by Debby Giusti
Feeling the tension in her shoulders, he rubbed his hand along her back. “Your dad’s on his way home. Once he arrives, you can be a family again. Everything will be better then.”
She edged back and looked up into his eyes. “You...you don’t understand. Without Lance, we’ll never be a family.”
Would she ever get over her brother’s death?
“Oh, honey.” He pulled her closer. “Life is filled with joy and pain. We have to accept both.”
“But my father—”
“He’ll be home tomorrow. All you have to do is get through the night.”
She sniffed. “But...”
He shook his head. “No buts. I’ll be close by if you need me.”
A heavy weight settled on Jamison’s heart as he thought of what could be between them and the reality of what they had instead.
No matter how much he wanted to reconcile with the past, Jamison and Michele stood on opposite sides of a huge divide that seemed impossible to traverse. His love hadn’t been enough for her to stay with him ten months ago. He doubted much had changed, except for his own desire to have her back in his life.
He ushered her toward the elevator and past a number of people on the first floor as they made their way toward the hospital’s main entrance.
Always concerned about Michele’s safety, Jamison scanned the lobby. A few people were milling around the main information desk, probably requesting room numbers for patients they planned to visit.
His gaze swept to the double glass doors that opened into the emergency room. A woman sat in the E.R. waiting area, head in her hands. A man huddled close by, rubbing her back. Other folks waited to be seen. A hospital security guard stood by the receptionist’s desk, arms crossed over his chest. Behind the tall counter, a young clerk chatted with someone on the phone.
Everything looked normal. Nothing to worry about.
The tension in Jamison’s neck began to subside. He pulled in a deep breath, but before he could exhale, the public address system screeched to life.
“Code Silver. Third floor. ICU. Code Silver.”
Jamison’s gut turned to ice. Code Silver meant an active shooter was in the hospital.
He grabbed Michele’s arm and herded her into the E.R. waiting room, flashing his identification at the security guard.
“Lock down all the doors to the E.R.,” he told the clerk. “Don’t let anyone in or out until you hear from me. Call the military police. Ensure that they know about the code, and get backup.”
He motioned for Michele and the patients in the waiting room to hide behind the tall, wraparound counter. “Stay down. You’ll be protected by the desk. An accomplice might be outside. Don’t leave the E.R.”
Fear flashed from Michele’s eyes. “It’s Alice, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, honey, but don’t move until an all clear comes over the PA system.” He tapped the security guard’s shoulder. “Come with me.”
The two raced into the lobby. Jamison glanced back to ensure that the clerk had closed and locked the doors behind them.
Ignoring the elevator, Jamison opted for the stairs and climbed at breakneck speed, pulling his weapon as he raced toward the danger. The guard followed, but his steps were labored, and he was gasping for air by the third floor.
Weapon at the ready, Jamison opened the door and stepped into pandemonium.
In one sweep, he saw it all.
His throat thickened. Alice lay sprawled across the transport gurney with a gunshot wound to her side. Corporal Riley was on the floor, unconscious and surrounded by a growing pool of blood.
A doctor reached for the portable defibrillator on the floor next to the guard. A nurse cut open his uniform.
“Clear.” The doc lowered the paddles onto the MP’s sunken chest.
Additional medical personnel raced forward.
“Get her to the O.R. stat!” someone shouted. Hands pushed Alice toward a second elevator.
Jamison raised his voice over the chaos. “Which way did the shooter go?”
Someone pointed to an exit at the end of the hall. “Back stairway. Two security guards ran after him. The guy’s wearing a black ski mask.”
Jamison raced forward, shoved on the door to the stairwell and flew down the steps. At the bottom landing, he pressed through the first-floor exit and rushed into the humid night. Two security men stood under a streetlight in the rear parking area. One raised a handheld radio to his ear.
Hearing Jamison approach, the other guard turned and shook his head. “He got away.”
Jamison pulled out his cell to notify the CID. Anger and frustration boiled up within him. He wanted to scream with rage. The killer had struck again. Alice was alive but only barely, and Jamison had no idea if she or Riley would survive the new injuries.
Jamison had been close. Yet not close enough.
He thought of Michele holed up in the E.R. At least she was safe.
The killer had a gun and was on the run. One thing was certain. He would strike again.
Jamison had to ensure that Michele wasn’t the next person he planned to kill.
THIRTEEN
Michele hunkered down behind the counter in the emergency room, fearful of what was happening upstairs in the ICU. Sirens sounded in the distance and grew steadily louder, crescendoing in a deafening scream as a caravan of squad cars screeched to the curb outside. Flashing lights spilled through the windows, bathing the E.R. in a strobelike effect that made her dizzy and even more afraid for Jamison’s safety.
Military police swarmed into the lobby and ran for the stairwell. Peering over the top of the desk, Michele saw Dawson Timmons race past.
“We’ll be all right,” she said, trying to calm the patients gathered around her.
“The shooter must be that serial killer on post,” a man said.
Next to him, a woman cried softly. “He’ll find us,” she said, her voice edged with fear.
“The CID and military police have everything under control.” At least, that’s what Michele wanted to believe.
The woman sniffed. “How can you be so sure?”
Michele shoved a box of tissues into her hands. “I know the special agents working on this case. They’ve had a lot of leads. The killer will be apprehended.”
A second woman stood up. “I need to get home to my husband. He’ll be worried.”
Michele gently touched her arm. “Wait until the all clear. A few more minutes won’t make a difference.” The woman hesitated and then sat back down.
Michele breathed a sigh of relief. One problem averted, although she understood the woman’s concern about her loved one. Michele’s mother was home. Hopefully, she was occupied with homecoming plans and wouldn’t hear about the attack at the hospital.
The clerk, in her early twenties with long hair and a tiny nose ring, leaned toward Michele, her voice low. “Does your boyfriend work for the police?”
Boyfriend? Michele had to smile. Once upon a time, Jamison had been even more than that to her. “He’s a CID agent on post. Criminal Investigation Division.”
The girl looked confused.
“You didn’t grow up in the military?” Michele asked.
“My dad runs the Laundromat in town.”
A civilian who didn’t know about the army. “CID agents handle felony crimes against military personnel and their family members.”
“So he’s working on the murder case?”
“That’s right.” Although if Michele had heard Jamison’s boss correctly, Chief Wilson had put Dawson in charge of the investigation. Jamison’s job was to keep her and her mother safe.
Tough duty, especially when Michele had been so careless at the cemetery yesterday. If she had kept her head up and her eyes wide open, she would have gotten off the road at the first sign of the approaching car. She also would have waited for Jamison before driving to Alice’s house last night, although as she’d told him earlier, arriving any later could have proven fatal to her
friend.
Michele rubbed her hands over her brow and rested the back of her head against the counter. No matter how much she wanted to be optimistic, she was worried about Jamison.
The clerk pulled her legs to her chest and placed her chin on her knees, eyes closed. The other people sat with their own thoughts. Michele checked her watch, wishing she’d hear something about what was happening on the third floor.
“Tell him thanks.”
Michele glanced at the clerk. “Pardon?”
“Thank your boyfriend for me. He tried to protect all of us.” Her thin lips twitched into a soulful smile. “You’re probably used to all the good he does, but I don’t know guys like that.” She chewed on her lip. “Your boyfriend’s a hero. A superhero.”
Michele closed her eyes. The young clerk had Jamison pegged. He was a man who always reacted in the face of any danger. Superheroes survived in spite of insurmountable odds because of their special powers, but Jamison survived because he was good at what he did and because he cared enough to try. Michele hadn’t recognized what this young girl had noticed immediately. Jamison was a very special agent.
Voices sounded in the lobby. Glancing over the counter, she saw Jamison talking to Dawson. Relief swept over her. At least tonight’s danger had passed.
A car engine sounded outside. She glanced out the window on the way to open the doors, planning to throw her arms around Jamison. But when he stood in front of her, all she could see was his face, twisted in pain, and the smear of blood across his once-white shirt.
“What happened?” she asked, fearing the worst.
“It’s Alice.”
Michele’s hand flew to her throat.
“She’s in surgery.” Jamison hesitated. “They...they don’t expect her to live.”
Michele wanted to be a superhero like Jamison, but too much had happened. Tears clouded her eyes, and her knees went weak. She felt herself falling, but instead of crashing to the floor, she fell into Jamison’s strong arms.
“It’s going to be okay, honey,” he soothed, rubbing his hands over her back.
Even superheroes sometimes lied, if the truth was too hard to accept, and the truth about Alice was more than Michele could bear.
Lance.
Yolanda.
Now Alice.
Michele’s father was flying home from a war zone, and a killer was stalking his next victim.
Who would he come after next?
Terror seized her.
Superhero or not, Jamison would always be in the line of fire.
* * *
As worried as Jamison was about Michele’s physical safety, he was even more concerned about her emotional well-being. Leaving Dawson to wrap up things at the hospital, Jamison tucked her into the passenger seat of his car and glanced into the night sky.
Please, Lord, Michele has been through so much. Comfort her the way I wish I could and keep her safe.
He needed to take Michele home before something happened to her or to his heart. As far as she was concerned, they weren’t good together. She had made that perfectly clear ten months ago, but tonight he didn’t care about what had been, he cared about the present moment. At the moment, he wanted to wrap Michele in his arms and never let her go.
FOURTEEN
Even with Jamison at her side, Michele felt drained as she climbed the stairs to her front porch. He had spent much of the ride home on the phone with Dawson. Alice and the nice military policeman assigned to guard her were both in surgery. The doctors didn’t offer much hope for either patient.
Jamison talked to the security detail at her parents’ quarters and then followed her onto the porch. Rummaging in her handbag, she found her house key and dropped it into his outstretched hand. Always the gentleman, he unlocked the door, stepped aside for her to enter and then followed her into the foyer.
Michele had expected to hear chatter from the wives’ group and was surprised to find the house empty except for her mother, who stepped from the living room.
“Hello, dear.” She lowered her cheek toward Michele and accepted a kiss, then greeted Jamison with a welcoming smile.
“How’s Alice?”
“She...” The words stuck in Michele’s throat. Jamison took over, for which she was grateful, and brought her mother up to date on what had happened.
Hearing the news, Roberta put her head in her hands and moaned. “Oh, dear God, when will it end?”
“Not until the killer’s apprehended.” Jamison stated what they all knew to be true. If only the arrest would come about without additional loss of life or injury.
“There’s been too much suffering.” Roberta reached for the sturdy oak banister as if needing support. Her eyes reflected pain and struggle and many of the feelings that had bombarded Michele over the last two days.
Tonight, the tiny lines around Roberta’s eyes seemed more pronounced. Her skin appeared less vibrant, and her shoulders drooped. Michele had always considered her mother young for her age, but the years and the circumstances appeared to be taking their toll.
Michele forced a smile. “Dad will be home in the morning. Everything will be better then.”
Roberta glanced into the dining room.
Michele followed her gaze to the bouquet of flowers her father had been thoughtful enough to send. “The arrangement looks nice on the table, Mother.”
Roberta nodded a bit too enthusiastically, all the while blinking back tears that swarmed her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Always the rock, her mother usually seemed unflappable. Tonight she appeared as broken as Michele had felt earlier.
“I’m fine.” Which was what Michele had said so many times recently.
Studying her mother’s drawn face, Michele saw beneath the capable army wife facade to a woman who tried to appear stronger than she was. Roberta squared her shoulders, but the expression she wore revealed her fragile interior.
“What’s wrong, Mother?”
“There’s something I need to tell you, dear.”
As if sensing the importance of the moment, Jamison cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll step into the kitchen and call CID headquarters.”
Once he left, Roberta squeezed Michele’s hand. “Some things have been troubling both of us that need to be brought to light.”
Michele wasn’t sure where her mother was headed.
“I rarely talk about Lance, and I know that upsets you. The truth is his death left a hole in my heart that’s been hard to fill. Your father dealt with his own grief by throwing himself into his work. When I tried to talk to him about what I was feeling, he told me to be strong.”
She pointed to the table. “That bouquet is his first attempt to let me know he understands what I’ve been going through these last two years.”
Regret swept over Michele. She had been so wrong about her mother. “I...I thought you didn’t want to talk about Lance.”
“I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Even looking at old photos or visiting the cemetery with you was more than I could handle. I forced myself to go on for you and for your father. You were traveling a lot for the insurance company and seemed fairly self-sufficient. Dad had his work. Most of all, I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“Which you could never be, Mother.”
A door had cracked open, but Michele still hesitated. Some doors needed to remain closed.
Her mother raised her hand to her throat and fingered the collar of her blouse. “I know you feel responsible for Lance’s death, but you made the right decision to help with the storm relief.”
Bitter denial welled up within Michele. “But if I hadn’t gone to the coast, Lance would have been on leave, showing me around his new post. He wouldn’t have volunteered to take that mission.”
“Your brother loved the military, and he loved to fly. Going up that day was his decision, Michele. You were not to blame.”
“But—”
“We’ll never know why God called Lance home,
yet we have to trust he’s with the Lord. Scripture tells us with God everything works together for good.”
Michele still couldn’t trust the Lord, but seeing her mother’s pain and hearing the sincerity in her voice allowed Michele to finally accept the truth. Her mother didn’t blame her for Lance’s death, which lifted a weight she had carried for too long.
Roberta opened her arms, and Michele stepped into her mother’s welcoming embrace, overwhelmed with a sense of homecoming. Tears filled her eyes, but they were joyful tears that washed away the struggle she’d had with her mother. Roberta’s tears seemed equally cathartic, and mother and daughter cried freely.
Hearing the commotion, Jamison raced into the foyer. The look on his face said he had misinterpreted their reconciliation as something more threatening. “Are you all right?”
“We’re fine,” they both said in unison, which caused them to laugh and wipe their eyes and feel the strong mother-daughter bond that had been absent for too long.
Michele’s heart nearly burst with love for her mother. An equally strong feeling swept over her as she smiled at Jamison, who had given them the privacy they needed to heal.
“I’m starving,” Michele admitted, a bit light-headed but in a good way.
“I’ve got leftovers in the fridge.” Roberta motioned Jamison toward the kitchen. “I know you must be hungry, too. Let’s have something to eat.”
Michele raised her hand to her neck, knowing she and her mother could now talk freely about her brother. “You go ahead. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Running upstairs, she opened her dresser drawer and removed the lid from the wooden box she kept near her Bible. Her eyes rested on the delicate silver cross Lance had given her. On the same chain, Michele had placed a silver heart charm that had been a gift from Jamison shortly after they’d started dating. He’d called the silver dangles her Cross My Heart necklace, a necklace she had taken off the day she left Fort Rickman.
Michele was beginning to believe she had been wrong to leave Jamison. Surely things would be different once he understood her fears about his safety.
Almost giddy, she started to laugh, then quickly sobered, thinking of Alice, fighting for her life, and the brigade flying home through the night.