The Colonel's Daughter

by Debby Giusti

  “Get out of here.” He waved her on. “Now. Corporal McGrunner is on his way to MP headquarters. You’ll be safe with him. I’ll take care of Michele.”

  She cracked the window, her eyes filled with fear, and pointed to the thicket behind the quarters. “I...I just saw a man run into the woods.”

  Jamison flicked his gaze into the tall stand of trees.

  “Drive away, ma’am.”

  She shook her head. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Michele has the keys. Besides, I...I won’t leave my daughter.”

  “Then get down and stay put.”

  She slumped lower in the seat. Her muffled sobs cut through Jamison’s resolve.

  He darted up the front steps and crouched at the side of the door. Glancing through the sidelight, he saw nothing, heard nothing except his own heart thumping in his chest.

  The fingers of his right hand tightened on his weapon. He reached for the brass knob with his left and groaned silently when it failed to turn.

  Needing to get inside as soon as possible, he took a running leap and lunged, throwing his body against the door. Once. Twice.

  The lock sprang, and the door flew open.

  Weapon raised and finger on the trigger, he entered the house, his eyes searching the darkness.

  A moan brought bile to his gut. He followed the sound into the dining room and dropped to the floor when he saw Michele.

  Blood spattered the front of her blouse.

  He touched her neck.

  She blinked her eyes open. “Al...Alice?”

  “What happened?”

  “My muscles...spasms...I tried to fight, but...I couldn’t move....”

  “Did you see him?”

  She nodded. “He...he was wearing a black ski mask.... He had a knife.”

  Jamison pushed back her hair, searching for the source of the blood, relieved to find none. At the same time he raised his cell and called Dawson.

  “Send an ambulance. I’ve got Michele. The guy ran. Set up roadblocks. Have foot patrols search the housing area. Lock down Fort Rickman.”

  “Alice?” she asked again when he disconnected.

  “I’ll find her.”

  Michele tried to sit up. Jamison put his hand on her shoulder. “Stay where you are.”

  He headed for the kitchen and adjoining breakfast area. The woman Michele had introduced him to at the auditorium lay on the floor beside the table. Her blue-green eyes had been full of life earlier. Now they were covered with a deadly haze.

  He stooped and felt for a pulse. Faint, but she was still alive. “Hang on, ma’am. An ambulance is on the way.”

  Her neck had been cut, but the artery was still intact.

  She was lucky, or would be if she lived.

  He heard a noise and turned.

  Michele was standing in the doorway. She gasped and ran to kneel beside the wounded woman. “Oh, Alice.”

  Jamison checked the rest of the house. Glass from a small window next to the back door had shattered onto the floor. Easy enough for the perpetrator to stick his hand through the window and turn the lock, which must have been the mode of entry.

  Jamison retraced his steps to the kitchen. He found Michele holding Alice’s hand and reassuring her with a calming voice. “Hold on, honey. You’re going to be okay.”

  Glancing up, Michele shook her head.

  “The ambulance is on the way,” he offered for support.

  “Will it get here in time?”

  Before he could respond, the house phone rang.

  They both stared at where it sat on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s her wedding anniversary.” Michele’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Her husband said he’d call.”

  If Sergeant Rossi was on the line, Jamison would have to tell him about his wife. He glanced once again at Michele, her lips tight, her eyes wide.

  Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, Jamison wrapped it around the receiver and raised the phone to his ear.

  “I used a stun gun.” A muffled male voice. No hint of a Southern drawl.

  Jamison needed to keep him talking. “How’d you get inside the house?”

  “You’re smart enough to figure that out.”

  “You attacked Yolanda and now Mrs. Rossi. Why?”

  “I thought you were good at what you do.”

  “You’ve got a grudge against the military.”

  Laughter.

  Jamison’s fisted his free hand, wanting to reach through the phone and yank the killer by the throat.

  The laughter halted abruptly. “I love the military, but not everyone acts heroically.”

  “Is killing an innocent woman heroic?”

  A growl sounded in Jamison’s ear. “I defended my country. I went to war and came home, but—”

  “But what?”

  “It was too late.”

  “Too late for what? Were you hurt?”

  “I died.” The line disconnected.

  “Wait—” Jamison tapped in the digits to retrieve the caller’s number.

  Using his own cell, he phoned CID headquarters. Corporal Raynard Otis answered.

  “The killer called the Rossi quarters.” He relayed the home phone digits and the incoming number. “See if you can find where the call originated.”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  “What’d the killer say?” Michele asked when Jamison hung up.

  “That he was a soldier who was redeployed home from the war too late.”

  Sirens wailed toward the house. Jamison started toward the front door, but stopped when the phone rang again. Just as before, he used his handkerchief and raised the phone to his ear, expecting to hear the killer’s voice once more.

  “Happy anniversary to the most beautiful woman in the whole world. I’m coming home, baby. Won’t be long and you’ll be in my arms.”

  Jamison’s mouth went dry.

  “Alice?”

  “Sergeant Rossi, this is CID Special Agent Jamison Steele. I have bad news.”

  * * *

  Michele clutched Alice’s hand and watched Jamison’s face as he explained what had happened to her husband over the phone. All too vividly, Michele remembered the call from her parents when Lance’s chopper crashed.

  The scream of sirens stopped out front, and the house filled with military police. EMTs hastened to help Alice. Michele moved away to give them room to work.

  Jamison hung up with Sergeant Rossi as Dawson walked toward him. The two men lowered their voices. Jamison was a few inches taller than Dawson and leaner. His neck was taut, his gaze intense as they conversed.

  They turned in unison and looked at Michele. Still overcome with fatigue, she stared back, unable to mask her fear. Another woman had been injured—almost killed—and the attacker had come after her.

  Dawson approached her. “Jamison told me you saw the attacker.”

  “Yes, but I can’t tell you what he looked like. He wore a ski mask and surgical gloves on his hands, like a doctor. His eyes were dark. Maybe brown, but I’m not sure.”

  “Any other features you recall? Height? Build?”

  “Everything was a blur.”

  “Take your time,” Dawson said.

  She glanced from the lead agent to Jamison. His jaw was set and his eyes were dark. Ten months ago, Jamison’s eyes sparkled, and his easy smile used to make her insides quiver. Right now the raw look on his face had her quivering again. Both of them knew she was lucky to be alive.

  Michele and her mother never should have left the auditorium without Jamison. But then another thought struck Michele full force. If Jamison had escorted them, he would have confronted the killer. Knowing what could have happened to Jamison mixed with the memory of the knife and the spasms that had rocked her body.

  “He was medium height,” she finally said. “Well built. Like Jamison.”

  “Caucasian?” Dawson asked.

  “Yes.” She thought again of the knife and saw his hands holding the sharp blade.
This time, she saw the knife at Jamison’s throat.

  Jamison stepped closer.”Is there anything you can tell us about the knife, Michele?”

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her hands over her forehead, forcing her mind to focus on Jamison’s question instead of the image of the sharp blade and Jamison’s exposed flesh.

  “Metal handle?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Serrated blade or smooth?”

  “Smooth. Sharp.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “The killer put it against my—” She touched her neck. “He stopped when someone pounded on the door.”

  Jamison nodded. “Your mother was worried about you. When she couldn’t get in the house, she called me.”

  He leaned close to Michele as if he were trying to support her with his presence. She wished the others would go away so she could step into his arms. At the moment, with her insides still shaky and the memory of what had happened all too real, she wanted to be surrounded by his strength.

  Looking into his eyes, a flash of connection passed between them, and she knew in that instant that Jamison understood.

  “The effects of the stun gun will pass, Michele,” he said, his voice soothing her fears. “The fatigue is due to your muscles convulsing and the lactic acid buildup.”

  “I...I’m the lucky one.” She turned her gaze to the EMTs. They lifted Alice onto a gurney, ready to take her to the ambulance.

  A medic approached Michele. “Ma’am, I’d like to check your vitals and see how you’re doing.”

  “I...I’m okay.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But it’s a good idea to let us make sure your stats coincide with how you feel.”

  Jamison’s hand rubbed against her arm. “Dawson and I will be outside.”

  “My mother?”

  “An MP is with her,” Dawson said. “I’ll tell him she can come in now.”

  Michele nodded. She didn’t want Jamison to leave her. As she watched him walk away, she felt empty, drained, unable to think of anything except the urge to call him back to her.

  Had she made a mistake by leaving him ten months ago? As much as she wished everything was different, she knew there was no way she could change what had happened. She had left Jamison for a good reason, or so it had seemed at the time. Now she wasn’t sure of anything.

  * * *

  Once the signal was given, the military policeman allowed Mrs. Logan into the house. “Michele’s in the kitchen,” Jamison said as she rushed past him.

  The two agents stepped outside. “How’d Michele end up with the killer?” Dawson asked.

  Jamison explained about the tote bag and Michele and her mother trying to be Good Samaritans.

  “Was he waiting for Mrs. Rossi to return home from the briefing? Or was he going through the house for some other reason, and she surprised him?”

  “Nothing was disturbed, Dawson. He was there for one reason and one reason only. He targeted Yolanda Hughes and Alice Rossi. We need to find a tie between those two women. From what Michele said, he would have killed her if Mrs. Logan hadn’t pounded on the front door and scared him off.”

  Jamison thought of the cemetery. Surely it was too much of a stretch to think the killer on post was the same person as the hit-and-run driver. Another thought chilled him. Could two attackers be targeting the same group of women?

  Dawson’s cell rang. He raised it to his ear and nodded. “Keep searching.” When he disconnected, he turned worried eyes to Jamison. “We set up roadblocks as soon as you called. Teams are canvassing the surrounding area on foot. No sign yet of anyone suspect.”

  Jamison pointed to the area behind the house. “The woods lead to the vast training area. If he headed that direction, he could be anywhere.”

  Dawson’s gaze narrowed. “Plus, he could exit the post from one of the back roads. If what he said to you on the phone is true, he’s prior military. Anyone previously stationed at Fort Rickman would know the post as well as the outlining ranges and training areas.”

  “He loves the military, but claims he died when he came home.”

  “Maybe he was injured,” Dawson suggested.

  “Or watched a comrade die.”

  “Or something happened when he came home.”

  “A wife left him perhaps? A family member died?” Jamison stared into the night. All around him, the crime scene team scurried to capture evidence.

  “The husbands of the two victims currently serve in Colonel Logan’s brigade, but they don’t work together.” Dawson mentioned what they both knew.

  Jamison rubbed at his jaw. “But they served together under Logan when he took his battalion to Iraq. The unit came home three years ago. If that’s the common thread, what would trigger the killer to strike now?”

  “A relative in the battalion could have died in combat. If the killer identified with the deceased, he might start to believe he himself had served.”

  Jamison slapped Dawson on the back. “Which is why we need that list of names from the cemetery in Freemont. I’ll give Simpson another call.”

  Pulling out his phone, Jamison tapped in the digits for the Freemont P.D. Simpson wasn’t on duty. Neither was the other police officer, Bobby Jones, who had accompanied Simpson to the cemetery.

  A third cop claimed Simpson had made some progress in tracking down the family members and would return Jamison’s call in the morning. He hung up less than satisfied and turned back to Dawson.

  “You better contact the cemetery director first thing tomorrow. See if he can provide the information we need. Also, find out if anyone in the brigade has been killed during this deployment. A grieving father, a brother, even the son of a deceased soldier might want to cause problems for Colonel Logan when he brings his unit back this time.”

  Dawson nodded. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Keep exerting pressure. We need a breakthrough on this case.”

  Again Dawson shrugged and flicked an embarrassed gaze at Jamison. “I told you, buddy. I didn’t ask to take over the lead.”

  Jamison held up his hand. “Let’s just get it done.”

  The blond agent shook his head. “Yeah, but the killer has struck twice. Add what happened at the cemetery and we’ve got three incidents. As far as finding the killer goes, we’re batting zero.”

  Jamison stared into the darkness. His stomach roiled as he thought of what the killer had planned to do. The two of them were on opposite sides. The perpetrator wanted Michele dead. Jamison, if he did nothing else, had to ensure that Michele stayed alive.

  Ten months ago, she had made it perfectly clear she didn’t want Jamison in her life, but he would sacrifice everything to ensure that she had a life to live.

  Even if it meant she’d leave him once again.

  EIGHT

  Michele huddled in the passenger’s seat next to Jamison. Her mother sat directly behind her in the rear, lost in her own thoughts.

  The three of them had followed the ambulance to the Fort Rickman Hospital and remained in the waiting room as Alice had been rushed into surgery. She’d come through that ordeal and was now in intensive care, monitored by a roomful of machines and a bevy of nurses and doctors who had insisted they go home. The medical staff promised to call at any change in her condition. Whether Alice would be strong enough to pull through was the question.

  Physically drained, Michele knew her mother and Jamison had to be equally fatigued. On the ride home, they all seemed lost in their own worlds. Michele kept thinking about Alice and her husband and the prayer they must have said for his safety when he left for Afghanistan. It was doubtful either of them thought Alice would be the one critically injured and fighting for her life.

  Overcome with the irony, Michele sighed.

  Jamison turned to gaze at her, his face bathed in the half-light from the dash. Although her heart was heavy, she appreciated the concern she saw in his bittersweet smile.

  “I’m glad the E.R. doc checked you out.” He reached over the consol to tak
e her hand.

  She appreciated the warmth of his touch. “Two hospital visits in one day isn’t a habit I want to continue.”

  He nodded. “I agree.”

  Turning her gaze toward the window, she thought of the killer still on the loose. What kind of man would attack so vengefully? Yolanda and Alice were wonderful women. Why had they been victims of such heinous attacks?

  As much as she wanted to forget what had happened, the memory of the killer kept circling through her mind. She had looked into his eyes and had seen evil. Jamison had talked about bad people in the world. She was beginning to think he had sugarcoated the reality of whom they were up against.

  Always considerate of her needs, Jamison helped her from the car when they arrived at her parents’ home. The effects of the stun gun had been short-lived, but Michele gladly accepted his steadying arm and the attention he showered over her.

  Once inside their quarters, Roberta made a pot of coffee, which she served to Jamison and Michele at the dining room table. Despite the mug she held, Michele still felt cold and longed, once again, for Jamison’s hand to cover hers with warmth.

  She stared at him from across the table. He had a string of questions for her mother, and from the intensity of his gaze, Michele realized he had slipped back into military CID mode.

  “Can you recall anyone in the past that might have had a grudge against your husband, Mrs. Logan?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No one who made his or her grievances known. I’m sure some of the soldiers were disgruntled from time to time if Stanley canceled their leave or kept their battalion in the field for an extended period of time. But if you’re talking about anything significant, then I’d have to say no.”

  Michele wondered if he was getting too far off track. “Do you really think a person would attack women on post to get back at my father?”

  Jamison sighed as if he, too, regretted the need to probe into brigade affairs. “We have to consider any situation that would make someone strike out, Michele.”

  Well aware that he was the expert in such matters, Michele held back from saying anything else and sipped her coffee.