divorce him so easily if not for that. But, once Marcus was adequately recovered, the Marine Corps opted to order him to a new facility where no one knew his history, and hopefully he could move on with his life.
Years later, when Marcus was ordered to Cherry Point and placed under the command of General Michael Hendricks, Marcus had convinced himself he’d moved on. At least he was safe—physically anyway. The General was the only person at Cherry Point that knew Marcus’s history and he’d never shared it with anyone.
General Hendricks had been appalled by what had happened to Marcus. He’d also made it his personal crusade to see to it that nothing like that ever happened to anyone while under his command. That was his personal promise to Marcus.
The General had kept his word. Marcus felt he owed it to him to find out what happened to the man, and to make sure nothing happened to his daughter in the process.
No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he couldn’t come close to contemplating a guess as to what was going on with the General. His analytical legal mind was usually able to get inside the inner workings of the criminal’s head. Marcus had defended too many of them, and had learned to read them quickly. By now, he got what made them tick. But here, right now, he couldn’t begin to grasp these unknown individuals’ illicit motivations. There had to be more than one person involved. How did one person make a high profile grave in a National Cemetery disappear?
That took connections. And guts.
If Cherilyn was even close, these people were way out of Marcus’s realm of firsthand knowledge. Everything he’d ever heard about secret, covert operations was merely hearsay. When it came to standing against the myth, he was at a clear-cut disadvantage. Marcus was acutely aware that there was nothing he could do about it, and that made him nervous.
He glanced over his shoulder at Eric and Grace leaning against each other, sleeping.
Marcus’s heart pounded and chased the anxiety up his chest, and he drew a deep breath to quell its mischief. Finally, gaining some much needed control over his emotions, he looked at Cherilyn.
She had both hands on the wheel and was staring straight ahead, singing softly along with the radio.
What was that song? He knew it, but couldn’t recall the title. Damn. He hated it when that happened, which seemed to be all too often these days.
Cherilyn glanced at Marcus and winked. “Have a nice nap?”
Nap? I don’t nap. Babies nap. “I was just resting my eyes.”
“Okay.” She snorted one of those laughs that reeked of doubt.
“Do you think anybody’s on to us yet?” His voice held a degree of optimism even though it was futile. If they were, that wasn’t good. And if they weren’t—how could that be? How did the people who made the General’s grave disappear not know about them?
Cherilyn shrugged. “Well, you and I may be as of yet undiscovered,” she said provisionally, “but...your friends? That’s another story.”
“If that’s true,” Marcus said, “then they’re not far behind.”
“Grab my duffle, please,” Cherilyn said, pointing to the bag at his feet. He did as instructed and held it in his lap. “I know you’ve got that shotgun in the trunk.” She paused and, using one hand, unzipped and dug around inside the bag. “But this is probably easier to conceal.” She pulled out a 9-mm handgun.
Marcus took her gun without saying a word. The fact that she thought it was necessary spoke volumes.
CHAPTER 26
ERIC had tried imagining, over the years, what kind of neighborhood Grace had decided to call home. Wherever it was, it hadn’t included him. She’d made sure of that.
He wasn’t sure if he was surprised or had expected to find she’d been living in an older neighborhood on the south side of Cleveland. How long she’d been there, he hadn’t a clue. As of yet, she hadn’t offered that info.
Most of the houses looked like they were built around the turn of the twentieth century. The home she directed Cherilyn to stop in front of had the columned porch architecture that was so popular during the era. Flowery shrubs with all the colors of the rainbow lined the front. Large concrete steps led from the worn walkway up to the covered veranda.
On the porch’s left side, at the far end a small table sat invitingly with two cushioned wicker chairs, indicating the owner was open to the idea of company. Still, the minimal number of chairs signified that visitors were only welcomed on an intimate basis.
The swing on the opposite side was the perfect complement. Even so, Eric struggled to make his way up the steps and trailed behind the others. Who knew he’d find it such a difficult undertaking to enter the place where Grace had called home?
So, this is what they call curb appeal. Eric was ready to try any distraction that came to mind, anything to sidetrack him from the reality that Grace had moved on. If admiring her landscaping was the way to do that, then so be it. As much as he hated to admit it, walking up to the house was comfortingly inviting. It was one of those places where you think you’d enjoy sitting on the steps and eating ice cream with your children. Or simply lounge in the swing and watch them playing with the other kids in the neighborhood.
Eric lingered behind the others at the bottom step while Grace slid her house key inside the lock. How many men had stood in that spot with her, and kissed her goodnight? How many had gone inside? And, how many had stayed the night?
Grace turned the key in the lock, but before she could turn the knob, Marcus grabbed her arm and stopped her from opening the door.
“Let me go first,” he said, guiding her back toward Eric.
What the hell am I doing? Eric moved up the steps toward her. Not only did Eric hate feeling this way, but his incessant fixation on her ability to get over him was bringing out a careless side of Eric that he didn’t like.
Damn it. He’d forgiven G
race. That’s what he’d told her. So what the hell was all this regret about?
Eric couldn’t afford to lose his cool right now. Grace’s life might depend upon him staying in control. Positioning himself between her and the door, he glanced inside the house.
“It’s okay,” Marcus called out from the interior. “It doesn’t appear that anybody’s been here.”
Relief swelled around Eric’s resentment but failed to consume it. Unable to go inside, he headed for the swing.
Grace paused at the door, having recognized the dissonance brewing behind Eric’s eyes. She wished she could help him, but didn’t know how. If she only knew what was wrong. Cutting her eyes toward the swing, her heart bottomed out. Identifying the torment plastered on his face was like a revelation.
Eric felt cheated. And it was her fault.
How was she supposed to fix that? Making it up to him was impossible. She couldn’t give him back the time he’d lost. And that was the thing that seemed to be bothering him the most.
Grace strolled to the swing and eased down beside him. For all the times she’d concocted this scenario in her fantasies, having the real thing here beside her now chased them off immediately and she hadn’t a clue what to do. An idea, one single idea, skipped through her thoughts. Doing something, anything, was better than doing nothing.
She draped her arm around his shoulders, leaned toward him and planted a kiss on his cheek. And instantly regretted the move. Sadness swelled tears inside her and she tried to head them off with laughter. She closed her eyes and turned away.
“What was that for?” His inquiry was filled with skepticism and doubt.
Grace didn’t respond immediately. First, she set out to wrangle in her riotous emotions. “You have no idea,” she said, turning back to face Eric and whatever wrath that came with him. “There were so many times when I sat right here in this swing, daydreaming about you and me.” She was very aware of the saddened smile curling on her lips, and she made no attempt to break away from the gaze he’d locked on her. “In the world I’d created in my head...we live here happily with our two children.” While tears brimmed her eyes, his flared with resentment. Accepting the notion that it was time to face the music, she continued on, “our son is the eldest. And he’s wildly popular with all the kids in the neighborhood. Our daughter is finally old enough to go outside and play with the other children, and her brother is very protective of her.”
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