Buried Agendas

by Donnell Ann Bell

  “Honestly, I have no idea. But I’ll tell you one thing; I won’t sleep until I find out.”

  “Maybe you should show up.”

  Diana whirled on him.

  “With an entire crew, of course.” Marty sprang from the couch, and in his typical what’s-in-it-for-the-station style, launched into his pitch, “‘Diana Reid investigates hometown intrigue.’ You know, management just might go for it. If I get the go-ahead, I could pull in a substitute anchor and schedule a crew tomorrow. You could leave by Wednesday.”

  The more the idea resonated with Marty, the more panic bubbled inside her. She fought to appear nonchalant, while struggling to breathe. If she appeared in Diamond, Clayton would tell the world about that file.

  At first, keeping it quiet had been about pride and protecting her mother. Today, this kind of negative exposure could destroy her career.

  She pressed her palm to the locket Brad had given her the night of their engagement. While she’d returned his ring, she hadn’t had the heart to part with her most cherished keepsake, and he’d never asked for the locket back. Her feelings about the MIA bracelet she’d once worn to honor her father, however, held no such warmth.

  Bitterness welled inside her. She’d been a baby when he’d gone missing. All she had were her mother’s romantic notions of a hero, and a top secret file that proved differently.

  Top secret files, duplicitous people, anonymous letters. Her situation was hopeless. The only way she could go back to Diamond, Texas was if she turned invisible. And what to do about Jordan Industries? Without her credentials, how was she supposed to investigate that? And just that fast, an idea came to her, filling her with both excitement and dread.

  Maybe you should show up. Nope. But what if I show up as someone else?

  “Diana, are you listening to me? Could you be ready by Wednesday?”

  She faced him. “I could. But, Marty, I don’t want you to schedule a crew. If I travel to Diamond, I want to do this alone.”

  “Not happenin’, babe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Whoever wrote this will be expecting me in Diamond. If I’m surrounded by people, he’ll be less likely to approach.” She picked up the letter for emphasis. “He obviously wants anonymity or he would have signed his name, don’t you think?”

  “Crazies don’t sign their names. And if he is legit, he’ll find a way to make contact. They always do.”

  “It could be a story, Marty. A big one.”

  His jaw worked and he shook his head. “No crew, no dice. You’ll never be just about getting a story to me.”

  Touched, Diana moved close to him. “Diamond’s my hometown. I’ll hardly be alone. There are plenty of people I can contact if I get into trouble.” But even as she voiced the argument, her mind raced. If she did what she was contemplating, no one would know she was there.

  “I’d rather do this with your support than without it,” Diana said, swallowing hard. “But whether I use vacation or my press pass, I’m going.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “I’m scared for my mom, Marty.”

  Hands on his hips, he placed distance between them. “I ought to have my head examined. You’ll be careful? Keep in touch with me every day?”

  Her mouth curved into a tentative smile. “Cross my heart. And if it is a story, and I need a crew, I’ll call you. How’s that?”

  She didn’t catch what he muttered under his breath.

  Afraid the least bit of inflection would be construed as triumph, and make him reconsider, she stowed her excitement. “Thank you, Marty. You won’t regret this.”

  He drew her into his arms. “You can quit with the charm, Diana. I said yes. And as far as regret . . . too late. I already do.”

  Chapter Four

  JOHN JORDAN PUT his back into burrowing the posthole, then added rocky soil to the heaps accumulating beside him. Drenched from the brutal heat, with no relief from a West Texas breeze, he pulled the bandana from his neck and wiped his face. He swallowed over his parched throat and surveyed his progress.

  A long row of postholes lined the corral. John smiled in satisfaction. His father thought he was crazy. A man with John’s resources ought to hire it out—get some of the wetbacks, as Clayton irreverently called them, constantly crossing the border to do the labor.

  Even his boys were concerned. Neil and Brad had expressed worry about heatstroke.

  But John was sixty-three, not eighty-three, and had sense enough to take precautions. He reassured his sons he’d never felt better, that after sitting behind a desk for thirty-three years, he needed to do something physical. He thrust the tool back into the dirt.

  The sound of an engine interrupted his work.

  A familiar red pickup barreled in his direction. Clouds of dust obscured the vehicle, but John didn’t need sight to envision Faith Reid behind the wheel. He pictured her thick black hair, luminous dark eyes, and the occasional freckle that charmed her exotic face. The product of an Irish father and a Native American mother, she was, inside and out, one of the most beautiful women John had ever known.

  Slowing, Faith drew the vehicle to a stop alongside him, and he opened the door.

  Black bag in hand, she exited the truck with her usual effortless grace. Dressed in jeans and a denim vest, she wore a badge over her left breast that identified her as a registered nurse for the Southwestern Visiting Nurses Association.

  “Hi, John.”

  “Faith. Thanks for coming.” He hugged her.

  “You’re welcome. How is he today?”

  “Same as every day he’s on the planet,” John replied. “Ornery. Gloria keeps threatening to flush his medicine down the toilet . . . put him out of his misery.”

  Faith pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “I’ll have to speak to her. If she plans on being a nurse, that’s a no-no.”

  When she smiled, tiny creases bracketed her eyes. But Faith would never age. She would always be the young woman who’d sat by his wife’s bedside. And for that, he was eternally grateful.

  He wrapped his hand around her elbow. “He’s in his room.”

  They walked toward the house, and a wave of conscience besieged him. In Faith’s mind, she was married, as evidenced by the gold band she wore on her finger and the numerous keepsakes she kept in her house. To let her know the depths of his desire, or to encourage anything further, would destroy the long friendship they’d shared.

  But the odds that her husband and his crew had survived a chopper crash over Laos after so many years were miniscule. How ironic. The year had been 1976, and the war was over. Reid and a reconnaissance team had been on a fact-finding mission scouting for still-missing-in-action vets. Instead of bringing them home, he’d joined their ranks and become one.

  After John’s wife Amy had died, he’d prayed they’d be able to put those painful years behind them, that Reid’s remains would be found, and he and Faith could build a life together. But the telegram had never come. And he found himself competing with a ghost. A ghost his country had proclaimed a hero.

  A dizzying thought shook him. What if one day the impossible happened and Faith’s husband did come home?

  Stepping onto the wraparound porch, John opened the heavy oak door for her.

  She turned to him and grinned. “Such a place. Whenever I’m here, I feel like I’m looking at an issue of Architectural Digest.”

  He smiled. His home was magnificent. A sprawling two-story redbrick estate, he’d built it in the eighties. Twenty-four years later, mature cottonwoods added grandeur. But now, infrequently-used tennis courts occupied the south side, while an occasionally-used swimming pool bordered a terraced backyard.

  He wanted to tell her the place was no more than a tomb, that it only breathed life when she graced its doorstep. Instead, he thanked her for the compliment, extended his ar
m, and motioned her upstairs.

  They found John’s elderly father sitting in his chair. Dressed in tan pants and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, Clayton ignored them, focusing on a rerun of Bonanza.

  The silver-haired man’s skin sagged, his mouth drooped slightly, and one arm hung limply at his side.

  In spite of his father’s recent stroke, John took comfort that the fog had lifted from Clayton’s sky-blue eyes. Today, they gazed straight ahead, sharp and in touch.

  The confinement had to be tough. An active man until the stroke, Clayton had spent much of his time hunting, fishing, and playing cards.

  Faith moved to him, took his trembling hand in hers, and guided it to his lap. “Hello, Mr. Jordan. How do you feel today?”

  Clayton harrumphed, his normal response whenever Faith broached the subject of his health.

  She glanced at John and winked. She amazed him. His father had a surly temperament that the healthcare worker took in stride. She never spoke less than kind words to him.

  Faith pulled the blood pressure cuff from the bag and wrapped it around Clayton’s rail-thin arm. Afterward, she jotted down the results, took his pulse, and listened to his heart. Her examination completed, she lowered herself to his eye level and smiled. “Good news, Mr. Jordan. The Tilcid’s working.” She reached for a ball on the bed. “Have you been doing your exercises?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Is there anything you’d like me to tell your doctor?”

  For the first time in weeks, his father acknowledged her. “Why . . . don’t you . . . leave John be?”

  “Excuse me?” She stood, glancing from Clayton to John in astonishment.

  His slurred words grew louder, and the old man’s already-shaking hands trembled more. “Find yourself . . . a strapping brave and . . . leave my son . . . alone.”

  Her face drained of all color, and Faith stepped back.

  John’s superior-minded father had often made racial gibes behind people’s back, but nothing this blatant to their faces. John crossed the room in an instant. “For chrissakes, Dad. What’s gotten into you? Not another word.”

  “I’ll see myself out,” she said.

  John pierced his father with a scornful glare and turned to follow her through the door. “Faith.”

  In seconds, she’d descended the stairs and was outside, negotiating the lawn.

  John ran after her. “Faith. Wait.”

  At the sound of his voice, she pivoted. “I’ll speak to the association about assigning another nurse.”

  “Please.” He held out his arms. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  “It’s not your fault. How on earth did you survive his bigotry?”

  In that moment, John hated his father. He looked out in the direction of the barn. “Prejudice isn’t genetic. I’d like to tell you the stroke made Clayton say such a thing. But you know differently, don’t you?”

  The cell phone in her pickup rang. Faith ran for the open window and scooped it up. “Hello? Hello?”

  John strode to her side.

  “Whoever it was hung up.” Worry creased her brow as she flipped the device shut.

  “They’ll call back,” he reassured her.

  “I keep hoping to hear from Diana. She called last Tuesday, saying she’d caught a cold. I called her the next day at work to check on her, but they said she’d taken time off.”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  “She mentioned nothing about it, that’s all.” Faith kicked at the gravel on the driveway. “I’m sorry. I know she’s a difficult subject for you.”

  His smile came easily. Faith’s only child had hurt Brad, but John could never hate her. If Faith could tolerate his acerbic father, John could put up with her fame-seeking daughter. Besides, Diana was out of the picture anyway.

  “You know you can talk to me about anything. I’m sure she’s just fine.”

  The worry lines around Faith’s eyes eased, and she smiled up at him. What was it about her that made her irresistible? “Please, don’t leave on account of what that old coot said. I swear, even if I have to gag him, he’ll never say anything like that again.”

  She laughed. “Put that way, how can I refuse? But I do have a condition.”

  John grinned, loving the impish look she wore. “Anything.”

  “If you do muzzle him, I want to help.”

  Chapter Five

  THE CLOSER DIANA came to County Road Five, the more every nerve within her rebelled. She’d done it. Crammed five days’ worth of preparation into two, and made it to the outskirts of Diamond. She’d been so busy, she hadn’t had time to question her decision to go undercover at Jordan Industries, but now that she was so close, an inner voice kept screaming, “This is nuts!”

  If she turned left at the next fork, the road would take her to the Rolling J Ranch. But the Jordans’ property had long been off limits to her. No matter how badly she longed to see Brad, she had to face he was part of her past. Tamping down her bitterness, she trained her rented blue Ford Escort on her objective. In a few minutes, she would reach Jordan Industries.

  But first, to ensure none of her dark brunette hair escaped from beneath the short auburn wig, she pulled off the road to do a last-minute check. Behind the nonprescription designer frames, she wore emerald contact lenses. The result—her own dark brown eyes had been transformed into a vivid green.

  The makeup artist hadn’t even blinked when she told him she wanted to change her look. He’d simply applied his expert hand, then chosen an auburn-colored wig.

  Once fitted, however, he’d stepped back, seemingly surprised. “I don’t understand why anyone would want to cover up a head of hair like yours. But you’re a natural redhead, doll. With that look, you’ll knock ’em dead.”

  Diana tightened her lips. She had no intention of knocking anyone dead. All she wanted was to find out who had sent the letter, discover if there was any truth behind it, and get the blazes out of Diamond. Just being this close to Brad caused her heart to ache.

  Satisfied her features were well concealed, she glanced down at her clothing. The sleeveless white cotton shirt and tan Capri pants she’d chosen were deliberately casual. Turning her sandaled foot, she inspected the final touch to her disguise. A fake rose tattoo with the words I love Ronnie had been artfully drawn above her left ankle.

  On the plane trip from Dallas to El Paso, she’d mentally rehearsed her spiel. Her press credentials had given her a lot of leeway in her career. This time, she’d relied on an expert in stolen IDs. As a reporter, she’d skated the law once or twice, but so far, she’d never committed an actual crime. And while her decision to use the forged documents in her purse brought her no pleasure, neither did the idea of someone harming her mother.

  Resolute, she shifted the car into drive and traveled the remaining distance to the plant.

  The world had changed since September 11th, and Jordan along with it. The once semi-secure facility had dispensed with the welcome mat. Everything from posted no-trespassing warnings and rolled barbed wire, to an eight-foot chain link fence, shunned intruders.

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms. In every sense of the word, she’d come to intrude.

  An armed guard met her at the entry gate, wrote down her license plate number, and stooped down to inspect her through the open window.

  Her parched throat dried altogether.

  “Afternoon. Scorcher out here, ain’t it?” His eyes were lost behind reflective lenses, but Diana suspected he took in everything. “Name, identification, and the purpose for your visit.”

  She ordered her hands not to tremble as she reached for the bogus ID. Then, handing it to him, she abandoned the elocution that had earned her a career in broadcasting. Substituting a West Texas drawl, she said, “My name’s Candy. I—I mean Canda
ce Armstrong. I’m here to apply for a job.”

  “Wait here, please.”

  What next? She watched the man return to the shack. As he picked up the phone, her heart nearly stopped. Sweat beaded beneath the wig, and by the time he’d hung up the phone and taken his sweet time ambling back to the driver-side window, she’d almost whipped the car into reverse and turned back.

  “Take the graveled road three miles, and you’ll see signs that’ll lead you to Jordan Industries administration.”

  Gripping the steering wheel, Diana sighed. “Appreciate the help.”

  “Anytime. Good luck.”

  Per the guard’s instructions, she negotiated the two-lane road. Soon, smokestacks rose like metal giants, and the desert landscape became a mass of concrete and steel. The atmosphere changed, also. Odors of sulfur, petroleum, and myriad chemicals barely sensed from the highway now permeated the air.

  She’d been here a few times with Brad, but then she’d been focused on him. Today, she viewed Jordan Industries through a reporter’s eyes. The place looked different—modernized and prosperous. Her research had told her to expect a five-hundred-thousand-square-foot chemical plant. What the report hadn’t mentioned was that the facility would stretch on as far as the eye could see.

  Reminiscent of a prison, security cameras topped the outside of buildings, bringing Diana one step closer to a rational moment. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she pulled into the visitors’ section and let the motor run.

  She scanned the various structures as though their presence could provide an alternate plan. But none existed. At the same time she cut the engine, her breath came out in a whoosh. She left her rental car intent on her mission.

  An hour later, after completing a series of assessments and a typing test, a Human Resources specialist named Molly led her back to the personnel offices.

  “I don’t think I did too good,” Diana said, in keeping with the persona she’d developed for “Candy.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” Molly said. The woman had a personality that matched the drab color of her skirt. “Personally, I do very well on tests. Regardless, Susan said she’d like to talk to you.”