by BETH KERY
Was she talking about one of her patients? Thomas wondered with a growing sense of unease. Something about her tone made him think it was something weightier than a patient consultation.
“You and I both know that would be best, but it’s not likely he’ll be talked into that unless something breaks—” Her head dropped and she inhaled. “Unless some change occurs, I mean.”
Thomas held his breath in his lungs until it burned as the person on the other end of the line with Sophie spoke. He eased closer to the end of the hallway and peered around the corner into the kitchen in time to see Sophie shake her head, her hair whisking across her shoulders.
“No. That’s not going to happen. I’m not concerned about that.” She listened intently to the other person’s response. She shook her head again, but not as strenuously as last time. He strained to hear her voice when she spoke next; it was difficult to hear through his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“No. I don’t want you to worry about that, he’s not dangerous. You’ve got to trust me. I can handle this. We’ll talk tomorrow. Yes, I promise. I don’t know how I ever got myself in this situation, but here I am.” Her laugh sounded tired. “Of course it’s not your fault . . . yes . . . I think what I’m doing might be telling, too. I’m not stopping now. I won’t. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
Thomas turned and headed back down the hallway stealthily when she pulled the phone away from her ear.
Once she’d gotten off the phone with Andy, Sophie cleaned the green beans at the sink, staring out the window, her mind churning.
The best thing would be for Nicasio to be evaluated and treated by a professional. There’s no telling if a possible head injury is exacerbating a psychological trauma or not. But if you suspect he won’t consent to medical treatment, try to get him to talk about what’s happened to him recently, all the stressors he’s experienced, in a roundabout manner . . . see if it . . . dislodges anything.
She’d known Thomas was amnesic about certain events ever since last night when he’d behaved as though they’d just made love for the first time in her office. She just hadn’t contextualized his localized amnesia as being a part of an acute stress response or PTSD until she’d seen the way he’d reacted toward Sherman Dolan this afternoon, when he’d looked precisely like someone suffering from the symptoms of an acute stress disorder.
What she still didn’t know, precisely, was the extent of the trauma that he’d experienced in the past several days. She knew some of the internal demons he struggled against . . . but not all.
And Thomas couldn’t tell her at the moment. His psyche was fighting like mad to make him not remember whatever had blasted into his consciousness like a lethal bullet, altering his entire world. She suspected he was doing everything in his power not to acknowledge that wound.
Her anxiety ratcheted up when she considered Andy’s advice to subtly get him to talk about the trauma. The idea of temporarily increasing Thomas’s discomfort and emotional pain was a little intimidating, mostly because she was afraid he would leave again.
The thought of confronting Thomas didn’t make her nervous, however, despite Andy’s warning that Thomas might be dangerous. No. She refused to believe that, Sophie told herself even as she once again recalled what Andy had said.
Sophie, listen to me. We’re talking about a man who served in a crack military unit. Do you know how much psychological testing is required for a person to even qualify for the EOD? Those people stare right into the face of death again and again, and they can’t fight it with fists and guns. They have to keep ultimate control while dismantling a bomb. Nicasio served and excelled in a unit like that, even becoming a decorated officer. If he could keep his head under those conditions, just consider what kind of stress he must be experiencing at the moment to make him respond in this way. Nicasio is no stranger to violent situations. I want you to remember that, Sophie. I don’t know what he’s reacting to, precisely. Maybe Rick’s and his nephew’s deaths were just the final straw that broke the camel’s back after so many years of living under frequent threat of death. Either way, it’s possible he’s dangerous. Soldiers suffering from acute or posttraumatic stress disorders have been known to attack their spouses during flashbacks and nightmares. And that’s not the only potential threat, Sophie. If it’s true what you suspect about Nicasio—that something so painful happened that it made him amnesic for a short period of time—then he might resort to the defense mechanism of projection to deal with it. He might unconsciously start to blame the only other person in his vicinity. He might start to project his growing anguish and aggression onto you.
Sophie clamped her eyes shut tightly. It hurt her to think of Thomas suffering so acutely—like a wounded animal that felt pain, but had no understanding of why or how to make it stop.
But she didn’t believe for a second that Thomas would ever harm her.
She started and choked on an inhale when a drawer suddenly opened behind her. She spun around and stared at Thomas, who stood in profile next to the opened drawer, a knife in his hand.
“Thomas? You startled me. What are you doing?”
He set the carving knife down and picked up a large silicone spatula and then tossed that aside, as well. “Sorry. I’m looking for some tongs for the chicken.”
“Oh,” she exhaled shakily and hurried across the kitchen. “In here,” she said as she opened another drawer.
“Thanks,” he murmured when she handed him the tongs. She noticed the way his dark brows pulled together slightly as he examined her before he turned and left the kitchen. Was he wondering about her edginess?
She shut her eyes again once he’d disappeared down the hallway, willing her heart to calm.
After she’d put the water on to boil for the green beans, Sophie walked out the side entrance of the house with a glass of wine in each hand. She’d already known Thomas was on the front porch, sitting on the old, cushioned gliding bench that faced the lake. She’d watched him from her cooking post in the kitchen as he’d settled there a minute ago.
They’d taken another swim after they’d made love in the hammock. Afterwards, they’d showered again. This time when Thomas had left the bathroom, he wore another pair of cargo shorts and a simple white T-shirt that highlighted his lean, muscular torso and deepening tan. Sophie noticed he hadn’t shaved again, and a scruff darkened his jaw and upper lip. He looked so different than his polished city-self, but Sophie thought he had never looked more real, more savagely intense than he appeared here at Haven Lake. He may be a whirlwind of grief, but she’d never known a more vibrant man in her life.
He glanced up, seeming preoccupied, when she approached and handed him a glass of wine.
“Thanks,” he said quietly as she sat next to him.
She inhaled the fragrance of soap and clean male skin, the scent causing an unstoppable cascade of awareness and arousal in her body. They watched the sun starting to make its descent over the lake and sipped their wine.
“Looks like we may get some more rain tonight,” Thomas said, nodding toward the southwest where dark clouds hovered on the far horizon.
“I turned on the radio in the kitchen while I was cooking. We’re actually going to get a lot of rain—the remnants of that tropical storm that hit the Gulf Coast so hard.”
He met her eyes. “You were listening to the news?”
She nodded.
“Did you hear anything else?”
She studied him closely before she replied, but as usual, gleaned little from his stoic expression. “I was listening to a Chicago news station. They mentioned the destruction of the Mannero warehouse.”
He shifted on the bench. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No,” Sophie said.
“Did they mention anything else? Did they say what caused the fire?”
“No,” Sophie replied honestly. “Thomas ...”
“Yes?” he asked. She couldn’t help but notice that his glance was wary.
“That e
xplosion last night . . . do you think it was caused by a ... by a bomb?”
He nodded.
“Then you believe the fire was intentionally set?”
Again, he nodded. “They didn’t say anything on the news about the investigation against my father?” he asked.
“No . . . or if they did, not in the portion of the news I heard. They didn’t mention anything about it. Why do you think someone torched the warehouse? Are you worried it will cast blame on your father?”
“Yeah,” he stated bluntly. “Pretty damned convenient.”
“So,” Sophie began cautiously, “you think the explosion was meant to hide evidence?”
“Or cover up the fact that there wasn’t any evidence to be found.” His stare on her felt as incising as a surgical laser.
“What? You mean you think the FBI put a bomb in that warehouse?” she asked incredulously.
She saw his muscular throat tighten as he transferred his gaze to the lake. “You do realize the FBI was there last night?”
“I thought I heard someone shouting. I wondered ...” Her voice trailed off as she considered. “Are you sure it was them, Thomas?”
“Yeah. I saw Fisk.”
“I can’t believe that,” Sophie stated. “Surely the FBI isn’t in the business of blowing up buildings. It doesn’t make any sense. Given what you told me about those agents’ visit, they had evidence from financial data that proved that Mannero was engaging in laundering money and connected him to the mob. The IRS had alerted them to that fact. Why would they want to destroy any further evidence of his possible illegal bookkeeping practices or potential money trails by destroying all the physical data at the warehouse?”
He glanced at her sharply. “I told you that you were too trusting. Do you really believe the FBI never does anything under the table? That every agent’s a boy scout? Have you been reading the papers, Sophie? Watching the news? Top people on the state and federal level have been riding the FBI to shut down the Chicago Outfit, once and for all. Maybe the evidence the FBI got from the IRS was sufficient to arrest Douglas Mannero, but it sure as hell wasn’t any connection between Mannero and my father. The feds were so desperate, they even stooped low enough to try and get me to make a connection. They don’t have any rock solid evidence against my dad, but they’re going to do whatever is necessary to make a bulletproof indictment—one with no holes in it. Do you think Fisk would hesitate about destroying evidence that would go against the case he’s building against Joseph Carlisle? The agents who finally break the Chicago Outfit are going to be up for one hell of a promotion. Besides, that explosion makes it look like a criminal was covering his tracks . . . it casts public suspicion precisely where Fisk wants it: on my father.”
Sophie just stared at him, unsure of what to say. Thomas must have sensed her doubt.
“It wouldn’t have had to be the feds, you know,” he said. “It could have been anyone who was trying to cast my father in a bad light.”
“Thomas, you were almost killed in that explosion,” Sophie reminded him softly.
His glance at her was a little impatient, as though she’d missed the point entirely. Perhaps she was missing the point, but that didn’t change the fact that Thomas had been feet and seconds away from being blasted into oblivion.
A shiver went through her at the frightening thought. His eyes narrowed on her.
“Have you heard anything else about the investigation, Sophie? Talked to anyone about it?”
“No,” Sophie replied. “We’ll make sure and catch the news tonight, if you like.”
Her rapid heartbeat eased in the silence that followed. Thomas resumed his stare at the golden lake. They began to slowly rock back and forth on the bench, the rhythmic squeak of the metal runners on the gliders creating a lulling sensation. The only other noise that reached their ears was the gentle breeze stirring the tops of the trees and the birds’ occasional melodious communication with one another.
After several calming minutes, Sophie began to wonder how she’d gotten so unsettled in the face of Thomas’ anxiety when their surroundings were the epitome of peace and beauty. She knew Andy’s first concern was her safety, but she shouldn’t have let him get to her with his dire warnings.
“Any places like this from your childhood?” Sophie asked him in a hushed tone.
For a stretched moment he didn’t answer, and she wondered if he’d even heard her. Then he released a long breath.
“No. Not really, but it was beautiful where I grew up. We had a huge backyard. My mother—Iris Carlisle—belongs to the Lake Forest Gardening Club. When I first came to live with them, she’d scold Ricky and me for fooling around back there, hitting baseballs or practicing tackles or setting off one of Ricky’s rockets.” His mouth twitched slightly, but his eyes remained glued to the lake, lost in his memories. “So at first I thought that garden was just a huge pain in my ass, all that fussy stuff I had to be careful around, the fountains and sculpture and trellises . . . the thousands of flowers. Then, one day I was out there at twilight—must have been about twelve years old,” he recalled gruffly. “And all of a sudden . . . Iris’s garden was magic.”
Tears burned her eyes, for some reason, but she couldn’t look away from his stark profile. It didn’t matter. His gaze remained fixed on the lake, as though it were a mirror to his past.
“Iris must have noticed me standing out there alone,” he continued gruffly, “because she came out of the house. I pointed to this huge, purple flower and asked her what it was, and she told me it was a hydrangea. I kept asking about other flowers, even though I really didn’t give a damn about flowers or their names. I just liked seeing her face when I asked her. I think that may have been when I really started to let her in. She wasn’t my mother, but she was something different. Something special.”
“You came to really love her, didn’t you?”
His low grunt was an assent.
“It must have been so hard for you . . . to lose your parents so young . . . to suddenly be thrust into a whole new world.” She took a sip of wine when she realized her heart had begun thumping against her breastbone, as though in a gentle reminder. “And was it so difficult for you . . . to accept your father as well?”
“Hmmm?” Thomas asked distractedly.
“Your father? Did you have as hard a time with him, as you did your mother?”
“No,” Thomas replied with a shake of his head and a swift smile. “If you knew Joseph Carlisle, you’d understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone who meets him likes him. The people who work for him would do anything for him.”
“Really?”
Thomas nodded. “When I was a freshman in high school, a trucker that had worked for Carlisle Transportation for years was in an accident on the road. He was completely paralyzed from the waist down and lost a good portion of mobility in his upper body, as well. When the insurance company was dragging their feet in paying his disability claims, my dad supported him, his wife, and two daughters for almost a year out of his own pocket. My mother had the entire family over regularly. Rick and I are still friends with the daughters—Chelsea and Angie—and their husbands to this day. When Tim Mobly’s disability finally did kick in, and my dad found out how small it was, he supplemented the family’s income. That was twenty some odd years ago.”
He paused, his gaze still on the sunlit water.
“My dad still does it today and probably will continue to, with some contingency in his will, until Tim Mobly and his wife pass away.”
“That’s amazing. Is he so loyal to everyone?”
He nodded. “To the people he cares about. To the people who work for him. A couple years back, when the gas prices were so high that a driver couldn’t make a decent living even if he was on the road twenty hours out of a twenty-four-hour period, my father’s was the only major trucking operation in the country to raise the mileage rates of the truckers in order to give them a fair chance. He r
aised them considerably, and took a huge hit in profit. My dad has one of the best employee retention rates of any company in the country. Even during that rough year, not one driver left him. Not one.”
“With what happened to your biological father and mother, you must feel like you’re in a similar situation to a lot of those people that Joseph Carlisle helped,” Sophie said quietly. “You’re just as loyal to him. Certainly ...”
“What?” he asked sharply, turning toward her when she faded off. His longish bangs had fallen onto his forehead again, casting his eyes in shadow.
“Well, I was just going to say that James Nicasio would certainly have been grateful to him, if he knew from the afterlife what Joseph Carlisle had done . . . how he’d adopted his son . . . taken him into his home . . . raised him as his own. I . . . I believe that we take a piece of our loved ones with us when they pass, make them a part of us. Part of you must feel what your mother’s and father’s gratitude toward Joseph Carlisle would have been. Your admiration for your adopted father was earned, certainly, but knowing how your parents would have felt about his generosity must have had a big impact on you, as well ...”
Sophie paused when she noticed his expression. She opened her mouth but he cut her off before she could speak.
“I better go check on the chicken.” He stood and set the wine-glass down on the table next to the bench. Sophie watched helplessly as he stalked around the bend on the wraparound porch.
They once again ate their meal at the small wooden table she kept on the porch. She tried to draw Thomas out in casual conversation, but although he responded politely, she sensed his distance and preoccupation. When they’d finished their meal, he insisted upon cleaning up the dishes, which she let him do while she made coffee and straightened up the counters. She was thinking of a way to address his reaction to what she’d said on the porch, but didn’t really know how to frame an apology.
“Thanks for cooking. It tasted great,” he said after he’d shut the dishwasher.