Dangerous Conditions (Protectors At Heart Book 4)

by Jenna Kernan

  Valerie didn’t make a sound, but tears sprang from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  “You going to be our coach now?” asked Steven.

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Everyone keeps hugging me,” said Steven, his expression now cross. His lower lip and the break in his voice told Logan that Steven was on the verge of tears. A swipe of his sleeve across his eyes confirmed Logan’s guess.

  “It’s okay to cry, Steven. When my mom died, I cried for months. Not all the time but a lot and sometimes when I didn’t expect it. I’d just start crying.”

  “How’d she die?” asked Steven.

  “It was an aneurysm in her aorta.” He pointed to his heart. “That’s like a bubble in the artery. The wall of that blood vessel is thick and tough, but my mom’s was thin there and when it let go she died very fast.” Right beside him at the grocery store just after he turned eleven. He remembered the way she’d fallen, as if she had been a marionette with all the strings cut at once. The grapefruit in her hand had rolled straight down the aisle in the produce section like a bowling ball. He’d hit his knees beside her and stared at her face. She’d looked so surprised. But she’d already been gone.

  “Where is my dad now?” asked Valerie, shaking him from his dark memories. He wondered if the child meant metaphorically or physically. As he pondered how to answer, Steven cut in.

  “Nobody will tell us,” said Steven. “They just say he’s in heaven. Or with God. But where is he really?”

  “Do you mean his remains?”

  They nodded in unison, eyes wide.

  “They took your father’s body to Owen’s funeral home. They have beds there for folks who have passed. And since it was an accident, the state police need to have a look at him for clues to help them catch whoever did this.”

  “And put him in jail,” said Valerie.

  “Might be a him,” said Logan. “Might be a her. But we’re trying every way we know to catch them.”

  “Is he cold?” asked Valerie.

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “I’ve only ever seen dead animals. They get all stiff and swollen,” said Steven.

  “No, that won’t happen. The people at the funeral home will wash him and dress him and treat his body respectfully.”

  “Why?” asked Steven. “He can’t feel anything now. Can he?”

  “It’s more for the family. Rituals to take care of our dead. It’s a last act of love.”

  “You ever seen a dead body?” asked the boy.

  Logan had seen many, according to his military record, but he remembered only one. “My mother, when she died and then again the day of her funeral.”

  “What about at war?” asked Valerie. “Dad said you were in combat and that some of the other soldiers with you died.”

  He’d been awarded the Silver Star for valor after half the roof had caved in on him and his men in a building in Fallujah.

  “I heard that, too. But I don’t remember any of those deaths because I got hit in the head,” he said as he pointed at the scar on his forehead as evidence.

  Both the Sullivan children regarded the scar with serious concentration.

  “Kids in my class say you got a metal plate in your skull and you can stick a magnet on your head and it just stays there.”

  “No plate, so a magnet wouldn’t stick.”

  “Steven, Valerie?” Mrs. Sullivan stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding the newel post and looking up at them with red-rimmed eyes. Their gazes met. “Mr. Lynch, I didn’t know you were here.”

  He retrieved his hat and placed it over his heart as he stood. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sullivan. I had great respect for your husband.”

  “Thank you, Logan.”

  “He’ll be missed.” He descended the stairs, and she extended her hand. The circles under her eyes and the red, puffy eyelids made her look years older. He kissed her offered cheek and drew back.

  “Thank you for coming. Have you had your supper? We have too much food.” She took hold of his hand and led him toward the dining room, but paused in the hallway to stare at him. “My husband was having some trouble at work this week. He told me that he was worried about something. Running helped him relax.” She spoke quickly as if she’d been bursting to share the information with the right person.

  “What?”

  “Anomalies. Missing samples. That’s what he said.”

  Someone stepped up behind them.

  Lou Reber, the plant’s head of security, moved from the living room into the hallway, and Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes widened. She spoke to Logan without looking at him.

  “Go and fix a plate for yourself, Logan, and please take something back for your father.”

  Reber came up to her and took her hand, expressing his condolences. Logan hesitated a moment and then stepped into the dining room where callers mingled around the overladen table in quiet conversation.

  In the hallway, Reber moved toward the front door. Mrs. Sullivan glanced to Logan and then approached.

  “Would you ask the sheriff to come see me tomorrow?”

  “I can call him right now.”

  Mrs. Sullivan glanced about the house, filled up with friends and members of the community.

  “Tomorrow is soon enough.” She left him, returning to the living area through the arched opening connecting the two rooms.

  Logan filled his plate and sat on a folding chair beside Donavan Bacon, a cook at the Lunch Box who had no shutoff switch when it came to alcohol. Bacon didn’t drink regularly but when he did, usually on Wednesday after his bowling league, Logan was often called to bring him home because drinking made him want to fight. Donavan greeted Logan warmly. He was such a nice man when he was sober.

  After emptying his plate, Logan headed to the kitchen to deposit his glass in the sink. From the doorway he spotted Lou Reber in the hallway, heading up the stairs. He thought he’d left.

  Likely to speak to the children who were sitting on the stairs, as he had done. But when Logan returned to the hall it was to see the children were not there and Lou was descending the empty staircase from the second floor.

  Logan scowled, wondering why the man had gone upstairs when there was a powder room off the hallway.

  “Hey, Logan. Rough day today, huh?”

  “Sure was. Why were you upstairs?”

  “Bathroom,” said Reber.

  “There’s one down here.”

  “Occupied.” He looped a thumb over his belt. “Did you know Sullivan?”

  “Coached at the school with him.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Reber. “I knew that. Dangerous to run on our roads. No shoulder.”

  “He was on the cutoff. Wide dirt road. Shouldn’t be any vehicles back there.”

  “Hunters use it.” He glanced toward the door. “I’ve got to go. You need a lift home?”

  “Got my truck.”

  “That’s right. You drive now. See you around, Logan.”

  Logan watched him go, unsure what bothered him about Reber’s going upstairs.

  He let himself out a few minutes later, but not before one of the ladies made him a plate for his father. In his truck, the aroma of food tempting his taste buds, Logan headed back up River Street to the steep incline on Cemetery Road. Ed would be buried there, probably next Saturday.

  On Main he turned toward home, knowing that just beyond lay the funeral home and Ed Sullivan’s body. The autopsy was scheduled for the morning down in Albany, New York. The county had a contract with the medical center to perform such duties, and Dr. Brock Koutier, their coroner, had ordered it be done. As a result, the funeral would not be until next Saturday, giving the county enough time to transport Sullivan to and from Albany and then back up here to Owen’s for final preparation.

 
He slowed before the three large maple trees that stood as sentries between the road and Paige’s mother’s home. He pulled into the driveway between his dad’s and her mom’s properties, parked and then headed toward the kitchen door, but paused to breathe the cold air and glance toward his neighbor’s place.

  The lights of the Morrises’ upstairs were all on and the porch light was off. Paige was home safe. He knew her bedroom sat on the west side of the house up front nearest the road, her daughter on the east and Mrs. Morris in the back near the stairs. There was a wide, flat roof that stretched over the ground-floor porch from the back of the house to the front, under Lori’s window. On the porch below, the rocking chairs creaked and rocked in the November wind. Paige’s bedroom had no roof beneath either of its two windows. He knew because there was a time when he’d thought about seeing if he could climb that big old maple tree out in front to her window and throw rocks at the glass. He’d decided against it. He wondered what would have happened if he had tried?

  Movement caught his eye and he stepped off the road into the driveway. Something big moved down along the side of the house and into the shed that led to the backyard.

  Was that Mrs. Morris? The figure had been too large to be Paige.

  Propelled by an uncomfortable feeling, Logan walked to the shed, but found no one there or in the backyard. He knew their kitchen door was locked and the light off. The front door was also locked. He circled the entire house twice more and saw no one.

  Had he seen anyone in the first place?

  Chapter Six

  Logan stood in the Morrises’ yard, staring at the house. Then he retrieved his phone and dialed Paige. She answered on the first ring.

  “You home?” he asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Logan, what’s wrong?”

  “Thought I saw someone in your yard. I’m out here but there’s no one now.”

  “Just a minute.”

  He heard Paige moving, rustling and a squeaking like a kitten looking for its mother. Several minutes later the light in the living room flicked on. He watched Paige, dressed in a lavender polar fleece robe, move from the living to dining room and then through the kitchen. Finally, she returned to the living room and opened the door, the phone disconnecting.

  She called to him from the front porch, half in and half out of the screen door. “I just checked on Lori and on Mom. They’re both in their rooms. Everything is fine down here.”

  “Call if you need me,” he said.

  “Thank you, Logan.” She closed the door and he heard her throw the bolt.

  He walked across the yard to his truck and retrieved the plate of food that Mrs. Sullivan had sent home with him, and carried it to his dad’s place. The sweet odor of decaying leaves filled the air, but there was no rustle as the leaves had been pulverized by his dad’s mower since he had left for work this morning.

  The only light on in his house was the one in the hall and the bluish glow from the television as his father watched a talent show on cable.

  “Hey, son. You’re home late.” His father didn’t know. All this had happened, and his dad had likely been mulching leaves.

  Logan offered the plate.

  “What’s this?” The way his dad blinked his eyes told Logan that he’d dozed off in his recliner.

  Logan told him everything as his father held the plate before him, still covered in plastic wrap.

  He sat with his father a while, but, restless, Logan drew the blanket off the back of the couch to go outside and look at the moon.

  Who was he kidding? He was going to stare at Paige’s window and watch to see if anything moved on the Morris property.

  “Going out to listen to that hoot owl?” asked his dad, referring to the great horned owl that lived up the hillside.

  Logan couldn’t tell the difference between an owl and the wind chime on the Morrises’ porch.

  “Yeah. Getting some air,” he said and headed out to sit on the porch steps.

  The brown bats no longer darted across the sky. They lived up in the barn on the hill. Too cold, he decided, and the insects were all gone. They’d be hibernating now. He missed them flitting and darting overhead. The November air felt bracing as he sat on the porch, facing Paige’s window, which had gone dark.

  He wondered why Paige and his brother didn’t make a go of it. He knew they had attended his brother’s senior prom. Paige had been excited to attend. Sophomores were only permitted to the school’s biggest event if they were invited by a senior. He remembered her dress and her mother taking photos of the couple right there on the steps of her home while he sat here watching. She wore a gown of mint green and her hair up with a few tendrils of curls floating about her shoulders. The color of the dress, her red hair up and festooned with fresh flowers and her translucent skin all combined so that, to Logan, she looked like the queen of the fairies.

  She’d been stunning. And now she was a beauty. They’d been a couple once. Everyone said so. He wondered what she’d do if he asked her out. Laugh at him, probably.

  No, she’d never. It would be worse. She’d be unfailingly kind as she said no.

  He gripped the blanket more securely about his shoulders and tightened his jaw. Everyone said he was different now. But he didn’t feel different. He accepted that he was less able in some ways, all of them associated with his brain’s temporal lobe that controlled language, hearing and memory. The early frontal lobe problems he’d experienced with movement, short-term memory and concentration had resolved themselves. He was lucky. The doctors all said so, often. But those other issues were likely permanent. Still, everyone kept waiting for something to change and for him to go back to the man he was. The one everyone missed.

  One thing that hadn’t changed were his feelings for Paige. Those had just grown stronger, their friendship ripening into love—for him. The difference now was that he knew he wasn’t worthy of her. And her mother hated him. She hadn’t always. He’d have to ask Paige what he had done to earn her cold disdain.

  He was glad for Paige’s friendship, but he wanted so much more. The question was, would he risk that friendship trying to take their relationship in a more personal direction? Connor had done that more than once. Logan had watched him repeatedly try and fail. Now Paige avoided him when possible and suffered his company when she couldn’t. He thought that might kill him if she treated him like that.

  Logan stood and looked to Paige’s window and the maple tree he had never tried to climb.

  * * *

  ON FRIDAY MORNING Paige was greeted at work by the head of security, Lou Reber, who was uncharacteristically somber-faced. Her first thought was that he was mourning Ed, as they all were, but then her mind went in more suspicious directions. Did the company know that she had logged on to Edward’s computer and that she had opened, read and even printed several of his files? She needed to speak to the state police, but her efforts to reach the lead investigator of last night had failed and she was waiting for a call back.

  Lou directed her to the second-floor conference room and said that the CEO of Rathburn-Bramley would be speaking to all workers on the day shift in a few minutes. Entering the large room, she found all seats at the table already occupied mostly by the brass. The rest of the administrative employees stood outside the inner circle. She moved beside Jeremy Chen and glanced about the table.

  Ken Booker, the head of human resources, fiddled with his glasses and the pages in the folder before him. Allen Drake, the CEO of Rathburn-Bramley, sat at the head of the oblong table exhibiting his customary confident smile and dressed in a crisp charcoal-gray suit that clashed badly with the bluish-brown of his dyed hair. The man was short and fit, but clearly in his sixties. Paige thought the unfortunate color choice did not make him look young and vigorous but rather pale and older than his years.

 
Beside him was the only woman in the group, the CFO, Veronica Vitale, who had given up her red power suit and bright lipstick for a more appropriate navy suit and simple, natural makeup. Vitale seemed to have lost weight since the last time she wore that suit. All the smoking, Paige decided, noting her dry skin and the flashing yellow teeth that reminded Paige of a rodent.

  Sinclair Park sat to her left. The production manager oversaw all manufacturing operations. He worked a swing shift, covering the end of the night shift and the beginning of the day. His hours often bled from one to the other and he had the circles under his eyes to prove it. Beside him sat their plant’s safety director, the business director and then a woman she did not know. She was an attractive brunette with shoulder-length hair carefully styled and frozen in place with some hair product. Her suit was an interesting pale gray with undertones of violet picked up by the deep purple silk blouse. Her gray eyes fixed on Paige for a moment and then flicked away.

  A few more of the production team, the guys from shipping, and Connie, who oversaw the finished goods area, slipped in as the CEO rose from his seat.

  “Thank you all for joining us. As you have likely heard, we have suffered a loss. Dr. Edward Sullivan, our head of the quality assurance team, was killed in an automobile accident yesterday morning. Police are investigating and we are asking you to answer their questions if you are called for an interview.”

  Mr. Drake continued with kind words about Dr. Sullivan and the loss to the community. He was an excellent orator and covered all the appropriate information, speaking as if he knew Ed well, which he did not. His words on Edward concluded with information on the funeral, scheduled for next Saturday at 10:00 a.m. followed by a private burial. Calling hours for the Sullivan family would be next Friday evening from six to eight and next Saturday afternoon following the service at the Methodist church.

  “The family has requested no flowers but that donations be made in Edward’s honor.”

  Paige realized that Dr. Sullivan, instead of attending the Harvest Festival and then coaching his son’s basketball game on Saturday, would instead be waiting in Albany’s morgue for an autopsy.