Dark Sky

by Carla Neggers

Mia pushed open the door to her hotel room and wheeled her suitcase into the small room, leaving it in the middle of the floor while she checked out her view. It wasn’t much of one. Her hotel was located on Central Park South, but she’d balked at paying for a room with a park view. Hers looked out on office buildings. She looked down at the street ten floors below and saw a man in a dark business suit running, flagging a cab.

  The FBI agent, Joe Collins, and the chief deputy, Mike Rivera, had offered to fly to Washington to meet with her. Nate Winter must have given them her name. He’d been at the meeting when she and the president had asked Ethan Brooker to volunteer for the rescue mission. Nate hadn’t stayed for all the details.

  She couldn’t give the FBI or the marshals Ham Carhill’s name or any details of the information he’d provided her, but there was a lot she could tell them. About Tatro and his henchmen. The timing of the rescue mission. How Tatro wasn’t there when Ethan and his team arrived at the camp. She’d cleared everything with her superiors. And she’d talked to the president. Now that Ham was safe and they’d acted on his information—and Ham was done, no longer a viable candidate for covert work—she saw no reason whatsoever she couldn’t cooperate with the FBI investigation.

  Neither did President Poe, when she’d told him what she intended to do.

  But she didn’t tell him all of it. About the anonymous calls, the tips—her mounting concern that her caller had manipulated her.

  Turning from the window, Mia called room service and ordered the soup of the day—wild mushroom—and a glass of red wine. She’d relax tonight. She’d put up her feet, order a movie and let her subconscious do its work, and maybe, by morning, she’d have a better idea of who her caller was and what he wanted and how to stop him. Because this guy was still pulling strings. He wasn’t done.

  Fifteen

  Ham watched a rerun of Law & Order while he thumbed through a free Vermont guidebook in his room in a fleabag motel off I-89. All the decent hotels, motels and country inns were booked solid. Leaf-peeping season. He’d seen plenty of leaves on his drive north from New York. Supposedly “peak” foliage wasn’t until next weekend. He couldn’t tell.

  The guidebook listed fairs, arts-and-crafts shows, hay rides, scenic hikes. He wasn’t interested, but he hoped pretending he was, going through the motions, would help keep him from going crazy.

  Lennie Briscoe made one of his pithy wisecracks, and Ham switched to CNN. At least his motel had cable. But nothing was going on, and he lay back on his flat pillow and crossed his feet, running through his mind again what he’d say to Juliet Longstreet. Talk about threading a needle in a sandstorm in the dark. Except, in this case, one wrong move and someone could die. Himself, even. Never mind pissing off the national-security types. He’d come close enough to dying this fall to know he wasn’t in the mood for it.

  But what was he supposed to do, leave everything to Ethan? Hope for the best?

  He glanced at the old bedside clock-radio. Midnight. He supposed he could wake Mia O’Farrell and ask her advice about what to do. Get another opinion. But he didn’t trust her entirely. And who was he kidding, anyway? It was too late for advice—too late for permission. He’d already made up his mind what to do.

  Bobby Tatro thought Deputy Longstreet had his ransom payment.

  The emeralds.

  That scenario was the only one that made sense. The only explanation for breaking into her apartment. Tatro must have figured that Ham had given them to Brooker—payment, maybe, for freeing him—and Brooker had given them to Longstreet. To silence her about what she knew? Keep her from asking questions? Ham didn’t have that part of Tatro’s twisted thinking figured out yet. But he was pretty sure he was on target about the rest of it.

  And Deputy Longstreet deserved to know.

  She was in Vermont. Ham had stopped at her building to talk to her. The security guard told him she wasn’t around, refused to tell him where she was. When Ham guessed Vermont, the guard still kept mum, but his expression told Ham what he wanted to know. He rented a car and headed north to Vermont, getting lost twice before he found Longstreet Landscaping. He saw Juliet Longstreet patting a fat dog next to a trailer of pumpkins, but with a state police cruiser in the driveway and people all over the place, he decided to wait until tomorrow to pry her loose.

  Ham tried to relax.

  Tatro’s in jail.

  The bastard couldn’t hurt him or anyone else, not anymore.

  Ham could feel the emeralds under his pillow. They were cut and polished—beauties. They weren’t raw crystals freshly dug out of the Andes. Emeralds were portable—a favorite with smugglers—and good ones were valuable. He estimated the worth of the emeralds he’d spirited away from his captors in the vicinity of a half-million dollars.

  Beryllium and chromium…two elements that, together, produced an emerald. Yet they were brought together only under rare geological conditions. The Colombian Andes were a geological rarity. And Muzo, Coscuez, Chivor were Colombian mines known all over the world for their unique, high-quality emeralds.

  The emerald was the birthstone for May, the gem of Taurus and Gemini. It was associated with kindness and goodness, and rumored to ward off panic attacks.

  And there were those who still believed that emeralds could provide their wearer with the ability to see the future.

  Ham wished the emeralds under his pillow could empower him just to see what tomorrow would bring. But perhaps because they were tarnished by violence and deceit, their mystical attributes were unavailable, at least to him. He couldn’t put pieces together, make connections that he normally could, connections that had made him valuable to Mia O’Farrell and, in a way, had led him to Vermont.

  In any case, Ham had no illusions. He was at the mercy of forces outside of his control, and no one could help him now. Not even Ethan Brooker.

  Wendy sat in the window seat in her dark bedroom, wrapped up in a fleece blanket, and tried to work on a college essay. The question she was supposed to answer was straightforward—Why do you want to be a doctor?—and yet she couldn’t think of a single reason why. She pictured herself sitting in a college chemistry class, studying nonstop, dealing with the competition and stress of being a premed student.

  And the work itself. She liked the idea of helping people, but she didn’t think she could look at blood and pus or even runny noses every day. She thought about the doctor who’d had to examine Juan after he was murdered. She didn’t want to have to be around death and suffering all the time.

  Wendy put the essay aside and glanced at her poem, which was awful. She tore it up and threw the pieces on the floor. How could she ever have thought it was any good?

  With her knees tucked under her chin, she stared outside. It was a clear night, with just a sliver of a moon and stars everywhere. She spotted a flock of wild turkeys down by the barn, led by the fattest tom she’d ever seen. What were they doing traipsing around so late? She quickly put on her slippers and ran downstairs, her blanket wrapped over her shoulders. She made as little noise as possible so as not to wake her grandparents, who worried about her too much as it was—even before New York.

  Ducking out the side porch, Wendy immediately realized it was colder outside than she’d expected. She tightened her blanket around her and walked out back, triggering the motion-detector light. But the turkeys were gone now, the night quiet and still. She walked a little ways up the lane behind the barn. She was in pajama pants and an oversize T-shirt, but she didn’t have on any socks, and the blanket wasn’t really warm enough—she should at least have grabbed a coat.

  Her poem really was stupid, she thought, shivering in the night air. She wasn’t being overly hard on herself. She didn’t regret tearing it to shreds.

  And her apple crisp. What a disaster. No matter what anyone else said, it was disgusting. The oats were hard. The apples had turned to mush. Her dad said it was good, but Wendy had noticed he ate his helping with a lot of vanilla ice cream. It wasn’t the recipe—i
t was her. She’d done something wrong. Her mind hadn’t been on making apple crisp.

  She’d kept seeing Juan—Vincente Perez—smiling at her, trying to make the indignity of having her bag searched easier for her to take. She’d had no idea he was lying about who he was.

  And that awful Bobby Tatro. The things he’d said to her while she was hiding in Juliet’s bedroom. She kept hearing him, seeing herself, as if she were perched atop her aunt’s curtains and was looking down at what was happening to her—watching herself pushing the bureau in front of the door, imagining her expression as she’d tried to block the evil, horrible words from entering her mind. He talked about what he’d do to her. What he’d do to her aunt. He’d liked the idea that Wendy was in the bedroom, frightened, at his mercy.

  She stopped in the middle of the lane. She thought she’d heard something. The turkeys? She tightened the fleece around her and decided she should head back. The motion-detector light had gone off again, and she was out of its range, anyway. It was just too dark to go any farther. She’d start a new poem when she got back to her room. Writing helped quiet the memories of NewYork.

  “Wendy?”

  She nearly screamed, but Matt Kelleher immediately caught her hand and said, “No, no, it’s just me. I thought you saw me.”

  “Where—”

  “I was up at the cabin, out working on my camper.”

  Her heart raced, but she patted her chest, trying to get herself to calm down. “Did you see the wild turkeys?” she asked him.

  “They just walked across the end of the driveway up at the cabin. Kind of late for them, isn’t it? But they’re fun to watch. Just don’t want to get in the middle of a turkey fight.” His shaved head stood out against the blackness of the woods behind him. “Thought I heard someone out here.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Wendy mumbled, not explaining further.

  “Yeah. I can understand that.”

  “My aunt’s here. Juliet. Did you meet her?”

  “Briefly.”

  Wendy sniffled. “She had to talk to me about—about what happened. I know everyone’s worried about me.” She wiped her eyes with her fingertips but wasn’t crying. “But I’m okay. Really.”

  “It’s hard, I know, having everyone hovering over you, watching you for every little thing you do,” Matt said gently. “Makes you feel claustrophobic, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s it. Exactly. I know they mean well.”

  “I remember, when my wife was dying—” He paused, caught up in his emotions, then went on thoughtfully, “People did their best, I guess, but sometimes I just needed to be alone. To be honest, there were times I didn’t even want to be around her. That made me feel guilty, but that’s just the way it was. I didn’t want to be alone all the time by any means—but it was like people, circumstances, wouldn’t let me be normal.”

  Wendy nodded, amazed at his understanding. “My dad and my grandmother keep looking at me like I’m going to suddenly fall into a million pieces or go crazy or something.”

  Matt laughed a little. “Yeah. I know that look.”

  She smiled. “Thank you for telling me about your experience. I feel—” She hesitated, uncertain whether her train of thought would offend him. “I think it’d help me deal with what happened if I could—” She stopped herself. “Never mind.”

  “If you could what, Wendy?”

  “I’ve had a hard time saying goodbye to my dog. Teddy. And here, when I know you’ve lost your wife—”

  “Your dog was a part of your life for a long time.”

  “Since I was a baby. I went back for his ashes at my aunt’s apartment. That’s why—that’s why I was there when that guy—” She blinked back tears, wishing she hadn’t brought up New York. “It’s not Teddy’s fault. He didn’t do anything. He’s not even—I mean, I know he’s dead. It’s my fault I went back. It’s my fault I can’t give him up.”

  “I don’t mean to butt into your business, Wendy, but maybe now’s the time to scatter Teddy’s ashes. He must have been a great dog, but—I don’t know. At some point, we all need closure after the death of someone we love.”

  The tears spilled down her cheeks, but she wasn’t embarrassed for Matt to see her cry. He seemed to understand her feelings, not take them as a sign of weakness, or typical teenage angst. “I’m not like the Longstreets.”

  He cuffed her gently on the shoulder. “Kiddo, you’re more like them than you think you are. Probably more than they think you are, too.”

  His words made her feel better. She wondered if he’d meant them to. “I’ve been thinking about scattering Teddy’s ashes in the lake. He loved the water.”

  “He was a golden retriever, right? I’ve never met one that didn’t love water—”

  “Once, he jumped into the lake when the ice was still melting. It was so cold. I thought he’d die! But he loved it! When he came out, he had icicles hanging off his fur.”

  Matt laughed. “Dumb dog.”

  Wendy found herself laughing, too, and when she headed back to the house, she had a glimmer of an idea for a new poem. It would be about Teddy. She wouldn’t name him—that’d be corny—but, still, he’d be the inspiration for what she hoped would be her best poem, ever.

  And first thing in the morning, she thought, she’d scatter Teddy’s ashes in the lake.

  Juliet awoke with a start and lay very still in the pitch dark.

  Where the hell am I?

  Her eyes adjusted, and she made out the interior of her small tent. She had left the flaps up, just the mosquito lining separating her from the elements. She could make out the faint shine of moonlight on the lake.

  Vermont. My five acres on the lake.

  A raccoon or a wild turkey must have wandered past her tent—or the cold had jerked her awake. Somehow she’d managed to squirm halfway out of her sleeping bag, not that it was worth a damn. She’d had the bag since college, but at least it was hers. Most of her camping gear had been handed down from her brothers.

  The night temperature had dropped to the low thirties.

  A barred owl sounded in the nature preserve across the lake.

  There. That’s what woke me up. Suddenly she heard the crunch of twigs just outside her tent and sat up, reaching for her Glock.

  “Don’t shoot, Marshal.”

  She groaned, immediately recognizing the west Texas drawl. “Damn, Brooker. Scare the hell out of me, why don’t you?”

  “You don’t scare that easy.” He unzipped the mosquito lining and crawled in, blotting out what minimal light there was from the stars and quarter moon. “All nice and cozy in here, I see.”

  “What time is it? You were in Texas this morning—”

  “I flew into Manchester and rented a car, found my way up here. I figured I’d get the lay of the land and go find a motel room, but some guy who looks like you—”

  “All my brothers look like me.”

  “This one had just pulled up in a town cop car.”

  “Ah. Paul.”

  “We had a nice chat. He was checking on the family before heading home. I think you make them nervous when you’re around.”

  “I make them nervous when I’m not around. They’d be happier if I’d stayed home to sell mums and pumpkins and design pretty gardens. It was what I thought I’d do.” She didn’t know why she was telling him this—or anything. “I’d have liked it.”

  “Ah. The path not taken. I was supposed to be a rancher.” He sat at her feet, his head hitting the tent roof. “Your brother told me you pitched your tent out here.”

  “Lucky you didn’t run into Joshua. The mood he’s in, he might have just shot you. What time is it?”

  Ethan pulled off his boots. “Around midnight.”

  At dusk, after Wendy’s apple crisp, Juliet had driven out to the lake with her camping gear. Matt Kelleher spotted her and introduced himself, then helped her cart everything down the path to her clearing. She’d found herself interrogating him about his dead wife
and Arizona and his camper, then backed off. She’d spend the night on the lake. Then she’d head back to New York first thing in the morning. She wasn’t accomplishing anything in Vermont except upsetting her family.

  “I told Officer Paul that I had a room at a hotel off the interstate.”

  “You don’t, though.”

  He shook his head. “I’m just a poor ex-soldier.”

  “Ha.”

  “Don’t worry, I wasn’t protecting your virtue. I didn’t want a Longstreet posse hunting me down.”

  But Juliet had to admit she didn’t want her brothers finding out Ethan had made his way to her tent, either. She’d never brought a guy home to Vermont. Even when she and Rob Dunnemore were together, they seemed to both know it wasn’t a forever relationship.

  “You’re shivering,” Ethan said.

  Damn it, she was shivering. She had on a flannel shirt and boxer shorts. Very sexy.

  What was she thinking? She was determined to send Brooker on his way. She pulled her sleeping bag back up to her chin. “It’s a small tent.”

  “Luxury quarters compared to what I’m used to.” He shifted position, setting his boots neatly next to the tent’s entrance. “Better company, too.”

  “Ethan—” She couldn’t believe how cold she was, even with him in her tent with her. “You can’t stay here. Really. If you don’t want to stay in a hotel, fine. You can find a spot on the lakeshore. Make a nice bed for yourself in some freshly fallen leaves. You’re Special Forces—you’ll manage.”

  “Going to send me out into the cold night?”

  He didn’t seem that troubled by the prospect, or at all convinced she was serious. Juliet sighed, no longer shivering. “Ethan, I’m not that good at flings.”

  He rolled onto his knees and crawled next to her, touching her chin. “Neither am I.”

  “But—” She didn’t know how to say it. “But that’s what this is. The year you’ve had…” She winced, aware of him next to her, so close. “You’ve been running from what happened.”

  “You mean Char,” he said.