The Guardian

by Dee Henderson

  “Would you talk to Rachel for me later?” Jennifer asked. “She’s been too quiet.”

  “Sure, Jen.”

  “Tell Shari hi for me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Here’s Kate back.”

  “Marcus.”

  He had to clear his throat. “I’m here.”

  “Call me after ten, okay?” Kate asked quietly.

  “I’ll call.”

  “Good-bye for now.”

  Marcus closed the phone, stared at it a moment, and took a deep breath. There was some relief just in knowing he didn’t have to keep the carefully maintained calm in place for Shari. He had meant what he said earlier, about this being the first round of a long fight, but it was still an intense strain. He rubbed his eyes. “They’re going to put radiation pellets in her spine.”

  Shari tightened her hand around his. “You’ll be okay. All of you. How can you not go?”

  He shook his head. “The other O’Malleys are there; I’m needed here.”

  She wanted to argue, then stopped and simply nodded. “Send her some orchids. Those you got for me last week were gorgeous.”

  He rubbed his hand across hers, then picked up the phone. “First things first. They want two Chicago-style pizzas and a cheesecake sent out for dinner.”

  “Do they?”

  “Hmm.” He was amused at Kate’s request. “I think I’ve become their delivery man.”

  “I think they just want you to feel involved.”

  “Probably some of that too.” He wrote down the number directory assistance gave him for the pizza place near Kate’s home, then placed the call.

  It never failed to amaze him what mentioning Kate’s name could do in her neighborhood. Carla herself came on the phone to get the details and gladly volunteered to take care of the shipping arrangements. A brief second call took care of the cheesecake request.

  “Unless you need to rejoin Quinn, why don’t you come keep me company,” Shari offered, tugging his hand.

  “Doing what?”

  “I thought I’d ice some of those cookies. You can watch, or do some too if you like. It will give you something mindless to do while you tell me what was going on this morning.”

  He didn’t particularly want to be alone at the moment. He let her pull him to his feet. “Lead the way. As long as you promise not to make blue icing this time.”

  “But it’s a guy color.”

  “I draw the line at blue food.”

  * * *

  Marcus called Kate late that night after his final rounds, spent an hour talking with her about Jennifer’s upcoming surgery, the details of the security arrangements he was making with Dave for the grand jury testimony, family schedules for the next two weeks. When he hung up, he walked to the window of his room to look out into the darkness, weary in his heart.

  Two days from now his sister would be in surgery. He knew the pellets had a reasonable chance of killing the cancer, but the risks involved—he couldn’t do anything to minimize them, that was what made the situation so hard to accept.

  “Jesus wants you to choose to trust Him. He won’t take that trust you place in Him lightly.”

  Shari’s words echoed again. He wanted to be able to cross the hesitation and trust enough to pray, but he felt mute the closer he came to that line. He had believed and prayed for his mom and she had died. It wasn’t logical, but thinking about praying for Jennifer brought a resonating fear that, in doing so, he would lose her too. The emotion wasn’t rational. But it was powerful.

  He had always thought in the mix of experiences each O’Malley shared from the orphanage that it was Kate who bore the worst scars from the past, that Rachel carried the most pain. He had never dealt with the reality of how strong his own memories still were.

  “I miss you, Mom,” he whispered as he traced a hand down the windowsill.

  Jennifer would come through surgery strong, and this treatment would be effective. Shari was praying for her. That had to make a difference.

  Why couldn’t he just trust?

  Because he’d made a deal with God so that his mom would live, and she had died. And inside his heart he was still an angry little boy.

  Marcus sighed and forced himself to turn out the lights and turn in, trying to sleep. It did not come for a long time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “She’s out of surgery?”

  “In recovery,” Kate confirmed. “They gave her something to make her woozy and used a local so her system wouldn’t have to fight off the heavy sedation. Marcus, she’s reacting to it like she’s drunk. She’s trying to sing nursery rhymes at the moment. They said it would wear off, which is a shame. I would kill to have a tape recorder right now. She’s never going to believe me.”

  “What did they say about the actual surgery? Was it successful?”

  “Better than they hoped for. Even Tom was smiling when he saw the film results showing the placements.”

  Marcus could feel the building relief. “And the risks? Is she moving her toes?”

  “The biggest problem at the moment is she wants to get up and go for a walk. The local has removed any concept of pain, and her foggy mind clearly does not remember she’s just had surgery. They’ve got her strapped down to keep her back still.”

  “Thanks for calling me immediately.”

  “No problem. Let me call Lisa and Dave. I’ll brief you again once she’s been moved from the recovery room.”

  Marcus hung up the phone. Shari was waiting, impatiently. She had been pacing around the house ever since word had come that Jennifer was going into surgery. “She came through just fine,” Marcus said, taking away the worry for them both. “She’s got good movement in her feet, the pellet locations look good, and she’s in recovery.”

  “I’m glad,” Shari said simply, her smile sharing the emotions that were hard to fit into words.

  Marcus crossed the room, leaned down, and gently kissed her. “Thank you for praying,” he said quietly, from the bottom of his heart. Jennifer was in better shape than he could have hoped for. Shari’s prayers had really mattered.

  “Marcus,” she studied his face, reached up, and cradled it in her hands. “You are very welcome.”

  Quinn came down the hall and the moment of privacy was lost. Shari tightened her hands around Marcus’s as she stepped away, then turned. “Quinn, there’s wonderful news regarding Jennifer.”

  * * *

  Marcus reread the interviews of those who had seen Connor at the hotel and finally admitted defeat. He had been over these interviews until he could quote them. As much as he wanted to find something the team had missed regarding Connor, it wasn’t there. He closed the folder and dropped it on the floor.

  “No luck?” Shari asked absently, not looking up from the book she was absorbed in reading.

  “No.”

  He had to smile as he watched her. She was sitting with her legs draped over the side of the deep leather chair, the side table light turned on. He reached down for his sketch pad and pulled out his fine pencil. She looked beautiful tonight, truly relaxed.

  He took his time with the sketch. She was inspiring him to improve his art, so he could try to do her justice.

  An hour passed as he worked and she turned pages in her book.

  “Can I see?”

  He glanced up to see she had set aside the book. He didn’t want to show her, but only because it would be to admit she had been the subject on more than one occasion.

  He closed the sketchbook and handed it to her.

  Watching her face to see her reaction, he knew exactly when she turned pages and saw the first portrait. She turned the pages more slowly after that.

  She looked up at him. The one time he didn’t want her to hide what she thought, she did. She slowly smiled. “I’m flattered, Marcus. You’re an unfulfilled artist under that badge and gun.”

  Come on, Shari . . . what are you thinking? I’ve got my heart on my sleeve in those sketches.


  “My mom loved to draw.” He hadn’t told anyone that but family.

  She flipped to a blank page. “May I?”

  Not sure what she planned, he nodded. She picked up her pen. Her sketch was done fast, with a hand that didn’t stop, her confidence showing. She was an artist and she hadn’t said a thing. That turkey.

  “My contribution to your greatness.” She handed him the sketchbook with a flourish.

  It was a cartoon. A baby panda bear leaning over an artist’s palette getting paint on his paws, curious. “You’re good.”

  “So are you. And Marcus . . . I’m not that pretty.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “And you’ve been listening to my mother too much. What did she have to say this evening about London?”

  A well-done tangent, he let her get away with it. “Afternoon tea. She is very impressed.”

  “She gave me the recipes for scones.”

  “Want to try making them someday?”

  “Only if you volunteer to clean up after the disaster I leave in my wake. Two hours of cleanup for one batch of cookies. They were good, but not that good. I plan to let another month go by before I consider stepping into a kitchen again. I never did get very domesticated.”

  “Shari, some of the people I like the most are Quinn, Lisa, and Kate. Enough said?”

  “You’ve got a high tolerance for clutter.”

  “I would rather have a case solved, a bad guy caught, a standoff peacefully concluded. If the clutter bothers me before it does them, I pick it up. Besides, you’re smart. You could learn.”

  “Like I can learn to tell directions?”

  “Well—that one might take some time.”

  “You’re being generous. I think it’s an impossible cause.”

  “How’s the speech you were working on this afternoon coming along?”

  She winced. “It’s my nightmare of the month. I thought I was done with fiscal policy and it’s back to haunt me.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “John’s legislation hit what I call the cement wall—the opposition in the senate finance committee. It’s on its way to crashing and burning. So . . . the cycle starts all over again.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t help that I don’t understand John’s insistence on the positions he’s taken. Personally, I would change the legislation. There’s a compromise sitting there to be taken, but neither side wants to be the first to move to the middle.”

  “So why don’t you just write the speech you think should be given and see what John thinks? Your strength is persuading someone to your point of view.”

  “I work for him. I’m supposed to be writing his speech, not mine.”

  “So call it a proposal,” Marcus replied. “He’ll love it when he sees it.”

  “You’ve got more faith than I do.”

  “More confidence at least.”

  “Ouch. And I’d hate to let it be said that I ducked a challenge.”

  * * *

  Shari crumpled page five of the speech, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen, the paper yielding to the pressure of her hand as she pulled it in with her fingers and crushed it into the center of her palm. The words were too bold.

  She started writing again on the next sheet of notepaper.

  “What are you working on?”

  “The proposal for John you talked me so sweetly into writing.” She didn’t bother to look up at Marcus; if she did she would never get her concentration back. It was 1 A.M. and she still had several hours of work to do.

  “It’s not going well?”

  She grimaced. “It’s going fine. I just can’t see John ever moving this far from his present position.”

  He pulled out a chair. “May I?”

  He had shown her his sketch. She passed over the text. “It’s still rough,” she warned, nervous.

  “Relax. What I’ve read of your stuff is good.”

  He took a seat and in doing so totally distracted her. Jeans, an old sweatshirt, barefoot. She forced herself not to stare. He started reading. “Okay if I make comments?”

  She nodded and he reached for his pencil.

  He made a few notes in the margins.

  When he finished and got up, he squeezed her shoulder lightly. “Good job. I’ll be back after rounds.”

  She nodded and accepted the pages of the speech.

  She read his comments. The one at the bottom of the page left her stunned. Why aren’t you running for office?

  She spun around only to find with frustration that he had already left.

  Run for office. It was her lifelong dream. One her father had always supported for her future. It was like having someone suddenly shine a spotlight and illuminate a hope, long resting dormant.

  She had to wait forty minutes for him to return. She heard him talking to Quinn in the front hall. Gathering her courage, she poured two mugs of coffee and went to join him.

  “Thanks.”

  “All quiet?”

  “All quiet,” he assured.

  He nodded to the living room and waited for her to have a seat before he sat down nearby.

  “Why did you say that? About running for office?”

  “You’re a good speech writer. But you’re not going to be content there forever. You were made for something more.”

  “I’ve always dreamed of being a legislator in Washington someday.”

  “So why aren’t you? What are you waiting for?”

  “You need to be married to run for Congress.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Shari, that’s a cop-out. You’d make a wonderful representative. I’d vote for you. Go for it.”

  “It takes money.”

  “No. It takes friends. And those you’ve got.” The warm smile hit her in a wave.

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yes, Shari, I am. It’s a dream. I’m not in favor of seeing dreams die.”

  “You really think I could do it?”

  “Think about it. You’ve got a work ethic that would put most people in the ground after a day. You know the state of Virginia; you know the issues inside out. You’ve got good political skills and the Rolodex to match. What do you need that you don’t already have?”

  She wanted to seize the suggestion, found it incredible that he was so strongly in favor of the idea. Was he that different from Sam? Or didn’t he see them having a relationship beyond friendship in the future so it didn’t matter what her career was? She was suddenly not certain of anything. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Do.”

  She got to her feet. “You’ll be up for a while?”

  “Yes.”

  “I left the coffeepot on. I think I’m going to head to bed.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Shari nodded and walked toward her bedroom.

  When she curled up in bed, she hugged her pillow and looked at the ceiling. Marcus had dug until he touched her heart, snugly wrapped inside her passion for work. What she did for John, what she dreamed of someday doing, it wasn’t a job with her. It was how her heart beat. He had patiently found it and then watered it with a quietly written note at the bottom of a speech.

  The hard part was figuring out how much of it he had done deliberately and how much of it was simply Marcus being who he was. She wanted to read into it something profound and hope it was true. Her heart was involved. She wanted this to mean something profound.

  He had her heart in his hand. Did he even know that?

  She loved him.

  Marcus believes I can do it. The emotion was intense, the realization he was serious. To see that in his calm face, that confidence, it stunned her.

  If I go for my dreams, do I lose a chance to have a future with him? He might not want a wife who is in politics. And I have to trust that someday he will change his mind and believe. I love him more than I do my dream. And I couldn’t say that with Sam.

  Jesus, I want a future with Marcus, and I want a political
career. Are You telling me both are now possibilities on the table?

  * * *

  Tracking the private jet was only a matter of time and money and charm. Lucas had been a pilot since he was seventeen. He leased a piper cub and flew to New York, where he was just another pilot who liked to borrow a cup of coffee and chat. The private charter pilots and the maintenance crews liked to talk and they remembered planes like other guys remembered cars. Two weeks after Connor was arrested, Lucas had tracked the private jet the marshal had used back to Kentucky and from there west to Montana.

  The chase was coming to an end. Lucas picked up the sniper rifle he had arranged to have modified, spent a day in the country sighting it, then he headed west.

  Finding the plane they had used was a matter of searching the ranches in the corridor of the last known flight plan and locating the plane he sought. Most of the ranches had private airstrips, finding the right one was simply a matter of time. He found it on Wednesday, August 30.

  He had changed planes, leasing from a private company the same plane the park service used to create their topographical maps. High-powered cameras mounted to the skids were recording every detail of the ranches far below. He flew high, straight, on a direct bearing to the next town, covering the airstrip and house in the morning, and that evening flew a straight return path mapping the approach roads, barns, and fence lines.

  By morning the film was developed and tacked to the wall of the office he had rented. The hangar had been designed for privately flown twin-engine Cessnas, not the larger business jets, and the tail numbers were visible through the open hangar doors.

  The dry summer and fall would make the trek in by foot slow but not particularly difficult. The security perimeter they had established was obvious from the air. Interesting. He studied the pictures and was pleased. This was not going to be all that easy after all. The cops guarding Shari knew what they were doing. He had always appreciated a good adversary.

  He picked up the phone. “I’ve found her.”

  “The secret grand jury panel convenes on Saturday. Kill her before it convenes.”

  Lucas hung up the phone with a frown. Saturday. He’d just found them and they were about to abandon this place and fly back to Virginia. Wonderful. He would have preferred to have more time. Still, it could be done.