by Debby Giusti
Although Jamison needed to question the men, he had to inform Mrs. Logan about the current situation. When he turned to face her, he realized she was well aware of what had happened. Her eyes reflected his own fears, sending another jab of pain deep to his gut.
Looking suddenly older than her years, she took his hand and held it tight. “You’ll find her, Jamison. You have to.”
He wished he shared her confidence. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shook her head, perhaps sensing his own faltering optimism. “I don’t want the wives to know what has happened. The spouses and family members have worried enough and need this time to welcome their husbands home.”
He had to object. “Ma’am, our first priority is to find Michele.”
“That’s what I want, as well, Jamison. But the brigade needs a homecoming. Nothing should be canceled unless it specifically impacts my daughter’s safety.”
At some point, Mrs. Logan needed to put her family’s well-being before the brigade’s. “Ma’am, there’s a lounge located near the Red Cross first-aid station, if you’d like someplace to wait.”
He radioed one of the female soldiers in the military police detail to escort the colonel’s wife to the lounge and remain with her at all times.
Jamison admired Mrs. Logan’s grit, but he didn’t want his hands tied when it came to finding Michele. If he had to halt the welcome-home celebration, he would. He would do anything to save Michele.
But right now he needed to move forward. Fast.
Hastening toward the rear of the terminal, he entered the first office.
“Where is she?” Jamison demanded, leaning across the conference table where Stallings sat. Given any sign of provocation, Jamison would throw him against the wall and pound the truth out of him.
The vendor’s eyes widened, antagonism evident as he bristled. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a missing woman. And that’s on top of one woman murdered, another in critical condition and a military policeman who may have to get a medical discharge because of you.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Where were you this morning?”
“At the sandwich shop in Freemont. You can call my boss. We worked most of the night, preparing the food for today.”
“What time did you arrive on post?”
“Uh—” Stallings hesitated.
“Trying to do the math and make it all work out in your favor? Your information was captured electronically when you showed your identification to the guard at the Main Gate. Won’t take long to retrieve the time.”
“Traffic was backed up getting on post. I’m not sure when I actually passed through security.”
Jamison changed gears. “Do you like to text?”
Surprised by the question, Stallings pushed back in his chair. Jamison leaned in closer, knowing he was emotional and apt to do something he would later regret, but he needed information.
The door to the office opened. Corporal Otis motioned to Jamison. “Sir.”
“What?” Jamison demanded in the hallway, his anger on a short fuse.
“Special Agent Warner, from Afghanistan, called CID headquarters asking to speak to you, sir. He said it involved our case.”
Jamison glanced at the nearby office where Greg Yates waited. Maybe everything was about to break.
Punching Speed Dial on his cell, Jamison was relieved when Warner answered. “Major Shirley Yates appears to be squeaky clean. No involvements on this side of the world.”
“There were rumors of infidelity.”
“Rumors that got out of hand.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t some truth behind them?”
“Not that we could uncover. She was mentoring a captain, prior enlisted. The guy had run into a little problem with his report of survey. He had signed for equipment that he couldn’t account for when the brigade was getting ready to redeploy home. The captain was about her age. They spent time together and tongues wagged. You know how that is. Everyone jumps to the wrong conclusion.”
Which was exactly what Jamison had done concerning the major’s husband. Glancing at the room where Rick Stallings waited, he realized he might have been wrong about both men.
Jamison blew out a lungful of air. Right now all he wanted to do was pound his fist into the wall until it was bloodied. Somehow he needed to feel the pain he feared Michele was experiencing. “Please, God, no.”
“Jamison?”
He turned to find Dawson approaching him from the central terminal. “I’ve got military police canvassing the colonel’s housing area. Fort Rickman’s under lockdown. The only people who are being allowed on post are active duty personnel and then only after a thorough search of their vehicles and person.”
“I’m more concerned about anyone leaving the garrison.”
“No one’s allowed off at this point.”
“What about the training area?”
“The military police have been along the back roads from the Logan home to the airfield. No one has spotted her yet. Now they’re searching the ranges, one at a time.”
Which would take hours.
Jamison quickly filled Dawson in on Stallings and Yates. “I can’t stay, Dawson. I’ve got to find Michele.”
As he raced out of the terminal, Jamison looked up at the bright sky. “God, I need your help today, more than I’ve ever needed anything.”
He couldn’t rely on his own ability. He had made too many mistakes. He had to rely on the Lord so that this time his mistakes didn’t end in tragedy. If Jamison lost Michele, he lost everything, maybe even his soul.
TWENTY
Michele knew she was alone because of the silence. No running motor, no air-conditioning, no jumbled ramblings from a delusional killer. All she heard was her heart pounding. Then voices in the distance.
If only she could attract someone’s attention. She raised her legs and kicked the wall of the van over and over again, until her muscles ached, and her energy was sapped.
The blanket, wrapped around her face, constricted her breathing. In the closed vehicle and with the hot August day, the temperature had risen too fast. Frantic, Michele fought against the thick wool blanket around her face and felt instant elation when a portion of the covering slipped aside. Like a crazed woman, she inhaled the stale, hot air.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip and dampened her neck. The temperature rose even higher. How long could a person survive in an enclosed vehicle? She didn’t want an answer and wished she hadn’t even thought of the question.
If You’re a loving God, I’m begging You to help me. I’ve made so many mistakes. Forgive me, Father.
Michele had been wrong about Jamison. He was a wonderful man, and she wasn’t worthy of his love. If only she could tell him, but it was too late.
If Alice didn’t pull through, three women would have died because of a maniac who wanted revenge. God had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Jamison and the other good people in law enforcement who put their lives on the line to help others.
Instead of running away from Jamison, Michele should have been running into his arms.
* * *
Jamison drove like a madman, backtracking through the training area along the deserted road Michele must have traveled earlier. He had to find her.
Flicking his gaze right and then left, he hoped to catch sight of her, of her car, of something the military police had missed that would provide a clue to her disappearance. The only thing he knew was the killer had taken her. But where?
Jamison wouldn’t allow his mind to imagine what had been done to her. Please, God, keep Michele safe.
He shouldn’t have left her alone last night. He should have checked on her this morning. He wished he had told her he loved her and needed her and would do anything to be with her.
Right now the thought of a quiet civilian existence sounded perfect, a life where Michele would be safe. If anything happened to her, he’
d never be able to forgive himself.
He was a trained special agent. How could he have let a killer get to Michele?
“You’re a failure. You’ll never succeed.”
His father’s words played over in his mind. But his dad’s wasn’t the only voice he heard. Jamison was berating himself, as well.
“Think! Think!” he screamed to no one except the tall Georgia pine trees that edged the training area. “Where could she be?”
The road curved up ahead. Jamison lifted his foot from the accelerator. Before he completed the curve, sunlight reflected off something in the woods. He stomped on the brake.
Leaping from his car, he raced across the narrow asphalt roadway and pressed through the dense wooded area that opened into a clearing where he found Michele’s car. The ground was still damp from the storms two nights ago, and thick, red Georgia clay caked her tires.
He searched the area, looking for signs of a struggle. The only thing he found was a muddy boot print.
Jamison fisted his hands with rage. The killer had ambushed her. Maybe he had flagged her down, pretending to be hurt. Then he’d tried to hide her car in the woods, but the wheels had stuck in the mud.
He called Dawson. “I found Michele’s vehicle hidden in the woods just east of the live-fire training range. I want it gone over from top to bottom. We need fingerprints that can lead us to the killer. There’s a boot print located approximately five feet from the hood of the car, size 11 or 12.”
“I’ll send a team to check out the vehicle. Right now I’m headed out to the tarmac. The brigade’s due to land ahead of schedule.” Dawson paused for a long moment. “Look, buddy, I’m to blame on this one, and I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For being so confident Sergeant Cramer was the killer. You told me to wait until the ballistics report came back. I was too pigheaded to listen. You were right last night. You were also right ten months ago.”
“What are you talking about, Dawson? I was the one who suggested we confront the shooter.”
“After I insisted we close in. You wanted to wait until backup was in place.”
“You’ve got it wrong.”
“No way, Jamison. I’ve relived what happened a million times. I got us into it at the beginning.”
“The chief’s well aware of who was at fault.”
“That’s why he assigned you to handle the security at the airfield. He knew we’d all work together to track down the killer. He wanted his best and brightest to ensure the safety of the entire brigade.”
Jamison didn’t have time to process what Dawson had told him. He needed to keep looking for Michele.
Disconnecting, Jamison turned back to his car. Glancing down, he spied something he had missed earlier.
Michele’s Cross My Heart necklace. The clasp had broken, and the necklace must have fallen to the ground. He had visions of the killer roughhousing her. The images sent ice-cold terror through his veins.
“Please, God.” He reached for the necklace. “I’ve got to find Michele.”
His cell rang. “This is Steele.”
Dawson’s voice. “The chief wants you back at the terminal. Now.”
“I need to keep searching.”
“He wants to make sure the homecoming goes off without a glitch.”
Jamison knew the real reason. Chief Wilson didn’t want a special agent who was emotionally involved with the case to do something that would reflect badly on the CID.
“You’re a failure...a disappointment.”
Jamison wanted to ignore the chief. Michele was more important than any order from a superior.
Before he gave breath to the words, Jamison saw something else on the pavement. Something that didn’t make sense in the middle of the training area.
Stooping, he picked it up and examined it in the sunlight. A long shot, one he didn’t want to discuss with Dawson. Only one way to find out if it would lead him to Michele.
“Tell Chief Wilson I’m heading back to the terminal.”
TWENTY-ONE
Jamison raced into the terminal, grabbed the military guards at the doors and ordered them to sweep the area. As they took off in opposite directions, he circled through the swarm of people, needing to connect what he had found on the back road with someone here in the building.
The band stood ready in the far corner. Video played over the large overhead screen. The live feed showed the soldiers disembarking from the three planes parked on the tarmac. Cheers erupted when families recognized their loved ones. The excitement was palpable and then grew even more so as the soldiers made their way toward the terminal.
On the opposite side of the arena, one person stood out from the crowd. Jamison raised the radio and gave specific orders to the security patrols.
The guy pushed through the throng and headed for a rear door. Seeing families reunited would be too painful for a prior military guy who felt as if he had “died” when he was redeployed home.
Jamison raced forward, shouting more orders into the radio. His gut tightened as he realized the back door wasn’t being guarded. “Rear door security, return to your position. Return to your position.”
Following him outside, Jamison spied the van at the edge of the overflow parking area, away from any other vehicles. The guy had opened the driver’s door and was climbing inside.
Expecting to hear the sound of backup behind him, Jamison looked down at the radio. He groaned inwardly seeing the flashing red light. Low battery. He tossed the useless device and didn’t have time to pull out his cell.
“Wait up,” Jamison called, hand on his hip as he neared the van.
The guy had slipped behind the wheel and closed the driver’s door. He smiled through the open window as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “How’s it goin’, sir?”
“You tell me.”
“No problem, except I’ve got a delivery to make across post.”
“A delivery of flowers for some lucky army wife, waiting for her husband to return home?”
Teddy Sutherland dropped the smile and raised the
9 mm Beretta he held in his hand.
Before Jamison could draw his own weapon, a round exploded into his left shoulder, throwing him back against the van. He grabbed for the sign on the side of the delivery truck to keep his balance. The metal strip bearing the floral logo ripped free and dropped to the pavement, exposing another interchangeable magnetic sign underneath: Prime Maintenance.
Once again, Teddy leaned out the window and took another shot at Jamison. The second round missed him by a breath.
The engine roared to life. The van lurched forward. Jamison pulled open the door and grabbed the florist. The wheel turned, and the van rammed into the light pole that twisted on impact.
Jamison yanked him to the asphalt and pulled his own weapon. “Where is she? Where’s Michele?”
“You’ll never find her.”
Jamison wanted to crash his fist into the sneer covering the florist’s twisted face.
Footsteps pounded pavement. McGrunner came running.
“Cuff him,” Jamison ordered. “And call Dawson. Tell him we’ve got the killer.”
Jamison raced to the rear of the van. He pulled open the door and shoved aside cardboard cartons containing roses that had wilted in the heat. The smell of decaying flowers hung in the hot air.
A wool army blanket. He lifted the corner.
Relief swept over him.
Michele.
But when he looked closer, he saw her flushed face and her labored breathing.
He’d found her—but was he too late?
* * *
Michele jerked as the tape was ripped from her mouth. She blinked her eyes open and saw Jamison.
Screaming for water, he cut through the ropes that bound her hands and legs. “You’re going to be okay, honey.”
She reached for him. “Oh...Ja...Jamison.”
He grabbed the water bottle McGrunner shov
ed into his hand and held it up to Michele’s lips. She drank gratefully. Wetting his handkerchief, he wiped her face with the cooling cloth.
“Teddy—” She had to tell Jamison everything the florist had said as he drove along the back roads. “He...he kept talking about my dad and what happened in the past. Teddy worked for Yolanda’s and Alice’s husbands when my father had his battalion.”
“In Iraq?” Jamison asked.
Michele nodded. “He...he asked to come home early. His wife...was running around.”
“They refused his request.” Jamison filled in the blanks.
“My...my father did, as well. Teddy’s wife ran off with the boyfriend. No one was there to meet him when the unit redeployed home. Then he—” Michele choked on the words. “He found her and killed her.”
“And came back to Fort Rickman. But why did he open a floral shop?”
“The store had been his wife’s dream.”
Jamison nodded as if he could see how it all unfolded. “Once he found both men were serving in the same brigade, he decided to kill their wives.”
“And my mother. Then I got in the way.”
She shook her head. “He...he said, when the men marched into the terminal, everyone would suffer. He called it a patriotic homecoming...like...like fireworks on the Fourth of July.”
“‘Fireworks’? That was the word he used?”
She nodded, but Jamison was already out of the van. “McGrunner will take care of you,” he yelled, looking back one last time.
She reached for him, but Jamison was running toward the terminal. Running into danger, just as he’d done last night.
“Oh, God,” Michele cried. “Don’t let him die.”
TWENTY-TWO
The band played a patriotic march. Throngs of people swelled forward toward the cordoned off area. Cameras were poised to take pictures of the soldiers that would soon march into the terminal.
Seconds ticked off the giant clock.