by Debbie Burke
A clipping of yellowed newspaper caught her eye, lying on the floor half hidden under the battery backup. Probably fell off the desk. She rose from the recliner, picked it up, and set it beside the laptop. Without her glasses, she could only make out the headline: Child Still Missing After Father Kills Family. Just as well she didn’t read about someone else’s tragedy to add to her sorrow.
Kahlil reentered the living room, bringing with him a scent of soap and underlying masculinity. Freshly shaven, shaggy damp hair combed, he wore his tweed sport coat over a button-down shirt and new jeans with knife-edge creases. His smile dazzled her with its brightness, instantly lifting her spirits. How happy he looked, like an eager child reunited with his best friend.
“Now that I am fit to be in polite company,” he said, “may I take you to dinner?”
She glanced down at the jeggings and rust-colored hoodie she’d worn all day, wrangling with the bank, walking. “I’m not really dressed for…I don’t even have lipstick.”
He spread both hands. “You look amazing. I have yet to see you not look amazing. Please?”
She tucked loose strands of hair into her braid and wished she had a comb. “All right.” Then she pointed to his desk. “Oh, that newspaper was on the floor.”
Puzzlement crossed Kahlil’s face. He picked up the clipping. “Oh.” He immediately tossed it in the wastebasket. “I keep finding old bits and pieces tucked in odd corners around the house. Perhaps the Roths were, as you call them, hoarders.” He placed his hand on her back. “Ready?”
Warmth flowed through her from his touch. His presence vibrated around her like an electrical charge. They left the house and climbed into the shiny clean convertible.
The seat hugged her as she inhaled the new car smell. She ran one hand over the soft black leather, feeling its suppleness, so different from the scratchy, saddle blanket seat covers in the Jeep. “This is beautiful,” she murmured. Nothing like the big rigs their shop used to service. A Peterbilt or Freightliner might cost a hundred grand or more but sitting in them never felt like this.
Kahlil reversed out of the driveway onto the street. “How did you find me?”
“Honestly, I wasn’t looking for you,” Tawny answered. “I had some things on my mind so I went for a walk and there you were.”
He pulled his head back. “Really?” Dark eyebrows lifted in amazement. “Do you live nearby?”
“A block and a half away.”
He braked and swerved to the curb, eyes wide. “Really?” he repeated, staring at her as if she’d revealed the cure for cancer. After a moment, he smiled and put the car back in gear. “Then clearly it is destiny. Fate intended us to meet. The universe threw us together the first time at the library. In case we didn’t receive that message, now it makes us neighbors. Fate has spoken.”
Tawny watched his handsome profile as he downshifted at a corner. With his mystical talk of destiny and fate, a strange sensation crept over her. She had noticed the signs, too. First the postcard about the smartphone class in her mailbox. The shared loss of their spouses, even though neither was an age where widowhood was common. Their houses practically next door. Even him living in the home of her old friends. “Maybe it’s just coincidence.”
He shook his head. “What is coincidence but destiny tipping its hand?”
Moments later, Kahlil turned into the parking lot of the restaurant where she and Dwight had always celebrated their anniversary.
“Well!” she exclaimed. “I guess that settles it. You chose my favorite restaurant.”
* * *
The server greeted Tawny with a hug. “So good to see you again.” He nodded at Kahlil. “Welcome, sir. What can I bring you to drink?” To Tawny, he asked, “Your usual, Moose Drool?”
“Please.”
Kahlil ordered a bottle of pinot noir from the local winery on Flathead Lake.
After the server delivered their beverages, Tawny said, “Excuse me for asking, but I’m surprised you drink.”
Kahlil lifted one shoulder and winked. “I drink, I dearly love barbecue ribs, and I fear I could not face Mecca without the guidance of GPS.” He raised the wine glass. “I’ve lived many places and learned to partake of the pleasures in each culture.” His mouth twitched to one side under the black mustache. “Although this evening, I do not need wine to feel intoxicated.”
Heat flushed Tawny’s cheeks. She hoped in the dim light he didn’t notice but the expression in his eyes showed he had.
Under the small round table, the sides of their feet pressed together. She wondered how electricity could pass through their shoes and tingle all the way up her legs.
“How much longer will your job here go on?” She tried to make the question sound like casual conversation but the desire to know gripped her. If he left, she realized how much she’d miss him.
Kahlil leaned back in his chair. “The contract lasts another month.”
“Then what?” Was her nosiness as obvious to him as it was to her? She took another sip to keep from talking.
“Then I will have an opportunity to enjoy the fruits of my labors.” Green eyes fixed on her. “Would you have time to show me the mountains? I like to hike.”
“So do I,” she answered too eagerly. Three sips of beer on an empty stomach. Why the hell was she acting like this? By the time she finished the beer, she’d be running her bare foot up his leg. Dammit.
He gazed at her over the top of the menu. “I have developed an affinity for Montana beef. It’s unlike other steak I’ve eaten.”
“The owners of this place raise their own.” She glanced at her menu. “Dwight’s favorite is the T-bone.”
The mention of his name jerked Tawny back to drown in a pool of memories. Like their twenty-fifth anniversary, sitting at that table over in the corner, when he gave her a diamond pendant.
It’s too early, she’d protested, twenty-five is silver.
When’s the diamond anniversary?
Sixty, I think.
So I’m premature…in gifts, that is.
Do I get another one in thirty-five years?
We’ll see if I put up with you that long.
This was Dwight’s and her special place. She shouldn’t be here with another man.
The server arrived to take their order. Kahlil chose the T-bone. Her hunger had vanished, so she ordered a dinner salad but held onto the menu to give her an excuse to stare at something besides the handsome man across the table.
Silence hung heavy for a few moments. What a mistake it was to let herself get carried away. She should leave now and never see this man again.
Light fingers touched her wrist then traveled to brush her wedding ring. “I understand,” Kahlil murmured. “It’s all right.”
The touch lasted only a second but it was long enough to break through to her. She raised her eyes and saw the sorrow, the loss, the tenderness in his expression. “Thank you.”
He shook his head. “No, thank you. You are a brave woman. After my wife died, I stayed in a hotel room for over a month. Wouldn’t open the door to anyone. The manager finally called the police to throw me out.” The side of his mouth quirked with a wry smile. “I think he was afraid I would kill myself and ruin his mattress.”
She stifled a bitter laugh. “How understanding of him.”
He shrugged. “Actually, he did me a favor. My sorrow was not his problem. He had his own battles to fight. He made me realize the rest of the world did not care about my loss and would not stop turning while I wept. I needed to learn that lesson.”
Tawny sighed. “It’s not an easy one, is it?”
“That’s why your friendship brings me such joy. You are wise without knowing it. You do what you must do. You are a lesson to me just by living.”
Her gaze dropped to the menu again. “You have a knack for making me blush.”
He rocked back in his chair and chuckled. “That’s because you are even more beautiful when you blush.”
The server re
scued her by appearing with salads and bread.
The rest of the meal flew by. Conversation lost its earlier awkwardness. She described hikes and kayak trips to remote lakes she would show him. He leaned forward, eager with questions. She finished a second beer in a comfortable glow then joined him in a glass of wine. And another.
As Tawny and Kahlil left the restaurant, in the vestibule she almost collided with the manager of the bank. He was entering with his wife, a thin, dark-haired woman whose plastic surgeon had tightened her skin till it looked ready to tear.
“Well!” Hyslop exclaimed. “Mrs. Lindholm, how nice to see you again.” His underlying tone carried more than ice. It felt like a threat. He glared at Tawny then Kahlil and yanked his wife’s elbow, pulling her into the restaurant.
Kahlil raised his eyebrows. “What an unpleasant man.”
Tawny hurried outside and took a deep breath of cool night air, briefly shocking her back to sobriety. “The manager of my bank. We’re having some issues.”
“Ah.”
He opened the convertible door for her. While he moved to the driver’s side, Tawny felt a sudden impulse to check her bank balance. She flicked quickly through the log-on and, despite her alcoholic buzz, remembered the complicated password. Amazing.
The balance had jumped higher with another deposit the day before of $40,000. “What the hell?”
Kahlil settled into the driver’s seat and looked over at her exclamation. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes. Very wrong.” She logged off and shut down. “I’ll have to take care of it tomorrow.” Then she realized the next day was Saturday, when the bank was closed. Could this mess wait till Monday? It seemed to worsen by the moment.
“Is it anything I can help you with?”
She forced a smile. “No, but thanks.”
“Is Lucifer causing you grief?” he teased.
“Not this time. It’s my bank. Something strange is going on and they won’t help me figure it out.”
“Frustrating.”
“Very.”
He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She ached with gratitude to have a friend to share her troubles with.
But not tonight. No more sharing troubles tonight.
Relaxed, in a lightheaded haze from beer and wine, she ran the tips of her fingers across Kahlil’s cheek, rough with new stubble despite his recent shave. She savored the light scratchiness, stroking his skin in small circles. He leaned close, tickling her ear with his mustache, the heat of his breath on her neck, the tightening of his arm around her shoulders. She melted against him, tasting his mouth, running her hand through his thick coarse hair. A moan from deep in his throat vibrated against her lips.
A car door slammed next to them. A heavyset man with a drinker’s veined nose peered through the convertible’s windshield, grinned, and gave a thumbs-up sign.
Tawny and Kahlil looked at each other and laughed.
Then, at the far end of the parking lot, Tawny spotted a dark blue sedan.
* * *
Progress on schedule.
Kahlil sent the encrypted text on another disposable cell phone. The screen on his laptop glowed, the only light in his dark living room. Leaning on the back legs of the chair, he reviewed the evening.
It had been difficult to leave Tawny at her front door when her willingness beckoned him inside. He hungered to unfasten her braided hair, let it fall loose, and imagined how it would look spread on her pillow.
But that was not on the schedule, not yet.
Her eyes had showed disappointment as he pulled away, holding her hands, stretching out their contact as he backed down the front porch steps.
“We’re neighbors now,” he’d reminded her. “I’ll see you very soon. It’s destiny.”
How easily she accepted his fate and destiny explanation.
Perhaps destiny had played a role.
He tapped the keyboard to bring up the picture he’d first discovered two years earlier, the first time he felt that strange, startling jolt deep between his stomach and his groin.
An obscure internal newsletter for the Hungry Horse Dam contained the photo. It featured a short, stout old man whom Tawny towered over as she planted a kiss on his bald head. The old man beamed. A lively glint of mischief showed in her smiling brown eyes. The caption read: “At Solomon Roth’s retirement party, long-time friend and coworker Tawny Lindholm congratulates Solly for thirty-five years of service at Hungry Horse Dam.”
A month before, Kahlil recalled Maryam crowing with pride over the bombing in Jerusalem, showing him a news clipping that identified the dead and their home towns, including a Jew couple from Kalispell, Montana. That location had caught his attention because the Hungry Horse Dam was already on his list of possible targets. When he’d hacked into the dam’s personnel files, he discovered the old man used to work there, prompting him to pursue the trail.
And then he saw the newsletter and the beautiful woman in the photograph.
Intuition urged him to dig deeper. He believed intuition was merely how the subconscious recognized threads in a snarled knot that could eventually be teased out and woven together. He followed Tawny’s thread. Although she fell outside the statistical matrix he used to qualify subjects, she displayed qualities that intrigued him, so unlike the usual alcoholics, habitual debtors, and hard luck cases he normally targeted.
Not only had she been friends with the Jews but, years before, the old man had secured a job for her, giving tours of the dam. Decades later, her fresh young face still graced the brochures that were handed out to tourists.
For two patient years, Kahlil had watched and studied Tawny from afar as her husband’s illness and death isolated her, leaving her lonely, depressed, and vulnerable. He accessed her email and learned that her son’s position prevented regular contact with his mother. That offered the ideal opportunity to send Tawny the smartphone, ostensibly from her son.
Once Kahlil rented the Jews’ house, it was only a matter of time before he connected with her.
The smartphone class had lured her in. Even if that tactic failed, the close proximity of their residences served the same purpose. The vital consideration: contact had to appear casual and unplanned but meant to be.
Taking her to that restaurant had been an uncertain judgment call. He’d debated the risk beforehand. Scanning through past years of their credit card charges confirmed the location’s significance. Dinners there coincided with the dates of birthdays and anniversaries. He wondered if he could maintain the critical balance between her mourning and her attraction to him in an environment charged with memories. At one point that evening, she almost bolted, giving him a moment’s doubt over his decision to take her there. But she had stayed.
The bank manager’s appearance as they exited the restaurant had been a fortuitous accident. Tawny hadn’t yet confided in Kahlil about her financial dilemma, but that would come soon.
The plan’s many elements were converging nicely.
Chapter 5 – Pray 4 Me
Saturday morning, when Tawny unplugged the smartphone from charging on the breakfast bar, the blue pinpoint light blinked. A text from Neal! After reading the message, her elation sank immediately to despair.
Mom, W/c if I can. In trouble. Pray 4 me.
What was wrong? Neal never wanted to worry her. What kind of trouble could he be in? Was he injured? Separated from his unit? Captured? Possibilities flashed through her mind, each one worse, more desperate, more terrifying. Sickness burned inside her.
The last she knew, he was in Afghanistan. With his classified work, even after missions were finished, he did not talk about them.
Neal was every bit as stoic and guarded as Dwight had been. That made this text all the more puzzling. Neal never admitted to problems, especially to her. He kept them to himself until he solved them.
If he’d been injured, a family liaison from the Rear Detachment was supposed to notify her. No word from them. Maybe she should call Rear D.
But if Neal received a message through them that “your mommy is worried about you,” he’d be furious.
Yet only a few weeks ago, TV news reported insurgents kidnapped two soldiers who’d been tortured before being executed. Danger lurked around every corner in that insane part of the world. A sergeant first class in intelligence made a tempting target, a valuable hostage.
She smacked her hands on the counter. Slow down, she ordered herself. Stop letting worry run wild. Maybe it’s a personal problem, not related to his service.
As quickly as that thought came to her, she dismissed it. Neal wouldn’t share his personal problems with her either.
She reread the message until her eyes blurred. With trembling fingers, she texted back, I’ll do anything to help.
Where was Neal? If she knew where he was, that might tell her something. Maybe the number where the text originated could be traced.
Kahlil!
He might know how to track the location of Neal’s phone.
She tapped on his number but, instead of connecting, a screen popped up demanding she download a software update. She tried to back out and return to the contact list but the update window stayed frozen in place. “Damn you! Why won’t you let me make a simple phone call?” She shoved the device in her pocket and ran out the back door.
She hurried the block and a half to Kahlil’s house and hammered on his front door. A minute later, he opened it, bare-chested, wearing only lounge pants, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Tawny, what’s the matter?” He pulled her inside, studying her face. “Are you all right?”
“My son texted me,” she stammered and thrust the phone at him.
Kahlil quickly dispatched the intrusive update message and retrieved the text. After he read it, he wrapped his arms around her. “My treasure. My poor sweet,” he murmured into her hair.
His skin still felt warm from his bed. She forced herself to pull away. “Can you help me find his location? With GPS or something? Like you showed me how to find landmarks.”
He urged her to sit on the couch. “It’s not through GPS. You see, each phone has a chip that identifies its location. Wherever the phone moves, its location pings off different cell towers. You are correct, it is possible to track where the phone is.” He frowned. “It will take me some time. Do you have any idea what country he’s in?”