Honor

by Janet Dailey

  Kenzie saw the social worker and psychiatrist, a young woman and a gray-haired man, heading down the connecting hall, coats on.

  “Excuse me,” she said quickly and dashed after them, out of earshot of the Corellis.

  She literally took them both by the sleeve, pleading to break the rules.

  “Just once. For tonight. Not the whole family—one of us. She’s upset—please.”

  The rest of the conversation was hushed, but the two others finally agreed. Dr. Liebling left written orders at the front desk for the night staff.

  Kenzie went back to tell Mr. and Mrs. Corelli.

  Alf went out around seven P.M. to buy an inflatable mattress. He drove to the nearest gas station and took it out of the box, attaching it to the nozzle of the air pump and feeding in quarters. No one there looked twice.

  He returned to the rehab center and managed to get it through the door. The nurse at the front desk looked up from her magazine as he approached.

  “Evening,” he said.

  She kept a straight face. “Hello, Mr. Corelli. I saw the doctor’s orders. Go ahead.”

  “Thank you.” The air mattress wobbled under his arm as he walked away. She looked after him, smiling faintly, and went back to her reading.

  Christine laughed when he entered her room, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “That looks like the one we took to the beach.”

  “It’s firmer than that,” he said.

  “Let Kenzie stay,” his daughter begged.

  That hadn’t been decided.

  “Please.” Christine’s voice was shaking.

  “All right,” the older Corellis said in unison.

  Kenzie couldn’t sleep. The air mattress had a soft, flocked cover, but it smelled strongly of new vinyl. There were no sheets. She didn’t give a damn. Christine had drifted off, but not before giving her a blanket from her bed.

  There had been no more talk of the accident before her parents left for the night. But Kenzie’s fears on that score were realized hours later. Her friend began to thrash, crying out as if someone was attacking her.

  Kenzie struggled up from the sliding mattress on the floor and went to her. Christine’s eyes were wide open, gleaming in the darkness just before dawn.

  “Shh,” Kenzie soothed. She put a hand on her friend’s forehead. Not hot, but beaded in sweat. “Shh. I’m here. What’s the matter?”

  “Bad dream.”

  “It’s over.”

  Christine sat up in bed, clutching the covers and burying her face in them. “It seemed so real.”

  “It wasn’t. Dreams are only dreams.”

  “No, Kenzie. He was there.”

  “Who?” She knew the answer before Christine said it.

  “The man who hit me. When I was in your car.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Another session with the SKC laptop yielded nothing. Linc was done with cudgeling his brains and was about to switch on the television when his cell phone rang.

  Good old Mike. He debated the wisdom of answering, then told himself that something could have happened to Kenzie or Christine.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Got the soil analysis back.”

  Linc drew a blank for a second. “Huh?”

  “From the double set of tire tracks we found north of the accident site,” the lieutenant said patiently. “Under the maples.”

  “Right. They were Norway maples.”

  “Awww. You remembered,” Mike said.

  “So what did the lab say?”

  “Got a pencil?”

  Linc looked around. “No.”

  “I’m at work, Linc. I can’t drop off a copy. There’s three new cases on the board, and one is a double homicide. The chief’s breathing down my neck.”

  He clicked some keys, opened up a new document on his screen. “Okay. Blank doc ready to go. I’m putting you on loudspeaker.”

  “You can touch type?”

  Mike’s voice sounded tinny but he could hear him.

  “Yeah.”

  Mike read from the lab report. Linc got the gist of it down.

  “So the tires on the wrecked car had dirt, seeds, you name it, from both places.”

  “That’s right,” Mike replied. “But keep in mind that the dirt and road grit samples from both were very similar. There’s only a half mile between the accident site and the spot north of it, under the maples where the tire tracks didn’t get washed away.”

  “Got it. Go on.”

  He could hear Mike rattle the papers he was reading from.

  “However, the vegetable matter in the samples—seeds, like you said, leaves and that kind of stuff—was very different.”

  “So it looks like Christine did stop under the maples first. Before the car crash.”

  “Yes. And don’t forget the tracks. Not fresh, not perfectly clear, but we were able to identify the type of tire on the other car.”

  “Nothing that would be unique to those tires? You know, like wear patterns, tread damage?”

  Mike sighed. “No. Just the type.” He told Linc what it was. “You can look it up online if you want.”

  “I will. Anything else?”

  “Backtrack. You told me about the vests but not the visit to SKC. So tell me. I promise not to insult you.”

  Linc stopped typing and leaned back in his chair, picking up the cell phone and taking Mike off speaker.

  He took a few minutes to fill him in on his visit to SKC. “I tried to get video with a microcam, but it didn’t work too well. Bought a bunch of X-Ultra vests for my nefarious purposes, and listened to Lee Slattery for two hours. The guy’s a talker.”

  “That’s good. Keep him talking,” Mike said. “Sounds like he took a shine to you.”

  Linc shrugged, even though he knew Mike couldn’t see him. “I had someone at the agency call and vouch for me before I showed up. He was impressed. And I spent a lot of money.”

  “Not yours.”

  Linc laughed. “You know where I’m living. I got a grant, put it that way. My boss okayed it.”

  “All right. Don’t tell me more.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Linc replied.

  “Any other breaking news?”

  “Uh, besides that, I’ve been hanging out with Kenzie.”

  “Keep an eye on her. Someone has to. How is Christine doing?”

  “They moved her to a rehabilitation place,” Linc said. “Kenzie said she’s adjusting pretty well.”

  “At some point she might start to remember the accident.”

  “Not yet. When Christine came to, her mom and Kenzie started using pictures to help her talk. As in one word at a time. I understand she’s making progress, but she has a long way to go.”

  Mike was silent for a few moments. “Give my regards to the Corellis when you see them. They’re good people. Can’t wait to catch the bastard who did that to their daughter. We are going to catch him.”

  “Damn straight,” Linc said.

  Mike didn’t say anything more. Linc could hear the everyday noise of a police station in the background.

  He came back. “Gotta go. Thanks for the update.”

  Mike hung up before Linc could say good-bye.

  The information on the tires and what had stuck to their treads was good, a few more pieces added to the puzzle. But there were still an awful lot of gaps.

  Linc thought for a few minutes and started a new search online.

  It was time to go back several years, find out more about how the huge SKC complex had been financed. Transparency wasn’t a mandate in the closed world of military contracting. Despite Lee Slattery’s backslapping friendliness, Linc suspected that SKC followed the same unwritten rules.

  By the fifth page on Google, he came across an unflattering article from years ago on the company that would become SKC. He glanced at the reporter’s byline and then at the thumbnail photo.

  Linc hooted. Gary Baum had written it.

  So that was what he looke
d like before he got bitter and cynical. Baum must have been right out of college then. Eager. Young. So young that Linc could picture him with freckles and a bowtie, holding his journalism degree rolled up with a red ribbon. Ready to go forth and fight injustice.

  Linc was chuckling when he picked up his cell phone. He tapped Gary Baum’s number, listening to the ring.

  Could be an easy way to get more information on Lee Slattery and a couple of the names he remembered from his tour of the factory. If Gary had kept his notes.

  Gary answered and said hello in a surly voice.

  “Hey. Linc here. How are you, Gary?”

  The reporter seemed taken aback by the warm greeting. “Fine. You?”

  “Bet you’re wondering why I called,” Linc began.

  “I’m not giving the money back.”

  “That’s the last thing on my mind,” Linc assured him. Not strictly true—he’d just checked his bank balance, surprised by the precipitous drop in available funds once all the checks cleared.

  “So what can I do for you?” Baum asked in a slightly less nasty voice.

  “Well, I just happened to come across your name online. You wrote an article about SKC. A colossus in the making, you called it.”

  There was a pause.

  “That was a thousand years ago,” Baum said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I thought it was very well-written,” Linc said. “Seriously.”

  Gary gave a snort. “It was all right. Not my best.” He paused again. “So why were you interested in it?”

  “I’m getting to that. There’s a connection to—”

  “The accident,” Gary crowed. “You know, once you paid me all that dough, I really started thinking. The station researcher happened to mention that the girl in the wreck worked for SKC. So let me take a wild guess. She was having an affair with the smooth talker, the big boss with the silver hair. Lee. Right so far?”

  “No.”

  The reporter was on a roll. “I bet it gets worse. Lee didn’t want wifey to know and there was an argument. Her parents hired you and you’re looking to take Slattery down. Am I warm? Am I hot?”

  “Not even lukewarm.”

  Gary Baum swore, very creatively. “So enlighten me.”

  “I can’t tell you that much. Actually, I’d like to interview you for a change.”

  The reporter cackled. “That’s a switch. Okay, the motel again?”

  “Come on over.”

  “Just because I have nothing else to do, I will. You don’t even have to pay me for my valuable time.”

  “See you.” Linc rolled his eyes as he hung up.

  Gary arrived about an hour later with a file folder under his arms. He held it out. “Clippings. That’s how long ago it was.”

  He walked to the table Linc had turned into a desk, glancing—not idly—at the open laptop.

  Linc was ahead of him. He’d set the screensaver to a happy fish swimming around, followed by a lady fish with pouty lips who bumped his fin and gave him a big fat fishy kiss.

  “I like your aquarium,” Baum commented.

  “Thanks. So what’s in the file?”

  Gary pushed the laptop to the back of the table and opened it. “First draft to the last. Notes. Some photos they didn’t run. Knock yourself out.”

  Linc sat down and indicated that Gary should do the same.

  “That’s Slattery,” Linc said. “Not quite so silver.”

  “Correct. I’m surprised I remember those guys as well as I do.”

  “I just met them myself,” Linc said. He intended to keep his comments on the safe side.

  Gary flipped through a few pages and photos that were jumbled together. “I bet Lee Slattery hasn’t changed much. The Great Introducer, right?”

  “He was a glad-hander, no doubt about it.”

  “The other guy, Vic Kehoe, had just joined. He was ex-army, if I remember right. Or ex-something-like-the-army.”

  Linc looked more closely at the picture. “I met him. I thought he was military.” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “No big surprise. A lot of execs like him and Lee are. Even though a lot of their products are outsourced. These days, military supply is like any other business.”

  Linc let him talk.

  “I mean, there are plenty of reputable companies,” Gary conceded. “They have, like, a mission. Quality is a big deal to the best of them.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “Look, there are a few operating on the cheap in countries where laws are a joke. Ship it back and sell it for top dollar to Uncle Sam. Just so long as you stay within a procurement budget, everyone’s happy.”

  “So are you saying that’s how SKC got started?”

  “They cut a few corners. Rumors were flying about kickbacks, internal corruption—there was an investigation.”

  “Police? Federal?”

  Gary snorted with contempt. “In-house. Slattery got it hushed up fast—apparently the corruption was high up. As I remember, a couple of execs got the boot and that Kehoe guy took over for them.”

  “Do you mean he took over where they left off?”

  The reporter chuckled. “Two sides to that question, aren’t there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I couldn’t say. Their black-ops materiel support was what put them on the map. Slattery and Kehoe both got rich.”

  “How rich?”

  “Very,” Gary said. “That’s a booming business. Mobile prisons—they invented those. Bring ’em in to remote locales by helicopter, take them out the same way. That’s how they got started. Or that was the scuttlebutt, anyway.”

  “Interesting.”

  The reporter nodded. “Kehoe had the know-how and he hired out as a consultant. Still does, I guess.”

  “How about Slattery?”

  “He liked to hint that he hung out with tough guys who got the job done and to hell with due process.”

  “I didn’t get that impression.”

  Gary Baum snorted. “Mr. Chamber of Congress never met a colonel he didn’t like. SKC’s been awarded one fat contract after another. About the only thing they don’t make is guns and ammo. Everything else, oh yeah. Corned beef hash to chemical toilets. One-stop shopping for all your army needs.”

  “Didn’t they just start making body armor?”

  The reporter gave him a shrewd look. “You asking me or telling me?”

  “Asking.”

  “I heard that they were, yeah. Sounds like their kind of deal. Let’s say sixty thousand units at eight hundred per—what is that?”

  “About five million.”

  “And that would be only one order.” He sighed, gathering up his papers. “I don’t know why I thought journalism school was a good idea.”

  “So,” Linc began, “do you have negatives for these photos?”

  “No. They’re digital.”

  “Even better.”

  “Want a disc?” Gary asked quickly.

  “How much is it going to cost me?”

  Gary grinned. “Not a cent.” He looked through the material in the file. “There’s a couple in here. Aha.”

  He pulled out a square envelope with a silver disc inside and handed it over.

  “One for you and one for me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gary scowled at the photo of Lee Slattery. “I can’t stand that guy. I was in the running for a byline at a national paper, and he called the owner, told him that he thought I was, quote unquote, a weasel.”

  “Really.”

  “That was the end of that job. And that’s how I ended up covering the blood-and-guts beat for W-K-R-A-S-H.”

  Linc didn’t think that was the name of the TV station, but it was close enough.

  “You can have his picture for nothing. And I’ll throw in the other guys as a bonus. If you don’t mind my asking, what did Lee Slattery do to you?”

  Linc only shrugged. “I hardly know the guy. I just needed more info on his background for
my, uh, client.”

  “I see,” Gary said. “Clear as mud. But I don’t care.” He closed the folder and shoved it over to Linc. “You can have my notes too.”

  “No charge?”

  “Nope. Maybe I’ll need a favor someday.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Christine’s new laptop was on her bed, resting on a book. The Corellis felt the same way as Kenzie about the old one: that it was somehow tainted. They’d bought a pearl-white model that looked like the first, except that it had no stickers. Kenzie had stopped at the dime store to pick up a few packets, but Christine didn’t seem interested.

  Right now she was on Facebook, scrolling through messages from friends.

  “Wow. Look at my wall. Hundreds of get-wells and luv-yoos and hang-in-theres. I can’t answer them all.”

  “You don’t have to. Your mom posted daily updates from the beginning.”

  “I guess I wasn’t ready for visitors. I’m still not,” Christine said.

  Kenzie nodded. Christine had more good days than bad, but neither was predictable. “That’s up to you. Neuro rehab is no party.”

  Christine laughed a little. “My therapist says it’s a challenge. If I get any more challenged, I’m going to run away.”

  “You’ll get through it. One day at a time.” Kenzie took out the shopping bag from the dime store and pulled out skeins of yarn and two thick plastic needles. She cast on a row and added several more before Christine noticed.

  “I didn’t know you could knit.”

  Kenzie smiled. “Just the basics.”

  “Are you making a potholder?”

  Kenzie held up the rows with the knitting needles. “I’m hoping it will turn into a scarf. Give me a year.”

  “When did you learn?”

  “In Germany. A buddy had some extra yarn and needles. She was really good—she could do Fair Isle patterns.”

  “Oh. I had a Fair Isle sweater once.” Christine smiled again. “Somehow I never pictured you knitting.”

  “You know, it calms me down,” Kenzie said. “Oops. Dropped a stitch.” She picked it up. “I don’t even care when I make mistakes.”

  Christine glanced outside, distracted by a group of men in the courtyard. They wore coveralls and carried buckets. One pushed a round contraption that held squeegees and, Kenzie figured, the cleaning solution. Another dragged a very long hose.