It wasn’t a question and this time he didn’t look away. Her low voice was a balm to his agitation. Her presence soothing, comforting. She really got it.
Hope rose its slumbering head. “Very different.”
“So, what do you do when the nightmares hit?”
“If it’s during the day, I deal. If it’s at night and I can’t sleep, I run. What do you do?” He switched from his coffee to the water and lifted the glass to his lips.
“I scream at myself that it’s not real. And . . . I have a punching bag in my basement.”
He sputtered on the water. Coughed and cleared his throat. “A what?”
Amusement glittered in her eyes, and a dimple appeared in her left cheek. The sight warmed him. She gave a small laugh. “Breathe, Asher.”
“I’m breathing,” he gasped. “Barely.”
“Why that reaction? You okay?”
“Yes, but . . . a punching bag? I’m sorry. You’re so . . . calm and gentle and . . . serene. I guess I’m just having a hard time seeing you going at it with a bag.”
“Interesting description of me. Hmm. But I do. Go at it with a bag, that is. Quite frequently actually. My dad taught me to box. Or at least attempted to. I’m afraid I was a huge disappointment to him because I was never very good at it.” She grimaced. “But one night about a month ago, when I couldn’t sleep, I decided to see if punching on the bag helped. I found I liked doing it when I didn’t have someone screaming at me about form and such. It gives me a great workout and allows me to process my feelings and emotions in a very physical way.”
“That’s what running does for me.” He paused. “I may have to try boxing one day.”
“I’ll be glad to give you a lesson.” The dimple briefly appeared again.
“I’d like that. Would you want to go running with me?”
“Only if you have an oxygen tank handy.”
He let out a surprised snort. “Come on. If you work out with a punching bag, going on a run shouldn’t scare you.”
She grimaced. “I haven’t been working out that long, but the truth is, I hate to run.”
He held up a finger. “Ah, but you’ve never run with me.”
“Why would that make a difference? Running is still running.”
“You’ll have to let me prove you wrong. Come running with me.”
“What? When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know, Asher, I need to wait and see how everything’s going to play out at work.”
He stilled. “Of course. I’m not thinking. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re doing the same thing I’m doing. Compartmentalizing. Trying not to think about Sharon.”
“Or Isaiah.”
“Yes.”
Brooke looked like she wanted to say something. He leaned forward. “What is it?”
“Okay . . . so . . . speaking of running . . . would you like to run an errand with me?” she finally asked.
“What kind of errand?”
“I need to make a delivery and while I’ve not exactly been putting it off—okay, that’s not true. I have been putting it off and telling myself I just haven’t found the right time to do it, but now I’m just sliding into being irresponsible.”
“Seems to me like you’ve been pretty busy healing,” he said.
“Yes. In the beginning. And I used that as an excuse. When I was in the hospital for so long and then getting transitioned back into civilian life and my job . . .” She shifted, looked away, then back at him. “The truth is, I just don’t want to do this errand alone, but I wasn’t sure who to ask to go with me.”
“I’ll go.” He paused. “Where are we going?”
“To see Isaiah Michaels’s widow.”
Asher went still. “You want to go see Miranda?”
“I have something I need to give her.”
“What?”
She opened her purse and pulled out a piece of jewelry. “Before Isaiah died, he slipped this bracelet into my hand. He told me to keep it safe, then said to make sure I told her he wasn’t a traitor.” She took another sip of the coffee the waitress had just topped off. “It’s time for me to do that.”
“I saw the bracelet in the pictures,” Asher said.
Brooke pinched the bridge of her nose. “Those pictures, ugh. I don’t want to think about them.”
He wanted to argue with her about how truly amazing they were—not just the pictures themselves, but what they revealed about her personality, her character. But it was too soon, and she wasn’t ready to hear that all those pictures showed was an incredibly brave woman. He’d save that for another time. “Have you talked to Miranda?”
“I called her the day I left the burn unit. I’ve left voice messages asking her to call me back, but she hasn’t. As the days passed and she didn’t return my calls, I kind of let it go. But . . . I think I owe Isaiah to honor his last request.”
“She’s grieving. Maybe she’s not checking her messages.”
“And not answering numbers she doesn’t recognize. I think it might be best just to drop by and see her. She lives in Columbia, though.”
“That’s an hour-and-a-half drive. Are you sure you want to take a chance on her not being there?”
Brooke shrugged. “It’s not too far and I did a little research. I know she works as a waitress at a local diner and she’s off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and every other Saturday. And she doesn’t live on the base.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“She’s not in Columbia but in a small town adjacent to the city. I knew the name of the church she and Isaiah went to, and when I called and explained to the secretary who I was and that I had something from Isaiah to give to Miranda, she was more than willing to share information.” She sighed. “But I don’t want to bother her at work. Showing up unannounced there seems like a bad idea.”
“Yeah, home is better. She can cry there and not worry she’s making a scene or something.”
“Well, there is that, I suppose.”
“All right. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. I’ll be happy to go with you. You want to drive or you want me to?”
“Um . . . you can, I guess.” She paused. “But I have a question before we go any further.”
“What?”
“When you scheduled the appointment for this morning, were you wanting a long-term counseling thing or were you just coming to see me because you saw my picture in the paper?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought much beyond today. Why?”
“Because I don’t work with vets,” she said. “That was one of my stipulations with Marcus. I’d come work with him if he wouldn’t assign me any vets.”
Asher’s heart plunged. “I see.” He frowned. “Then how did I get this appointment for this morning with you?”
“Did you ask for me?”
“Yes.”
“And did you mention to Sharon that you were a vet?”
“No. I just told her that you and I had some history and that I’d like to see you. I didn’t mention it was from the Army, and she didn’t ask where I knew you from.”
“Patient assignments are decided strictly by what’s on the paperwork—or if the client mentions it on the phone.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, I hadn’t filled out any paperwork yet.”
“Because you were a work-in.”
“Right.” His mind spun. She didn’t work with vets. Fine. “Well, looks like I won’t be a client then.” He stood. “You ready to go home?”
With only a slight hesitation that hinted at her uncertainty, she nodded. “Sure.”
Asher led the way to the parking lot. “So, how’d you meet this guy, Marcus Lehman?” he asked when they reached their vehicles.
“I’ve known him all my life.” She gestured to his truck. “It doesn’t bother you to drive?”
He shot her a quick glance. “What do you mean?”
“A lot
of clients have trouble driving once they’re home and trying to adapt to civilian life.”
His jaw tightened. He knew what she was referring to. “It’s okay most of the time. Other times, it makes me sweat.” Because in Afghanistan, when someone pulled up beside you, it meant they were going to kill you. Or at least try to. “I know no one here is going to pull up beside me and start shooting. Or throw an explosive at me. I know that.”
“I know you do. Just like I know the ceiling fan in my bedroom isn’t a helicopter, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking about tearing the thing out.”
He barked a short laugh. “Yeah.” They fell silent before he cleared his throat. “Climb in for a few more minutes. I want you to finish telling me about you and Marcus, and it’s cold out here.”
She did as he asked and her gaze landed on the opened bag of trail mix in the cupholder. “Oh, I love that stuff.”
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” She tossed back a handful and crunched it while he settled himself behind the wheel.
“So . . . Marcus?” he asked.
After a short pause during which she scarfed more of his trail mix, she finally let out a low breath. “Our fathers served in the Army together and are best friends,” she said. “Marcus and I were born two days apart, so even though we moved a lot when I was a kid, Marcus and I ended up in the same high school graduating class. Then we both wound up at the Medical University of South Carolina and hung out a lot, had all-night study sessions with a couple of other military brats, and were just good friends.”
“Nothing more?”
She shook her head. “He’s been in love with Christine Blake since eighth grade and married her four years ago. But he always had it in his head we’d open a practice and be partners. However, at the time, I wasn’t interested.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted to join the Army.”
“And he didn’t?”
“No way. He was all about working for himself and not taking orders from anyone.”
“Dictator Dad syndrome?”
“Yeah.”
“Yours wasn’t?”
“He was. Still is.” She shot him a wry smile. “But I have a different personality than Marcus. I just let it roll off. Most of the time anyway.”
He cut her a sideways glance. “He tells you what to do, you smile and nod, then do your own thing?”
“Pretty much.” Her lips twitched and she ate another handful of his trail mix. “This stuff is so addictive.”
“No kidding.”
It wasn’t long before she’d finished off the bag. With a guilty glance at him, she crumpled the plastic and shoved it into a small garbage bag she saw in the door pocket. “Guess I need to stop at a grocery store on the way home and replenish your stash.”
“Don’t worry. I buy it in bulk.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Caden had watched as three more bodies were transported to waiting ambulances. The ambulances would carry their cargo to the morgue.
He had studied each victim, taking notes in his little black notebook. He’d worked along with the crime scene photographer, hoping the information would be helpful as the investigation progressed. Just digging everything up and making sure they hadn’t missed anything was going to take days.
Caden watched the third ambulance disappear around the curve and rubbed a hand over his weary face. He was no expert, but of the last three bodies he’d examined, two had looked like kids to him. The third had looked older, like an adult. She’d been buried deeper, and once the dog had alerted for the second time in that area, the dig team had gone to work and unearthed her. Blue jeans and a short-sleeved pink T-shirt had still covered her, and Caden had a feeling she’d been one of the first. Someone had taken more time with her. As though they cared?
His stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard by those in close proximity. The four stale peanut butter crackers he’d found in his coat pocket and scarfed down three hours ago were long gone.
Mickey and Deveraux looked at him. “Need to stop and get something for that grumpy stomach?” Deveraux asked.
“If you guys have time. It’ll be a while before we get the first bits of information on the ones in the morgue, and I need to keep my strength up.”
“Don’t we all?” Mickey said. “Let’s head to that little meat and three place on Congaree Road. We can eat and discuss how we’re going to handle finding who those victims are.”
It didn’t take long to round up Zane and head out. Soon, they were seated at a table and the food was brought by a skinny waitress with dishwater blonde hair and pretty blue eyes.
Only Caden found himself suddenly without an appetite. For a moment, he simply stared at the full plate in front of him and wondered about the children in the graves. What had their last meals been? Were there more children?
“Cade?”
Mickey’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
Caden forced a tight smile. “Sure.” He wasn’t a green agent. He’d been at this for several years now and had seen more of the darker side of life than he cared to think about, but when it came to the kids . . . yeah. The children got to him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he figured this out—and arrested those responsible for the deaths of those kids. And if for some reason it miraculously turned out that they had died from natural causes—he mentally scoffed but allowed the possibility to register—then he’d find the person responsible for tossing them out like yesterday’s trash.
“Bothers me too,” Deveraux said.
Caden looked up and met the man’s eyes. “Yeah.” And in spite of his churning gut, he ate the food.
“So,” Mickey said, “let’s think about this. Twelve shallow graves. Twelve bodies. Some are kids. We won’t know ages or time of death until Clarissa and her team finish with them, but it looks like there are various ages and dates of death.” He paused. “I’m not buying that they all died from some mysterious disease.”
“Come on,” Caden said, “no speculation. We won’t be able to say that until Clarissa gets back to us. They’ll start with the most recent death and work backward, I would think.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Deveraux said. “But just because one died a certain way doesn’t mean they all did.”
“I know that.”
“Of course you do,” Mickey said, “but I’m thinking if we can identify one of the bodies, there will be a connection to the others and everything will fall into place.”
“Maybe.” Caden had a funny feeling about this case. “Clarissa said she couldn’t see an immediate cause of death. Meaning no gunshot wounds, stabbings, et cetera. I realize that some of the bodies have been scavenged, so she may find something like that after the autopsies, but what else could have caused this? Deaths over an extended period of time? Say it was murder or some kind of Jim Jones thing.”
“A cult?” Mickey asked.
“Why not? Drugs? Poison? Or even a human trafficking ring?”
Deveraux nodded. “Could definitely be a cult. But if it’s human trafficking, why kill them? It sounds cold, but aren’t you hurting your profit margin if you kill your inventory?”
It did sound cold and Caden didn’t like the way the man worded it, but it was accurate. “Maybe the ring didn’t want kids, just the parents,” he said.
Mickey shook his head. “We could sit here all day and come up with a hundred different scenarios and reasons for the bodies in those graves. Until we know more, I say let’s move on to another part of the investigation.”
“I’m good with that,” Deveraux said. He took a sip of his tea. “Let’s talk location. Whoever picked that spot for the graves did so for a reason. There’s no security footage in that area. It’s remote and no one really goes up there much. The killer could have some kind of personal, historic connection to the place and feels comfortable here. Taking the time to bury numerous bodies at various time
s says he’s not too concerned about being discovered.”
“And probably wouldn’t have been if not for the doctor and his dog,” Caden said. “Did he say why he was taking that route this morning? I’m assuming it’s not his usual one.”
“Said he was bored and simply decided to go a different way,” Mickey said. “I noticed the tracker on his wrist. We’ll get a warrant for the information from it and see if it matches up with what he told us. We’ve got a call in to the owner of the land and will do a full workup on him as well.”
“Good.” Caden finished the meal and pushed his plate to the side. “Let’s head to the morgue. I can’t handle this sitting around and waiting stuff.”
“Clarissa will just kick you out,” Mickey said.
“Well, maybe she’ll talk a little while she’s kicking.”
Asher pulled to a stop in the drive of a small cottage-style house painted a light blue with white trim. Brooke had a two-car garage straight ahead, and to his right was a short walkway that led to a covered front porch. “This is nice,” he said.
“Thanks, I love it. I’ve only lived here two months. I found the house online while I was in Kabul and put in an offer. After a bit of haggling, it was finally accepted.” She shot him a glance. “The day before the bombing. I gave my real estate agent power of attorney so I didn’t have to be at the closing. After the bombing, the owners graciously waited until I was conscious and lucid enough to decide whether or not I wanted to proceed.”
“They were going to let you out of the contract?”
“Yes. They have a son in Iraq, and when they were told what happened, they . . .” A fond smile curved her lips. “They were very kind. They even came to see me in the burn center in Atlanta.”
“Wow, that’s above and beyond.”
“I know. I’ve seen them several times since I’ve moved in. They’re lovely people.” A small sigh slipped from her.
“What?” he asked.
She waved a hand. “It’s silly.”
“Silly is good. The world is filled with way too much seriousness.”
“Well, that’s true enough. I . . . it’s kind of embarrassing, but sometimes I fantasize that they’re my real parents who just discovered I’m the daughter they gave up for adoption thirty-six years ago and are trying to get to know me before they decide whether or not to break the news.” She said it in a rush of words. “I know, I’m pitiful. I have no idea why I shared that with you.”
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