Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "Really?" Now, wasn't that interesting? It certainly explained Muldoon's lack of strutting and posturing. Other good-looking men often came into a room and struck a pose. They had warped expectations based on years of being treated as special because of their glorious looks.

  Not so Muldoon. He seemed completely surprised and taken aback by the attention he received. And his shy, gee-whiz thing wasn't part of an act. It was the real deal.

  "I think you were probably just in your larval stage," she told him. "Fledgling," she corrected herself. "Fledgling is a much nicer word."

  "Larval is more visually appropriate."

  "Then larval it is. But from the looks of things, the metamorphosis was successful, my dear. The math geek is now most definitely an adorable Navy SEAL."

  "The math geek is actually still a math geek who happens to excel at survival skills and military strategies and PT." He'd finished his scone and now held out his hand. "I think there're napkins in the bag," he said. "One of the problems of wearing white pants—it's all over the instant you forget and wipe your hands on your legs. After a tragic pizza incident, I started carrying a spare pair here in my truck. Sometimes I think I should carry two."

  Joan found a napkin and handed it to him.

  "This is all way above and beyond the call of duty, you know," she said. "I purposely called your cell phone this morning instead of your home phone because I thought it would be off and I'd be able to leave voice mail. You really didn't have to volunteer to come out here with me."

  "I know." He was signaling for a left turn, his eyes on the road. "I wanted to."

  "You wanted to come on an emergency red-alert visit to my crazy-as-a-fruitcake older brother at the crack of dawn? Yeah, that's what I would do with my free time. Sleep is overrated, anyway."

  "This isn't the crack of dawn," he told her as he took the turn. "This is halfway through the morning for me. Besides, I went to bed early last night."

  "Still..."

  "I'm happy to help," he said very firmly in what she was rapidly learning to recognize as his officer's voice—no room for argument.

  "Well, thank you, just the same," she said. God, she had to tell him about Donny, so he'd know what to expect. But where to start? With the aluminum-foil-covered hat or the alien-repelling oils that her brother sprayed on his windowsills?

  But before she could begin, he glanced at her. "Do you..." He cleared his throat. "Do you know, uh, many people in San Diego?"

  His question was posed ultra casually, the way people asked extremely important questions when they didn't want anyone to know how important the question was to them. Except, of course, they overcompensated in the casual department, and everyone knew anyway.

  "Just my grandparents and my brother," she reported.

  He nodded, but she could tell from looking that it was not the answer he'd wanted.

  "So. Um." Here came another oh-so-casual question. Joan couldn't wait to hear it. "What did you do last night?" he asked.

  What the ... ? Why on earth did he want to know that? Joan watched him as she answered. "Not much. I took that phone call—which was a total waste of time—watched a little CNN ... I got to bed pretty early, too." Again, this was not the information he was hoping for. She could see that in his eyes. "Why?" she asked. She didn't believe in casual questions. She always preferred those that were point-blank.

  He glanced at her again. "I was just ... you know ... making sure you were comfortable—that you have everything you need."

  She snorted. "Please. Don't insult my intelligence. Clearly there's something you want to know. Why don't you just spit it out instead of gingerly fishing for information? Which, by the way, you suck at doing. Your version of gingerly is the equivalent of fishing by throwing a grenade into a pond."

  He laughed. "Well, jeez. Let me know what you really think, Joan. Don't hold back."

  "That's right," she said. "Don't hold back. That's what I'm trying to say to you. What are you trying to find out, Michael?"

  "I don't know." He shook his head in disgust. At her or at himself? Maybe at both of them.

  "Just ask," she urged him. "We're friends, right? You can ask me anything. Well, almost anything."

  "I called, and you weren't in your room," he admitted. "It's not that big a deal. I was just... I had a really bizarre evening. Mrs. Tucker followed me into the grocery store—"

  "She did?" Joan turned to sit sideways in her seat. "Oh, my God, you have to tell me everything!"

  "I snuck out the delivery door—

  "You didn't!" This was just too good.

  "After that, I stopped at the Bug for a beer and found this sailor, this kid, completely skunked and trying to pick a fight with a retired Ranger and his two very large friends in the parking lot. The Ranger had been in 'Nam—he could've eaten this kid for breakfast. What number Westway?"

  "Four twelve," she told him. "What did you do?"

  He pulled up in front of a little white house. Her mother's house. Donny's now. Joan didn't give it more than a quick glance. But even that was enough to make the beautiful morning significantly less terrific.

  "After negotiating a peaceful solution to World War Three, I tried calling you. You weren't there, so I went home." He turned off the truck.

  "You should have left a message, or called on my cell," Joan told him. "Although apparently there was some kind of satellite malfunction last night, so you might not have been able to get through. But I was out of my room for twenty minutes, I swear. I went to get a soda from the vending machine, and halfway there figured what the hell, I could use something with a little more teeth. So I went down to the hotel bar and met some corporate someone from Des Moines who was all lit up because his daughter just had his first grandchild, like an hour earlier. He was so cute. But I only talked to him for fifteen minutes, tops. I must have just missed your call, poor baby."

  He smiled. "It would've been nice to have a shoulder to cry on. But I survived."

  "Tell me about Laurel. What did she say? I knew she was after your ass."

  Muldoon laughed. "She didn't say anything. I saw her and ran. It was very undignified. Maybe I was imagining the whole thing, but I kind of freaked, since I'd seen her just a few minutes earlier, behind me at the gas station."

  "She's stalking you!"

  "I doubt it. And if she was, I think she might've gotten the hint when I ran away." He grinned. "Screaming in terror."

  "Well, hey," Joan said. "Good morning to you. Your visit to the twilight zone isn't over yet. As if yesterday evening wasn't crazy enough, you're about to enter a world where hostile aliens from outer space lurk in every shadow, and apparently wearing aluminum foil on your head keeps those aliens from being able to read your mind. Don't move too fast or make any loud noises when we get inside, all right? And don't be shocked by anything I say. My goal is to get my brother back on his meds, and sometimes it helps if I play along. He'll probably say some crazy things, and it's not important to convince him that he's wrong. It's not important to be right. I have to repeat that to myself over and over whenever I see him, because—believe it or not—I have this tendency to always want to be right."

  Muldoon smiled at that. "I'm ready," he said. "Don't worry about me. I've gone into plenty of dark places, seen some pretty crazy things."

  Joan nodded. "I guess it's just... hard when it's your own brother, you know?"

  His smile faded. "Yeah," he said. "I can imagine. But I'll be right beside you."

  He was actually serious when he said things like that. It made her want to cry. She gave him a bright smile and patted him on the knee. "Thanks, Super SEAL. Let's get this over with."

  Joan's brother Don was a pack rat.

  His living room was stacked with books and magazines. Completely stacked in some places. As in from the hardwood floor right up to the stucco-patterned ceiling.

  It was dark, too, despite the bright morning sunshine outside. All the shades were pulled down and the curtains were tightly
closed.

  After fetching an envelope of Don's medication that her grandfather had left for her in the mailbox, Joan had unlocked the door—a daunting task, since there were about a dozen different locks mounted there, and a half dozen different keys were needed to open them. After she unfastened the last of them, Muldoon stepped past her and went in first.

  "Hey, Don, it's me. Joanie," she called out as she closed the door behind her.

  The house was silent.

  "Ah, this old house," Joan said, flipping her keys over and over, one finger stuck through the central ring. The keys jingled until they hit the palm of her hand with a smack. "My mother bought this house right after I left for college. My parents split up that same year, and Mom and Donny came out to San Diego because my grandparents lived nearby. Of course, they were my dad's parents—my mom's folks died before I was born—but my mom was closer to them than my dad seemed to be, and—" She went into the kitchen. Jingle, smack. "Donny, are you in here?"

  Muldoon followed, but each time he got close enough to grab her keys, she moved out of reach.

  "They moved in and fixed the place up. Well, she fixed the place up while Donny discovered Internet stock trading and made a fortune." Jingle, smack. She went down the hall and again he followed. "But then she got sick and went into the hospital ... Well, I guess she was actually sick for quite a while. Stage four Hodgkin's disease doesn't just appear, like, whammo—one day you're fine, the next you've got it. So I really should say mat she found out how sick she was. This house was her last project—I guess that's why Don didn't want to sell the place and move in with my grandparents after she... Well. You know."

  Jingle, smack. Jingle, smack.

  She stopped outside a closed door. "I'm pretty sure he's in here. Sandbagged in, so to speak. Ready to repel an alien invasion. Donny DaCosta. In the closet. With his laptop and a funny foil-covered hat. Did you ever play Clue? Donny and I used to play Clue all the tune when I was little." Jingle—

  Muldoon caught the keys, then gently took the ring off her finger. He pocketed them, then laced his fingers with hers so that she was holding his hand instead.

  "When did your mother die?" he asked.

  "It was a long time ago," she said, looking down at then-hands. "Twelve years. I was twenty." She looked up at him. "I'm okay, you know. At least, I should be. I paid enough for the therapy."

  He smiled because she'd made a joke in an attempt to keep things light, and because she expected him to smile. "I think most people don't ever stop missing their mothers. It must be twice as hard for you to come here since this was her house."

  She again tried to joke her way through it. "Yeah, well, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?"

  "Sometimes what doesn't kill you just plain sucks."

  Joan laughed at that, but when she glanced up at him again, the look in her eyes took him by surprise. This was Joan without the crusty outer layer. A softer Joan. A vulnerable Joan. A Joan that completely took his breath away.

  "I hate being here," she said softly. "Thanks for coming with me. Thanks for..." She squeezed his hand.

  It was his big chance. Muldoon recognized it as a perfect opportunity to tell her he was smitten. To admit that he didn't think of her as any kind of a sister. Shoot, to grab her and kiss her.

  But he was too busy standing there dumbstruck, like an idiot, gazing into her eyes.

  She released his hand as she turned back to the door, squared her shoulders, and opened it. And the moment was gone. Joan the warrior was back, charging ahead.

  "Donny, it's me."

  The bedroom was dark, so she turned on the light. Stacks of clothes covered every surface, even half of the bed. Joan's brother had made his bedroom into the world's biggest walk-in closet.

  "Who's there? Who's out there?" A gruff male voice came from the far corner of the room, from behind the closed closet door.

  "It's Joan, you big dope. Open up."

  With a hand on her arm Muldoon stopped her from going toward the door. When she'd first described her brother, he'd imagined a pencil-necked, bespectacled, timid sort of man. But that voice he'd just heard came out of an ogre. Sure, the ogre happened to live in a walk-in closet, but... "There's no chance your brother is armed, is there?"

  "God, no," she said.

  "Joanie?" her brother growled.

  "Yep, Don. It's me."

  Muldoon didn't let her go. "You're sure?"

  "He's not dangerous," she told him. "Honest. I wouldn't have let you come here if I thought for one second that he was. The worst that's going to happen is you might get sprayed with Alien Be Gone, and I'll pay your dry cleaning bill and buy you dinner a few times next week, because God only knows what he actually puts in those spray bottles of his because it sure as hell smells like rabbit urine. That's one childhood odor I'll never forget." She turned to the door, raised her voice. "Can I come in?"

  "Joanie, is that really you?"

  "Yes, it is, and I'm coming in. Here I come. I'm turning the knob and— Whoa, baby, change your socks recently?" She turned and made a face at Muldoon that her brother couldn't see. "I brought my friend Mike to meet you, but he might want to wait outside, because, Jesus God, Donny, it stinks like feet in here."

  "It doesn't bother me," Muldoon told her, following her into the closet. He'd smelled odors far worse than that of an unwashed man. "Hi, Don, I'm Mike."

  "A Navy SEAL." Don DaCosta had Joan's brown eyes and a slightly similarly shaped face, but that's where the resemblance ended. He was a big man, as his voice had implied, with quite a bit of extra heft to him. It was hard to tell how tall he was, because he was sitting down. He was wearing what looked to be some kind of magician's or witch's cape with a silvery lining—something from a Halloween costume—as well as a fedora completely covered in shiny aluminum foil. He had about a week's worth of beard growing on his pasty face and wore olive drab pants and a T-shirt that he definitely hadn't changed in many, many days. He turned to look up at Joan in wonder, with eyes that were rimmed with red. "You brought a Navy SEAL for me, to guard me while I'm sleeping?"

  "Oh, honey, I'm afraid neither of us can stay for very—

  Muldoon interrupted her with a touch, his fingers briefly pressing her arm. "When's the last time you slept?" he asked, lowering himself to the floor so that he was on Don's level.

  Don rocked slightly. "Oh, no. If I sleep, they'll get in here."

  Jeez, was it possible Joan's brother hadn't slept since the last time he changed his clothes? Muldoon knew that had to be the case. "You must be pretty tired, huh?"

  "My grandfather was a Navy SEAL."

  Joan looked pointedly at Muldoon, shaking her head no, then sat down next to her brother. "D'you see that program about Navy SEALs that was on the Discovery Channel last week, Don?"

  "You think I'm making it up," he said, turning to look at her with exhausted eyes. "But I'm not."

  "If Gramps were a SEAL, don't you think he might've mentioned it to me at least once?" she countered.

  "He doesn't like to talk about it."

  Joan opened her mouth as if she were about to argue, but then closed it, briefly closing her eyes for a moment, too. Muldoon knew exactly what she was thinking. It wasn't important to be right. When she opened her eyes, she leaned over and patted Muldoon's leg. "Well, you were right about Mike. He's a Navy SEAL, too."

  "You know, you live right next door to one of my teammates," Muldoon told him.

  "Really?" Joan said. "Who?"

  "Sam Starrett."

  "No kidding. Right next door?" Joan turned back to Don. "That should make you feel pretty safe, huh?"

  Don rocked. "They don't go into his house. They stay on his driveway or in his garage. I've seen them. They come over here, too, pretending to be the mailman. Or Mary Lou."

  "Mary Lou?" she asked.

  Muldoon answered. "Sam's wife."

  "But I know better," Don continued. "They want my house, so they can watch him. But I won't let them in."
He looked at his sister, alarm in his eyes. "Did you lock the door behind you?"

  "Yes, I did," she said.

  He rocked harder, starting to work himself into a lather. "Are you sure? You're absolutely sure?"

  "How about if I go check?" Muldoon said.

  Joan nodded at him as she reached for her brother's hand. "Donny, it's all right," he heard her say as he pushed himself to his feet and slipped out of the closet. "You're safe. I promise. Mike's here, right? He's not going to let anything bad happen. He promises me that all the time."

  The house was eerily silent as he made his way back to the front door and threw the half dozen or so extra bolts that Joan hadn't bothered to lock after coming in.

  A clock ticked in the living room from its place on an end table alongside a standing photograph of a young, dark-haired woman with a chubby-cheeked toddler laughing in her arms and a big-eyed, pinch-faced boy standing solemnly at her side.

  The woman—Joan's mother, had to be—was kneeling beside the boy—Don. Her other arm was around him, and her attention was focused on him, despite the much younger child on her hip.

  Don DaCosta's mental illness had, no doubt, not been a whole lot of fun for anyone.

  Muldoon went back down the hall, back into the bedroom. He knocked softly on the closet door.

  Joan opened it and stepped outside, trouble in her eyes.

  "Don's willing to take the medication—except for the fact that he's afraid it will make him fall asleep," she reported. "Apparently his experience with meds is that they usually make him drowsy."

  "He looks like he's at the point now where just about any change in his state will put him to sleep," Muldoon told her. "He's probably starving and needs to go to the bathroom, too, but he's afraid if he's any less uncomfortable ..." He could relate. He'd been in that place a time or two while on recon. "Look, is the grandfather he's talking about the one who lives nearby?"

  "Has to be. We never knew my mom's parents," Joan told him. She sat down on the edge of Don's bed. "What are you thinking?"

  "Call him," Muldoon told her. "See if he can get over here within the next few hours and plan to stay maybe even overnight. If he can do that, I can stay and, you know, stand guard so to speak until he gets here. That way Don can take the pill and get some sleep."