by Debby Giusti
He held up his hand. “Nothing for me, ma’am, but I’ll tell the men.”
Backing down the steps, he glanced up at Michele’s window. The light from the hallway shone into her room. She had pulled back the curtain and stood, looking down at him, never realizing Jamison could see her outlined against the faint glow from the hallway.
She was grieving for Yolanda but also for her brother. And Jamison? He was still grieving for Michele.
TEN
Michele woke the next morning with a dull headache and the sniffles. She felt achy and sore as if she’d battled some unseen foe all night. Truth was, she had slept little and had been barraged with images of Yolanda’s and
Alice’s battered bodies.
Jamison’s face had traveled through her thoughts, as well. His smile of old had been replaced with a perpetual look of determination that revealed his own personal struggle to find the killer. In endless waves of terror, the knife, the blood, the carnage had all visited her in the night.
Wiping her hand over her face, she pulled herself from the bed and padded toward the window. Low cloud cover hid the sun and cast the day in a dirty gray that felt as heavy as her spirits.
Once upon a time, she had been strong and self-reliant. Now she doubted her own ability, her resolve and even her desire to do the right thing. Everything inside her was mixed together in a chaos that got darker with every turn.
She peered around the curtain at the yard below. Two military policemen stood on the sidewalk. Even without checking, she knew two more would be guarding the house in the rear.
Straining to glance down the street, she failed to see Jamison’s car. He must have left sometime in the night. No reason for him to stay round the clock. He needed rest and time off. Surely he had a life outside of work. Maybe even a new girlfriend, although the thought of him with another woman soured her stomach and turned the gray day even darker.
Coffee would clear her mind. Michele headed to the kitchen and was soon pouring the first cup from the pot she brewed. The rich aroma filled the kitchen and stamped normalcy on the new day.
Except nothing was normal about this Thursday.
“Morning, honey.” Her mother stepped into the breakfast area and pulled a cup from the cupboard. “Coffee smells good.”
“I didn’t hear you come down the stairs.”
“That’s because I was in the living room. I couldn’t sleep and got up at the first light of dawn. I’ve been reading my devotionals and writing in my journal. Somehow it’s helped.”
Michele took another long sip from her cup. There was no reason to upset her mother by sharing her own thoughts on God.
“I walked by your door a number of times.” Her mother raised her brow. “You were tossing and turning most of the night.”
Michele tried to smile. Her mother had an innate ability to sense whether her daughter had had a good night’s sleep. “I couldn’t seem to get comfortable. The last time I looked at the clock, it was 4:00 a.m. I must have dozed off by the time you came downstairs. I kept thinking about Alice. Any news on her condition?”
“Only that she’s still in ICU and critical.” Roberta poured coffee into her cup. “Your father called this morning. The planes are on the tarmac. He’ll let me know once they board.”
Michele thought of his smile and twinkling eyes and wanted him home safely. Then she thought of Jamison, and her cheeks burned.
“Something wrong, dear? You look a little flushed.” Her mother touched her forehead with the back of her hand. “Do you have a fever?”
“It’s probably the coffee.”
“I’m going to shower. Chaplain Grant scheduled the prayer service for 11:00 a.m.”
Michele refilled her cup and followed her mother upstairs. When she heard the shower running, she opened the drawer on her dresser. Her eyes fell on the Bible Lance had given her. She touched the leather cover and sighed.
As much as she wanted to stay home this morning, she didn’t want to have to answer her mother’s probing questions. Michele had never shared her change of heart concerning faith, a faith her parents had hoped to instill in both their children.
The lessons had found a home in Lance. If he hadn’t been snatched away so young, they might also have taken hold in Michele. As it was, she couldn’t trust a God who disregarded the well-being of His children.
Her own internal struggle continued as she walked into the Main Post Chapel and took her seat in the pew next to her mother. At least they were sitting by the aisle. If she needed to excuse herself from the service, she could do so without disrupting anyone.
Glancing around, Michele saw many of the brigade wives and family members. The choir leader stood and invited the congregation to do likewise. He led them in a poignant hymn that called upon the Lord to come to the aid of His people in their need.
As much as Michele wanted to sing, the words stuck in her throat. Her mother didn’t seem to notice, nor did she see how Michele worried her fingers and had to hold herself in check not to run from the assembly when the chaplain stepped to the pulpit.
Her head pounded even more as she tried to ignore his words about God’s loving providence. Everything inside her cried out against the hypocrisy of the teaching. She started to rise, but someone slipped into the pew next to her, blocking her escape.
Frustrated, she closed her eyes and sat back, silently counting to ten before she glanced at the newcomer.
Jamison.
Her heart accelerated.
He crooked a smile and leaned close. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”
She clasped her hands together in an attempt to appear in control, all the while wanting to race out of the church and away from a God she didn’t trust and a man who made her think back to when life was good.
Her mother glanced around Michele and smiled. “Morning, Jamison.”
“Nice to see you, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Any news on Alice?”
“Her condition hasn’t changed.”
“What are you doing here?” Michele said out of the side of her mouth, once her mother turned her attention back to the service. Michele kept her voice low so only Jamison could hear.
“Giving honor to God.”
“I mean, why are you sitting next to me?”
“I’m protecting you.”
She crossed her legs and wrapped her arms over her chest, trying to tune out the chaplain’s message.
Instead she was tuning in Jamison and the aftershave he wore and the dark sports coat and gray slacks and blue tie that made his ruddy complexion even more appealing. He might be clean shaven and showered, but the creases at the corners of his eyes confirmed he hadn’t taken her advice about getting sleep.
Michele kept her guard up. The last time she’d been in church with Jamison had been shortly before he and Dawson had walked into the cross fire. More than a year earlier, Lance had died after she had begun to test the gospel message. Every time she got close to God, He raised the price of faith.
She needed to block out the chaplain’s words. If she began to believe again, someone else might be taken from her. Michele looked at Jamison, knowing he was the likely target.
* * *
Jamison settled into the pew and enjoyed Michele’s closeness. Her immediate reaction had been to bristle when he sat down. Before long, she’d relaxed and even smiled at him as they’d joined in singing one of the hymns.
The service concluded too quickly in his opinion, and once outside, his cell vibrated. He checked caller ID. Dawson.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said to Michele.
She looked disappointed. A good sign.
“You’ll be at the barracks later today?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Corporal McGrunner will be your escort.”
“He followed us here.”
“Good. He’ll follow you home, too.” With a nod to Mrs. Logan, he left Michele and headed to his car, opening his cell phone on the way.
“The chief called a briefing.”
“What time?”
“As soon as you can get here.”
“Anything new I should know about?” Jamison asked as he settled behind the wheel and pulled out of the church parking lot.
“Only that the commanding general wants the killer in custody, and he’s putting pressure to bear on the chief, who will, no doubt, pass the pressure on to us.”
“That’s the way the army works.”
“Unfortunately. I got in touch with the cemetery director. Sergeant Brandon Carmichael’s grave site is located near the central oak tree.”
“Bingo. Tell me his daddy drives a black car with tinted windows and I’ll be happy.”
“A white SUV. I sent a couple of our men to talk to Mr. Carmichael. He’s out of town. The new Mrs. Carmichael was cooperative. According to her, Carmichael left Freemont last Sunday on a weeklong fishing trip with some of his old pals. He wasn’t in town yesterday, so he didn’t visit the cemetery. In fact, he rarely goes to his son’s grave site. She says it’s too painful.”
Mrs. Logan could probably relate.
“What about Greg Yates?” Jamison asked.
“He showed up with his son in tow. The kid’s nineteen and flew into Atlanta on Tuesday night.”
“Where’s he usually live?”
“With his mother in Texas. Yates said he got a surprise call from his son the afternoon of the potluck and had to hustle to Atlanta before the plane landed, only the storms rolled in. Flights were delayed, and once the son finally arrived, it was late. They got a motel room and took in a Braves game the next day.”
“And they drove back to Freemont last night.”
“Roger that.”
“Did you ask him about the possible divorce?”
“He blames it on lack of communication, and hopes his wife will consider counseling. Yates said he’ll do anything to save his marriage.”
Jamison glanced at his watch. “Tell the chief I’m on the way.”
Nothing new came out of the very lengthy meeting with Wilson except the reminder of the need to wrap up the investigation as soon as possible. Finding Mrs. Hughes’s killer was key, not that the chief needed to tell anyone. The entire CID and military police force were committed to finding the perpetrator and bringing him to justice. After the briefing, Jamison completed a few additional tasks that needed his attention and that Wilson had requested.
By the time he left CID headquarters, the day was well spent. He had wanted to be with Michele earlier, but what he wanted had to take a backseat to the job that needed to get done. At least McGrunner was with her, keeping watch, ensuring that she and Mrs. Logan were safe.
Jamison drove to the brigade headquarters. Double-timing inside, he flashed his CID identification to a staff sergeant standing near the door. “Mrs. Logan and some of the wives are working in the area.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant pointed through a nearby window to a building one block south of the headquarters. “You can see their cars from here.”
With a nod of thanks, Jamison hustled outside and moved his own vehicle to the front of the barracks the sergeant had indicated. Getting out of his car, he spied Corporal McGrunner carrying a large potted plant.
The military policeman shifted the greenery to his left hand and saluted with his right. “Sir, Mrs. Logan and her daughter are on the third floor in the Day Room. The florist donated plants, and the ladies are making welcome-home bags for all the soldiers.”
“Any sign of trouble?”
“No, sir. Except Mrs. Logan needed help bringing in the plants.”
“Isn’t the florist around?”
“He’s upstairs arranging some of the flowers.”
“Flowers in the Day Room?”
McGrunner nodded. “He donated potted plants and a few cut arrangements. Mrs. Logan says he’s been extremely generous.”
Jamison harrumphed. He doubted the male soldiers cared about flowers, but the few female soldiers in the unit would probably appreciate the florist’s generosity.
Memo to self. If he ever fell in love again, he’d send flowers. Lots of flowers on a regular basis.
Jamison headed for the stairwell and hurried upstairs. On the third floor, he turned right and followed the sound of voices.
Approaching an open door, he glanced inside. Michele stood at the foot of a single bed, straightening the end of the blanket.
“Need some help?”
She looked up, startled.
“Sorry to frighten you.” The room smelled like lemon furniture polish. He noticed a man standing near the corner, holding a dust cloth. Dressed in civilian clothes, he was tall with a muscular build. Mid-forties.
“Have you met Greg Yates?” Michele asked. “His wife is in the brigade.”
“Special Agent Steele.” Jamison extended his hand, which Yates shook with a firm grasp.
Michele stepped toward the door. “Mother’s in the Day Room, if you need to talk to her. I’m headed that way.”
Jamison followed Michele into the hallway. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You had a phone call after the service this morning. Did something happen?”
“Information came in on Carmichael.”
“The soldier who was killed in Iraq?”
“That’s right. Do you have any idea how old the man at the cemetery might have been?”
“He was too far away to tell.
“Gray hair? Stooped shoulders? Perhaps a hesitation in his gait?”
“He appeared strong and healthy.”
After making the bed in a second room, Jamison and Michele headed to the Day Room, where Greg had joined a group of wives, stuffing individually wrapped baked goods into plastic bags.
Mrs. Logan had a wide smile on her face. “We could use your help, Jamison.” She pointed to the florist.
“Teddy’s donated some lovely plants that need to be brought into the building, if you can lend a hand.”
Teddy waved from the desk where he was adding American flags and red, white and blue bows to three large floral arrangements.
McGrunner entered the Day Room. He placed the plant he carried on the table where Teddy worked and smiled. “Follow me, sir.”
Jamison turned to the major’s husband. “You want to lend a hand, Mr. Yates?”
The guy shook his head. “No can do. Bad back.”
Yet he appeared bulked up as if he pumped iron on a regular schedule.
Shrugging out of his sports coat, Jamison hung it over the back of a chair and followed McGrunner down the stairs. On the first floor, he grabbed a cart from a utility closet. Unloading the remaining plants onto the cart, they pushed them toward the inside stairwell and, from there, carried them up the stairs.
Michele wasn’t in the Day Room when he returned. “Where’s your daughter?” Jamison asked Mrs. Logan.
“She and Teddy took a couple of flower arrangements to one of the other floors.”
Leaving McGrunner to bring up the rest of the plants, Jamison went in search of Michele.
The overhead lights were out at the rear of the building, sending shadows to darken the hallway. Turning a corner, he spied Teddy walking toward him.
“Where’s Miss Logan?”
“Giving directions to a soda distributor named Perkins. He couldn’t find the soft drink machines.”
Jamison hadn’t seen any distributor’s truck parked out front.
“Where’d they go?”
“Downstairs.” Teddy pointed over his shoulder. “End of the hall, then left. The machines are directly below, on the second floor.”
The muscles in Jamison’s shoulders tightened as he raced to the end of the hallway. Taking the steps two at a time, he called Michele’s name and pushed through the fire door into the unlit second floor. “Michele?”
Silence.
Then a gasp. A scuffling sound followed.
“Michele?” He turned the c
orner, ready to confront anyone or anything doing her harm.
She stood in a narrow room surrounded by soda dispensing machines. Hand at her throat, she stared at a man crouched on his hands and knees in the corner.
“Step toward me, Michele.”
She looked surprised. “What?”
“Step away from the man. Now.”
“I’m okay. Really. It was a mouse.”
Jamison frowned. “What?”
Michele pointed to where the man was peering under one of the vending machines. “I was showing Mr. Perkins the soft drink machines when a mouse ran across the floor.”
“Looks like he’s disappeared.” Perkins stood. “You’d better report it. Someone needs to set a trap and catch the critter.”
He glanced at the SIG Sauer on Jamison’s hip. “Then again, you could shoot him.”
The guy wore navy chinos and a polo shirt. Solid build, probably weighed somewhere between two-ten and two-twenty. Pudgy hands, well callused.
Jamison zeroed in on the scratch marks around his wrists and lower arms.
“Michele, go back to the Day Room.”
“What?”
Why did she always have to question him when he was trying to keep her safe?
“Go upstairs to the third floor and rejoin the other women.”
She narrowed her gaze. “I don’t understand.”
“Michele, please—” He jerked his head toward the door. “Upstairs. Now. Rejoin the other ladies.”
Finally, she did as he had asked. Jamison was relieved when her footfalls sounded going up the stairs.
“I’m Special Agent Steele, CID.” Jamison flashed his identification. “I’d like to see the paperwork authorizing you to be on post.”
Perkins rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, sir. I need your authorization.”
Despite his attitude, the distributor pulled the papers from his pocket.
Pete Perkins. Freemont address.
“You want to tell me what you’re doing here, Mr. Perkins?”
He spread his hands and took a step toward Jamison.
“Stay where you are, sir.”
The guy stopped, brows raised. “Look, I don’t want to cause any problem.”