02_The Hero Next Door

by Irene Hannon

  He went still except for a subtle, sinewy flex in his strong, sun-browned fingers as he looked down, then searched her face.

  “I’m sorry about Nathan, J.C. I wish I could help you with him as you’ve helped me with Brian.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, and the color of his eyes deepened from ebony to midnight. Slowly, he lifted his free hand and rested his fingers against her cheek, his touch as light as the whisper of a gentle breeze.

  Heather stopped breathing.

  “At this point, I don’t think anyone but God can help Nathan.” His voice came out husky. And not quite steady. “But it means a lot to me that you care.”

  For several moments his gaze held hers. Then, with obvious reluctance, he removed his fingers and managed a smile. “I guess it’s time to put on our chaperone hats. Sit tight. I’ll get your door.”

  As he slid out of the car, lifted a hand in greeting to Brian, and paused to exchange a few remarks with Henry, Heather didn’t have any choice. The stiffening seemed to have gone out of her legs.

  As well as her resolve.

  Because Edith could be right. J.C. might very well be a keeper.

  But if he was, how in the world was she supposed to reconcile the issues that stood between them?

  Playing volleyball hadn’t been on J.C.’s agenda at the teen beach party, but he’d needed to expend some energy. And keep some distance between himself and the lovely woman who’d spent a good part of the waning hours of the afternoon and early evening chatting with Henry and several of the other chaperones. Avoiding him—just as he’d been avoiding her.

  And the reason was obvious.

  Those two simple touches in the car—one initiated by her, one by him—had jacked up the voltage on the electricity between them.

  But he couldn’t dodge her all night.

  Stepping out of the game, he waved in one of the kids on the sidelines to take his place and moved across the sand toward her.

  She was talking to Henry’s neighbor now, the E.R. doctor who’d set up the service project. J.C. had noticed him at Sunday services. A tall, good-looking guy. Single, too, according to Edith.

  That little fact had never mattered to him. But now that Heather was giving the man her rapt attention…

  Just as a frown darkened his brow, she turned his way. Even from a distance, he could sense her sudden tension.

  The doctor apparently did, too. Leaning a bit closer—too close, in J.C.’s opinion—he said a few words, then stepped away.

  Good.

  Moving in, J.C. tried for a smile. “How about some food?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think it’s a limited menu. Hot dogs, chips and cookies were all I saw. Not quite like the gourmet fare at The Devon Rose.”

  “I like hot dogs.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “With lots of relish and mustard.”

  He grinned. “You don’t strike me as a hot-dog kind of woman.”

  She gave him a steady look. “Don’t let the trappings of the tearoom fool you. My personal tastes are pretty simple.”

  Not certain how to interpret that remark, he motioned toward a large piece of driftwood at the edge of the beach. “Grab us a seat, and I’ll get the food.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the grill.

  As he approached it, his cell phone began to vibrate. Still mulling over the undertones in Heather’s comment, he pulled it off his belt and gave the caller ID a distracted glance.

  His step faltered.

  It was his sergeant from Chicago.

  A surge of adrenaline kicked his pulse into high gear. There would be no reason for Dennis to call—unless there had been a break in the narcotics shooting.

  Changing direction, he walked a few yards down the beach and pressed the talk button. “Dennis?”

  “Yeah. Sorry to bother you on your leave, J.C. But we’ve got some news on the setup you guys walked into in the warehouse. I thought you’d want to know. Remember your friend Lenny?”

  “Yeah.” Lenny Cardosi had been J.C.’s ticket into the narc ring. A carefully cultivated source who’d introduced him to the drug honchos and whose loyalty belonged to the highest bidder. A slimeball who’d sell his soul to the devil for the right price. J.C. had felt in need of a shower after every encounter with the man.

  “We picked him up on a fencing charge.”

  “No surprise there. He was always looking for ways to make a fast buck.”

  “Yeah. He’s a piece of work. Anyway, we did a little probing, since we knew he had connections to the ring. Turns out he was willing to plea-bargain the fencing charge with a little information.”

  J.C. tightened his grip on the phone. “He knows what went wrong?”

  “Yeah. Does the name Dwayne Logan mean anything to you?”

  Searching his memory, J.C. came up blank. “No.”

  “Could be he used an alias in the ring. But he was in deep. Anyway, according to Lenny, he has a friend doing time at Pontiac. He went down to see him once and recognized you. Must have been that quick visit you made three months ago, after your brother had the appendectomy. So he had his friend do a little digging, and the friend found out from your brother that you were a cop. That blew your cover and led to the setup.”

  As the implications registered, J.C. fought back a sudden wave of nausea.

  “I know what you’re thinking, J.C.,” Dennis said, intercepting his train of thought. “But it’s unlikely your brother knew the inmate he talked to had any connection to you.”

  J.C. wanted to believe that. But he couldn’t stifle the doubt that knotted his stomach. Nathan had hated his career choice. Hated his brother’s unrelenting efforts to persuade him to reconsider his life choices. Hated his brother, period, perhaps.

  His last visit to Pontiac had convinced him of that. After the emergency page from his street supervisor informing him that Nathan had suffered a ruptured appendix, he’d made the drive to the correctional facility in record time. Throughout the long night, when it was touch and go, he’d kept a vigil by his brother’s side. And when the danger had passed and Nathan was once more lucid, J.C.’s only reward had been a look of cold defiance before his brother had turned away.

  But surely Nathan hadn’t betrayed him on purpose. God, please don’t let that be true! he pleaded. I can cope with his indifference, his antipathy, even. But if he set me up, if he wanted me to die….

  Drawing a ragged breath, J.C. looked out over the ocean. The unseen sun’s slow, steady descent on the other side of the island was darkening the ocean on this side. What unseen events had darkened Nathan’s life? he wondered for the thousandth time. And why hadn’t he been able to help his brother overcome them? The Lord knew he’d tried. But nothing he’d done had been able to halt his brother’s decline into a life of crime. Or reach him since.

  “You still there, J.C.?”

  Dennis’s question pulled him back to the present, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

  “I know it doesn’t bring Jack and Scott back, but I hoped it might ease your mind to know they didn’t die because you made a mistake. It was just a rotten coincidence.”

  And perhaps a deliberate setup by his brother. The agonizing uncertainty was a new torment. “I appreciate the call, Dennis.”

  “No problem. You finding what you need out there?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Well, keep working. We want you back. You’re a good detective, and you’re missed.”

  That parting comment was the most praise J.C. had ever heard from his taciturn sergeant, and he appreciated the man’s words. But they didn’t ease the ache in his heart.

  Nothing could, except resolving the new question that clamored for an answer.

  Had Nathan set him up on purpose?

  But if getting to the bottom of the ambush had been a challenge, finding this answer would be even more difficult.

  As he struggled to stem a powerful wave of despair, a sudden jarr
ing burst of teen laughter reminded him he was supposed to be getting some food for himself and Heather. He needed to switch gears. Compartmentalize.

  Usually, he managed that without any problem.

  But today, as he walked back down the beach, all he could think about was the brother he’d tried so hard to love—and to save—who called a small cell in an Illinois correctional center home.

  Something was wrong.

  J.C.’s tense posture as he veered off from the food line and put the cell phone to his ear was Heather’s first clue. The sudden slump of his broad shoulders near the end of the call was the second. And when he slid the phone back into its holder and turned toward her again, his bleak appearance cinched it.

  She watched as he got in line. Exchanged a few words with the kids and the other chaperones. Picked up some food. But he didn’t linger. Once he had their plates in hand, he headed toward her.

  From a distance, body language alone had told her J.C. was badly shaken. Now, up close, the tightness in his jaw and the rigid line of his lips provided further evidence of trauma, as did the haggard lines in his face, thrown into stark relief by the setting sun.

  “Let me grab a couple of sodas.” He handed her a plate, set his on the driftwood log and moved off before she could say a word.

  Two minutes later he was back. Leaving a modest distance between them, he sat beside her. “Brian seems to be having fun.”

  He was going to pretend everything was okay, Heather realized. But the slight tremble in his fingers as he picked up his hot dog betrayed him. And it rattled her. This was a man who had always been solid and steady in difficult situations. Whatever had happened must be bad.

  And she couldn’t ignore it.

  “J.C., what’s wrong?”

  She watched as he shifted his features into neutral. “What do you mean?”

  The transformation in his demeanor from anguished to impassive was remarkable. And accomplished through sheer force of will, she suspected.

  Gentling her voice, she leaned toward him. “Look, you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you’re upset.”

  A slight frown creased his brow. “I must be slipping. Undercover cops are supposed to be able to keep their emotions in check.”

  “Maybe you don’t feel threatened with me.”

  His eyes darkened again. “That’s not quite true.”

  Heather’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m not talking about…that.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He hesitated, then set his untouched hot dog back on his plate. A hint of emotion seeped through his impassive veneer. “That was my sergeant from Chicago. They found out what went wrong with the drug bust.”

  The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “Was it…It wasn’t your fault, was it?”

  “In a roundabout way.” He recounted the phone conversation, then raked his fingers through his hair. “Now I know how it happened. What I don’t know is if it was an intentional setup.”

  “Do you think your brother is capable of that kind of malice?”

  A bleakness settled over his features. “I’d like to say no. But…I’m not sure anymore.”

  He set his plate on the log beside him and clasped his hands between his knees. “I never did know what went wrong with him. Why he was always so angry. Brian reminded me of him when he first arrived. But the roots of Nathan’s anger went far deeper. He was already getting into minor scrapes with the law before Mom died. They got worse once she was gone. At sixteen, he dropped out of school and pretty much thumbed his nose at me. I wasn’t surprised when he got busted for armed robbery.”

  “That had to be hard…watching your brother go to prison.”

  “Believe it or not, in a way I was relieved. Once he was locked up, I knew I wouldn’t get a call some night asking me to ID a body at the morgue.” He studied his clenched knuckles, easing the grip that had whitened them.

  “Even after he was in prison, I didn’t give up on him. In the beginning, I drove down to Pontiac twice a month. Sometimes he’d see me. Most times he wouldn’t. After he refused to come to the visitors’ room six months in a row, I started writing to him every week instead. I still do. But I never get a response. He’s completely shut me out. And I have no idea how to reach him.”

  His voice choked on the last word, and he bowed his head.

  Touching wasn’t good. Heather knew that after today’s experience in the car. But there was no way she could ignore this strong, decent, caring man’s desperate need for consolation.

  Setting her soda aside, she scooted closer to J.C. and entwined her fingers with his. “What did your sergeant say?”

  He gripped her hand. Hard. “He thinks it was a coincidence. That Nathan has no idea the inmate he talked to had any connection to me.”

  “He could be right.”

  “He could also be wrong.” The desolation in his eyes ripped at her soul. “Marci gave up on Nathan years ago. Maybe it’s time I did, too.”

  Heather shook her head. “I don’t think you’re the type to give up on someone you love.”

  The quiet words hung between them, backed by the steady, predictable rhythm of the surf.

  His gaze locked on hers. “I’m not.”

  She had a feeling they weren’t talking about Nathan anymore.

  “Hey, Aunt Heather, Erin invited me to come to church on Sunday. Could we go?”

  As Brian skidded to a stop in front of them, J.C. released her hand. A chill settled over her fingers, and she had to fight the urge to once again seek out the warmth of his touch.

  Trying to refocus, she considered Brian’s request. She hadn’t been inside a church since her mother’s funeral. But she supposed attending the service would be good for Brian. And she doubted Susan would mind.

  “Let me check with your mom.”

  “She’ll be cool.”

  “I’ll be there, too,” J.C. offered.

  “Awesome! You could ride with us. Aunt Heather, some of the guys are going surfing tomorrow at Cisco Beach. Is it okay if I go, too? Jason has an extra board, and he said he’d teach me.”

  She deferred to J.C. He knew these kids better than she did. “What do you think?”

  “Jason’s a good kid. I’ve talked to him quite a bit. He wants to go into law enforcement.”

  “Are any parents going to be there?” Heather asked Brian.

  “Yeah. One of the guy’s moms.”

  “Okay. That works. And now we need to head home.” Things were winding down around them, and she still had to add the finishing touches to one of tomorrow’s desserts.

  The ride back was notable for Brian’s enthusiasm and J.C.’s quietness. As he focused on the rapidly falling darkness outside his window, Heather did her best to keep her nephew engaged in conversation.

  And she also found herself sending a rare prayer heavenward, asking the Lord to dispel the dark despair from J.C.’s soul.

  “Susan? Am I catching you at a bad time?” Heather balanced the phone against her shoulder as she slid a tray of scones into the oven the next morning.

  “No. I just came out of a meeting. I was going to call you in a little while, anyway. How’s everything going?”

  “Much better.” Heather had been giving her sister daily reports, so Susan was up to speed on her son’s progress. “The outing with the church group went well. He’s off surfing today with a bunch of the kids he met. And get this. He wants to go to the service this Sunday.”

  “Wow! I’ve been trying to get him interested in doing that for weeks.”

  “So I heard. When did you start attending church, anyway?”

  “About three months ago. I have a good friend who’s been urging me to give it a try. Believe it or not, I like it. And it’s helped me get through some bad stuff recently.”

  A niggle of unease put Heather on alert. She was pretty certain her sister wasn’t talking about Brian’s problems. Or Peter’s infidelity. Or even her sprained ankle. “New stuff?”

  “Yes.” There w
as a hint of tears in Susan’s voice. “Heather, I know Dad is an off-limits subject, but I need to tell you this. He was just diagnosed with a brain tumor.”

  Brain tumor.

  The ominous words echoed in Heather’s mind as she struggled to process Susan’s bombshell. She’d thought she was past caring what happened to her father, but she was shocked to discover that the news shook her at some deep, elemental level.

  “How bad is it?” The question was out before she could stop it.

  “It’s the size of a small orange.”

  Another jolt rocked her.

  “The good news is the surgeon thinks it’s a meningioma. Those usually aren’t malignant. And it appears to be pretty accessible on the MRI. But it’s still brain surgery.” Susan paused. “Here’s the thing, Heather. He’d like to come visit you before the surgery.”

  “No.” Her response was instinctive. And immediate. “I don’t want to see him.”

  “Please, Heather. At least hear him out.”

  “Why? Nothing can change the fact that he destroyed our family.”

  “Did he?”

  Heather frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If Mom had forgiven him, maybe we could have all stayed together.”

  “But he cheated on her! Betrayed her! Broke his marriage vows! How could you expect her to trust him again?”

  “I’m not condoning what he did, Heather. He made a big mistake. A combination of poor judgment, too much alcohol and the aftereffects of a fight with Mom.”

  Heather stepped over to the window above the sink, seeking out the peace and symmetry of her garden. “That doesn’t excuse him.”

  “No. But it was one slip. And he’s never stopped regretting it. He tried to make amends, but you know how stubborn Mom could be. I loved her as much as you did, but once she made up her mind on an issue, that was it. And she had a lot of pride. She closed the door with Dad and never looked back.”

  This was not a discussion Heather wanted to have. When a line had been drawn in the sand, she’d joined her mother, while Susan had managed to keep one foot on both sides. At this late stage, it would feel disloyal to modify her allegiance.