That was something that didn't change when we got back stateside, either.
War bonds men. Makes them more than friends. More than brothers. It's an indelible bond that you feel not just with your heart, but with your soul. And knowing Sam is laying in that box – knowing I didn't have his six when he needed me most – is absolutely killing me.
“Mr. Williams?”
I turn to find a tall, well-built man standing behind me. He has an official bearing about him, and eyes that seem to see more than just what's before him. I don't think he's a soldier. He certainly wasn't in our platoon. Which tells me he's probably a cop.
“Call me Grant,” I say.
He extends his hand, and I give it a firm shake. “Derek Hartford,” he says. “Special Agent Derek Hartford.”
I cock my head and look at him. “Bureau man?”
He nods. “I am,” he replies. “I'm very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I say, fighting back a tide of emotion.
I take a moment to compose myself. I clear my throat, stiffen my back, and look back up at him. My curiosity is piqued, to say the least. Why in the hell is the FBI at Sam's funeral? But the better question is, how do they even know who I am? And why?
“What can I do for you, Special Agent?”
“Just call me Derek,” he says.
“Derek then,” I reply. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I'll be personally looking into Mr. Frederickson’s death,” he says.
I'm a bit taken aback by his statement. The Chicago PD had all but given up on the case – yet now, the FBI is going to handle it?
“With all due respect, Derek,” I say, “why is the Bureau interested? CPD couldn't be bothered and just went through the motions. Why would you be involved now?”
He hesitates. I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “It's because the local LEO's just went through the motions,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
He lets out a breath and looks at me, his gaze intense. “Let's just say I have some skin in the game here,” he says. “Your friend's murder hits home for me, and I won't rest until we lock up those people responsible for it.”
“I don't understand,” I say.
He reaches into his pocket and hands me his card. “This has my personal cell on it,” he says. “I want you to call me anytime, day or night, if you have questions or want a status report on my investigation.”
“Listen, it's not that I don't appreciate –”
“I'm going to nail the people who did this, Grant,” he says. “I give you my word. They will be brought to justice. I'm going to have some questions for you. I'll contact you in a few days, if that's okay.”
I nod absently. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “Anything.”
He gives my hand another shake. “We're going to take them down, Grant,” he says. “I give you my word. We are going to nail these assholes once and for all. I promise you, when we're done, they won't be able to do this to anybody again.”
He claps me on the shoulder and turns, striding away. I can tell he's a committed man. A driven man. I imagine that makes him a good Fed. My only question is – why? I can tell there was something very personal about this whole thing with him. I just don't know what it is.
As I watch him walk into the parking lot and head for a dark sedan, something else strikes me. He said we're going to nail them. Take them down. He didn't say, we're going to find out who did this. Maybe I'm just parsing words, but as I replay his remarks in my head, it sounds to me like he knows who did this already and just needs the evidence to back it up.
Or maybe, I'm just hopeful for justice to be served, and am projecting that hope onto him. I don't know.
I slip his card in my pocket. After everything, I’m glad to have one ally in this mess. One who seems as passionate and determined as I am to root out the truth.
Chapter One
Grant
18 Months Later
The crisp late autumn breeze feels nice. Winter is nearing, and in the Colorado mountains, it means things are about to get brutally cold within the next couple of months. The news even said we might get our first snow soon. Being from Chicago, I'm no stranger to the cold. It's just different out here – more rugged, more dangerous, and much more bleak. Especially when you're snowbound and can't get out for days at a time. Not that I'm complaining. I have everything I need out here. Not all the luxuries of life, but everything I need.
Twigs, leaves, and the cold, hard earth crunches beneath my feet as I make my way along the narrow path that cuts through the dense forest. The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, illuminating the clear sky, and bringing some warmth to the land. Not much yet, but it offers a tantalizing promise of things to come.
I prefer the cold, personally. I also prefer the silence that comes with early morning. I'm far from any major cities, and I have no neighbors. There's an extra stillness in the air that comes right before the dawn. It's one of the reasons I enjoy my early morning walks. That perfect, calm tranquility. It lets me clear my head and really focus my mind.
I hear a rustling from a nearby bush that makes me pause. I listen, standing as still as possible. My gaze is focused on the bush, hoping to catch sight of whatever animal is within. Something draws my eyes upward. Not movement, but something else. I can't quite make it out from where I'm standing, so I edge closer, forgetting about the critter in the bushes.
The first thing I notice is drops of blood covering some of the dead leaves on the ground. My heart races for a second, but I remind myself there's a major road up ahead. Unfortunately, deer or other wildlife will often get hit by cars and wander through the woods, barely hanging on. It occurs to me that this blood may belong to the critter in the bushes. If that's the case, I have a hunting knife on me. If needed, I will be able to put the poor thing out of its misery.
I notice a lot more blood as I follow the trail. There's too much for a small animal, and it’s getting thicker. It's still possible it might just be a deer, but I follow it, just in case. The trees are thick in this part of the forest. They're densely packed, blocking out the little sunlight I have and making it too dark to see ahead. The undergrowth is so dense, I almost don't see her. I catch only a glimpse, but yes, it's definitely a her. Pink painted toenails on bare feet lead up to shapely, feminine calves, but the rest of her is hidden from my view by brush. I kneel down and dig through the foliage until I can see her face. She's passed out, bloody, and not moving.
Her utter stillness and the pallor of her skin makes me think she might be dead. My heart drops. This is someone's daughter. Somebody's loved one, and she's in the middle of nowhere, bloody and possibly dead.
I take a deep breath and steady myself. Before jumping to conclusions, I should check for a pulse.
I close my eyes to concentrate on what I'm feeling, doing my best to shut everything else out. There's faint thrumming beneath my fingertips. She's not dead yet. There's still time. I pull out my phone and pray for a signal, growling under my breath when I see there's no service. I try anyway, and I'm met with silence. Nothing.
“Fuck,” I curse to myself, lifting the woman into my arms.
The biggest downside about living in the middle of nowhere is just how far away you are from everything – including cell phone towers, in an emergency.
Typically, you don't want to move someone, just in case there's a neck injury, but I have little choice. It will take time to get to a place where I can get reception, and even more time to get an ambulance back here for her. Time I’m not sure she has.
She's limp in my arms but weighs very little. Her long, jet-black hair has twigs, leaves, and other debris clinging to her matted locks. Her face is painted red with blood, giving her a ghastly visage – a head injury is almost certain. I'm not a doctor nor a medic, but the amount of blood coming from her head must mean whatever she hit – or whatever hit her – hit her hard.
&nbs
p; Being as gentle as I can, I hurry back the way I came, heading toward my cabin. I keep one eye on my phone the entire time, checking for a signal. The sooner I can call for help, the better. I stick close to the road, hoping it'll be easier for the paramedics to find us once I can call.
Come on, come on, I mutter. My heart is racing. The adrenaline is flowing like crazy. The woman in my arms is so tiny and fragile. She feels completely boneless, and her breathing is barely noticeable.
When I finally get a signal, I'm nearly all the way back to the cabin. I quickly dial 9-1-1 and pray that I don't get disconnected. I say a quiet word of thanks when the dispatcher picks up.
“What's your emergency?” she asks.
“I have a woman who is unconscious, low pulse rate, and bleeding from the head,” I say. “I found her in the woods.”
“What's your location?” she asks.
I give the dispatcher my address and directions to my location, then hang up. I gently place the woman on the ground, laying her flat on her back. I pull off my jacket to lay it over her. I don't know how long she’s been out here, but as chilly as it was last night, I'd be surprised if she doesn't have hypothermia. At the very least.
I pull my jacket around her a little tighter, making it a little more secure, just in case. As I do so, her lips just barely start to move. Her eyes flutter as if trying to open, and she begins shaking like a leaf. I kneel down beside her as she cracks her eyelids open just a bit and squints up at me.
Then her eyes – a stunning crystal blue – shoot open. She stares back at me, eyes filled with a fear I can't even begin to comprehend.
“You're okay,” I say. “Help is on the way.”
She groans in pain and tries to move. I place a gentle hand on her shoulder and keep her lying flat.
“No, don't get up. The less you move, the better,” I say. “I don't know the extent of your injuries, so until we do, it's best if you try to lay still.”
“Where am I?” she asks weakly.
“You're in Keys Creek,” I say gently.
“Keys Creek? Where is that?”
Her eyes open again, both fear and confusion shining in her face. She moves again, but I keep her lying flat on the ground. I know it can't be comfortable, but it's better than if I keep holding her in my arms.
“About 70 miles east of Denver,” I say.
“Colorado? How did I –” she stops, letting out a small gasp, and wincing, as if something hurt.
“It's okay. We'll figure it out. Just rest,” I say. “Help is coming, so just hang in there.”
I’ve never been the nurturing type. Being comforting isn't something I'm good at. Never have been. I try my best to keep her calm, and hold her as still as possible, but I can see the look of panic in her eyes. I have no doubt that if she could, she'd get up and run out of here as fast as her legs could carry her. I can’t blame her, but there is no way in hell I'm letting her get up and start moving. Not in her condition. She'll be lucky if nothing is broken.
I hear faint sirens echoing through the woods. It feels like an eternity until I finally see the red and blue flashing lights appear in the distance. Once I see them, I stand to flag them down. A moment later, an ambulance pulls up alongside the road and two paramedics hop out – a man and a woman.
The male paramedic rushes over to the woman, while the woman comes over to me. I can't take my eyes off the scene, as the paramedic checks her vitals while speaking in encouraging, soothing tones.
The woman extends her hand to me. “I'm Callie Hendrix,” she says. “Can you tell me what happened here?”
“I really don't know. I was walking through the woods, and I found her like this,” I say. “I didn't have reception, so I carried her closer to the road before I called for help. She just woke up, seems confused as to how she got here.”
“Got here? As in the woods?”
“No, as in Colorado,” I say.
She nods and walks over to the other paramedic. I watch as they both work on the woman, doing their best to tend to her wounds. They gently load her onto a backboard, then lift her onto the gurney.
I see another set of lights in the distance coming toward us. This time, it's the police. A squad car pulls up just as the two medics load her into the ambulance. I know they're going to have questions for me. They may even suspect I'm behind this somehow, even though I've never seen this woman before in my life. I've been around long enough to know how these things tend to go.
The first cop to get out of the car is a middle-aged man, a little round around the middle with a receding hairline he tried his best to hide. His eyes are intense and dark as he looks me over. I know what I look like to him – I look like trouble.
Being as big as I am – six-foot-five and muscular – combined with tattoos, long, dark hair and a thick beard, means a lot of people are intimidated by me. I'm the kind of guy people cross the street to avoid walking by. If only they knew the truth – that I just want to be left alone – maybe it would make a difference in how they viewed me. But maybe not. People judge you based on what they see. They base their reaction to you on the superficial. That's the way it's always been, and I suspect that’s the way it will always be.
The second man to get out of the car is slimmer, with less intense eyes. He’s younger and leaner, probably new to the force. He has a baby face that marks him as likely to be in his twenties. Barely out of the academy, I presume. He smiles at me, and I give him a firm nod.
Smiley reaches out his hand and shakes mine. “Officer James Lewis,” he says.
“Officer Frank Staggs,” the first cop says gruffly. “And you are?”
“Grant Williams. I live right up that way,” I say, pointing in the direction of my cabin.
“Uh huh,” Staggs says. “And what were you doing out here this early in the morning?”
“Like I said, I live around here, and I was just taking a walk,” I say. “Like I do most every morning.”
The two men look at one another. Just by the look on his face, I can tell Officer Staggs has his doubts about me.
“Listen, I don't even know this woman. I'm sure once she talks, she'll confirm that and tell you everything,” I say. “I like taking early morning walks to clear my head. Didn't expect to come across a crime scene.”
Staggs arches his eyebrows, giving me a look that I guess is supposed to intimidate me. I roll my eyes and shake my head.
“Do you really think I'd call for help on a woman I attacked myself?” I ask.
“He has a point,” Lewis says.
Staggs continues scrutinizing me for a long time before he finally speaks. “Mind if we get your contact info, just in case we have any further questions?” he says. It was more of a demand than a request. “Maybe call in your name, make sure everything checks out?”
“Sure, I've got nothing to hide,” I say, pulling out my wallet and handing my ID over to him. “I'll wait here. Don't worry, I have no reason to run, but feel free to wait with me. You can even keep your gun on me if it makes you feel better.”
Maybe I shouldn't taunt the local cops, but I can't help it. Staggs just looks like he has a stick up his ass. I wait with Lewis while Staggs goes back to the police cruiser to run my ID, likely checking for any warrants – or anything he can use to justify harassing me.
“Marines?” Lewis asks me.
“Yep. How'd you tell?” I ask.
Lewis motions toward my arm. “The tattoos,” he says. “My dad was in the Corps.”
“And you didn't follow in his footsteps?” I ask.
Lewis cracks a smile. “Couldn't pass the tests,” he chuckles. “Dad’ll never let me live it down.”
“Oh, I know how that goes,” I say. Lewis isn’t so bad. “My dad was a Marine too. I don't think I ever had a choice.”
Staggs huffed his way back down to us, scowling as he tossed my ID back at me.
“Record’s clean,” he says. “But we'll be in touch if we have any further questions.”
“Yes, sir. You do that,” I say dryly, trying my damnedest not to smirk or tell him I told him so. It’s his job, after all.
I have nothing to worry about, criminally speaking. No drunk driving records. No misdemeanors or felonies. Not even a speeding ticket in the last fifteen years or so. I mean it when I say I normally keep to myself.
“You're free to go,” he says glumly.
“Thank you kindly,” I say.
I start heading back toward my house, still picturing the battered, bloody face of the woman in my head. God, I really hope she's going to be okay.
Chapter Two
Celeste
I stare up at the ceiling. The harsh white lights are blinding. Nothing hurts anymore, not even my head, but there's an emptiness inside of me that fills me with dread. I hear muffled voices surrounding me, both in my room and in the hallway. Two nurses are chatting about the latest episode of some show I've never seen – or can't remember if I've seen it or not. I rack my brain but come up empty. It’s not just TV shows. I can't remember much of anything.
“Dear, we're just going to check your vitals again, okay?”
I nod, but don't bother looking over at her. I can't find my voice, though I know it's in there somewhere.
Annie – the nurse who asked me about checking my vitals – is an older woman. She's got gray hair pulled back into a tight bun and is wearing light blue scrubs that match her eyes. Her face is warm, friendly, and it reminds me of someone. I just can't figure out who. The memory floats around in the back of my mind, teasing me with the knowledge, but my brain won't give it up.
She wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm as Gina, the other nurse, writes something down on the chart she's holding. Once my blood pressure is recorded Gina gives me a warm smile.
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