The house was shrouded in darkness, and the only noise to be heard was the slow tick of the mantel clock in a living room strewn with papers and files from Rebecca’s cabinets. He noticed some of her award-winning prints amongst the clutter—photos of Somalian soldiers holding guns aloft, images of Chechen children caught up in a war they didn’t understand, pictures of ordinary Afghan people trying to rebuild their lives among the chaos of conflict. Rebecca captured more than the scene itself. She captured the pain in people’s eyes and the humanity behind the headlines. Her dedication to photographing suffering in the world humbled him, and to see her life’s work discarded on the floor made his anger bubble to the surface. Jack found himself hoping that the intruder had hightailed it out of there, lest he let his anger get the better of him.
Creaks on the floor above let him know that someone was walking through one of the bedrooms with hurried footsteps. He ascended the stairs with soundless movement, keeping one ear trained on any noise coming from the cell phone in his pocket. The dragging noises in the bathroom had ceased. He hoped it was a good sign.
Then the house was filled with sounds of dull, repetitive thudding, reverberating through the air on a menacing wave. It was coming from Rebecca’s bedroom, where she was hiding in the adjacent bathroom. He took the last few steps in one bound and burst into her bedroom to see a masked man bringing his foot heavily against the barricaded bathroom door. In one hand, the man held a semiautomatic pistol, raised level with his shoulder. Jack’s sudden presence in the room caused him to jump back from the door and point his gun, ready to shoot.
Jack dived to the side before the bullet had a chance to seek him out, and he saw Rebecca’s closet door splinter with a powerful impact. He rolled and sprang to his feet, running out into the hallway to see the black-clad man dart into Rebecca’s youngest daughter’s bedroom. The intruder yanked open the window with such force that the frame slammed into the casing, shattering the glass on impact. The guy let out an expletive and tried to force the remaining shards through the frame with his gloved hands, ready to make a quick getaway.
Jack took his opportunity and ran to the doorway, firing a warning shot into the wall right next to the man. The suspect immediately raised his hands in the air, shuffling on his sneakered feet, crunching on the glass beneath.
Jack looked at the shards scattered on Charlotte’s dollhouse, and his anger intensified. “You should be grateful the little girl who sleeps in this room isn’t here,” he said through gritted teeth. “What do you want with this family?”
The man didn’t answer. And neither did he turn around. He remained standing with his back to Jack, hands aloft, still holding his gun.
“Put the gun on the floor,” Jack ordered. “Slowly.”
The man began to steadily lower his arms and bend his knees to squat down on the floor.
“Jack.” Rebecca’s voice was faltering behind him. In his peripheral vision, he could see her walking hesitantly into the hallway.
He didn’t remove his eyes from the intruder, who was taking his time to lower his weapon to the floor. “You okay, Rebecca?”
He felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder and glanced down at it. Streaks of blood stained his shirt, and he momentarily let his guard slip.
“You’re hurt,” he exclaimed, taking her hand and holding it in his. He flipped his eyes back up to the suspect and was faced with an empty space. It had taken the guy barely a second to vault through the broken glass. Jack ran to the window and saw the man scrambling down a tree alongside the house. His wiry figure was illuminated by the flashing red-and-blue lights of the police car that had turned onto the street. He turned to race from the room in hot pursuit, but Rebecca gripped his forearm.
“Let him go, Jack,” she said. “The police will pick him up.” She looked at him intently. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
He saw the fear on her face and gave a small nod of his head. He couldn’t leave her when she needed him. He put his gun down and lifted her bloodied hand in his. There was a long cut that snaked down her forefinger to her thumb.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “I cut myself trying to move the shelf in the bathroom.” She laughed weakly. “When I bought it, I never thought I’d be moving it to use as a barricade.”
He took her noninjured hand and led her into the main bathroom. He flipped the light switch before remembering that the power was out, and he used his cell phone to activate a flashlight. He sat her on the edge of the bathtub, pulled a clean towel from the rack and wetted it a little to wrap around her wound. He then positioned himself on bended knee to hold the towel tight against the cut. Her usually honey-warm skin looked pale with a streak of blood across her forehead. He often thought that her skin had a luminous quality, and it seemed to sparkle when the sun shone down on her. Her eyes were the palest blue he’d ever known, in stark contrast to her dark, almost black hair. To say she was striking was a vast understatement. But at that moment her radiance was fading, and she looked exhausted.
He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I’ve been in a lot worse situations that this.”
He tried to raise a smile. “Haven’t we all?” He immediately regretted saying these words, worried that she might think he was referring to the day that neither of them had ever spoken of—the day when her world stopped. She didn’t need reminding of that, not now.
“It’s fine, Jack,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here. Ian would be really grateful.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m really grateful.”
He held her hand, smoothing her fingers with his own, wondering how she always seemed to know what he was thinking.
A uniformed deputy appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Grey?”
She looked up. “Yes.”
The light in the bathroom suddenly flicked on, as did the lamp in the hallway. “Someone tripped your fuse box,” the deputy said. “My partner fixed it.”
Jack stood up. “Did you catch the guy?”
The deputy raised his eyebrows. “What guy?”
Jack ran his fingers through his hair. “The guy clambering down the tree in the front yard.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see him.”
The deputy straightened his shoulders. “And who might you be, sir?”
“Conrad Jackson. I’m a friend of Rebecca’s. She called me after your patrol car drove past her house on its way to Charleston Road.”
The deputy shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. “We had a couple of problems with the computerized address system.” He looked past Jack to Rebecca. “I apologize for the delay, ma’am.”
Rebecca didn’t look up, and her voice was small. “It’s okay. Mr. Jackson got here in time.”
Jack led the deputy into the hallway, out of earshot of Rebecca. “So the guy got away, huh?”
The deputy crossed his arms. “We were focused on getting inside the house to assist a lone female. Our priority is always to safeguard the victim.”
“Did you check and secure the whole house?”
“My partner is searching the property as we speak.” The officer looked Jack up and down. “You talk like a cop. You in the force?”
“Navy SEAL, retired.”
The deputy nodded in admiration. “Then I guess Mrs. Grey is in safe hands.”
Always, Jack thought. “I want the surrounding area searched thoroughly for any sign of this guy. He’s armed and dangerous. You’ll find a bullet lodged in a closet in the master bedroom. Have it analyzed to see if it matches any recorded crimes or offenders.” He cast a backward glance at Rebecca and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I want to know why he targeted this house. What did he want?”
Jack’s natural authority and commanding presence had an instant effect on the deputy, who wrote the instructions in his notepad and immediately radioed other patrol cars to begin the search for the suspect.
Jack returned to Rebecca’s si
de in the bathroom, and she stood to face him, a little unsteady on her feet. He gripped her shoulders to hold her up, and she rested her forehead on his chest. He felt the warmth from her skin tingle through his thin linen shirt. She wasn’t usually so affectionate with him, and he felt a mixture of awkwardness and pleasure to hold her so close. His promise to Ian Grey was to take care of his wife, not to become emotionally involved with her. He certainly didn’t want to overstep, so he pulled away, guiding her into the hallway and lowering her into a chair in the corner.
A second deputy came up the stairs. “Looks like our guy is long gone,” he said. “It’s a total mess down there, but expensive items like the TV and gaming devices are untouched.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And the way the door lock was taken apart is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
Rebecca leaned forward and pointed to the deputy’s hand. “What is that you have in your hand?”
He held it forward. “I found it outside in your front yard, possibly dropped by the perp.” He held it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s an art brochure from the Regency auction house in New York.” He raised his eyebrows at his partner. “Our criminals are getting a little more cultured than they used to be. You should see the price guide of this stuff.”
Rebecca held out her hand. “Can I see it?”
As the deputy handed her the brochure, Jack noticed Rebecca’s expression change to one of fear. He knelt down by her side. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing the two deputies working together to thoroughly check all the rooms upstairs.
“I’ve seen this brochure before,” she said shakily. “In fact, I photographed these artworks in a presidential palace twelve years ago when I was working in Iraq.” She cradled her injured hand as she talked. “I recently read a newspaper article advertising an art sale in an auction house called Regency in New York. The pieces in the pictures looked exactly like the ones I’d photographed in Iraq, so I requested a brochure. When it arrived, I recognized the artwork immediately, and I wondered how they came to be in the US.”
Jack’s senses tingled to attention. “Do you think they were stolen from the palace?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I called the auction house two weeks ago to ask them who currently owned the artwork but they said it was confidential information. I told them I photographed these pieces during Operation Iraqi Freedom twelve years ago, and they said that was impossible.” She looked at him with clear, wide eyes. “But they claim the pieces were legally purchased and imported from Turkey over twenty-five years ago.”
Jack leaned in closer. “Do you believe that’s true?”
She shook her head. “No. These are such distinctive pieces, Jack—sculptures, ceramics, paintings, tapestries. Some of them are hundreds of years old. I know they were in the Al Faw Palace in Iraq. I have the photographs to prove it.”
“Did you say all of this to the auction house in New York?”
“Yes.”
Jack let out a long breath. “And what do they intend to do about it?”
“They said they’d take my concerns to the current owner of the art and get back to me with a response.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But that was over two weeks ago. I called them yesterday, and they gave me the brush-off. I told the guy on the phone that I’d go to the police if they don’t start taking me seriously.”
Jack rubbed his temples. “And now someone wants to silence you?”
Rebecca closed her eyes. “It looks that way.” She let her head fall into her hands and spoke with a muffled voice through her fingers. “What have I gotten myself caught up in, Jack?”
“Hey,” he said gently. “Whatever you’re caught up in is my problem, too.”
He put a protective arm around her shoulder, trying to feign composure, but in reality his mind was racing with endless possibilities, all of them fraught with danger. His promise to Ian was about to be tested to the limit.
TWO
Rebecca sat at her kitchen table, palms flat on the pine. The intruder in her house was a setback she didn’t need at this point in her life. She was doing okay; she was happy again. And that was largely because of Jack. His help and support had been like a blanket of comfort for the last year and a half, and she had grown close to him.
The sound of banging from Charlotte’s room echoed through the house. Jack was hammering a temporary board over her six-year-old daughter’s broken window. The police had taken their statements and left the house two hours ago, having determined there were no leads to go on. The intruder had evaded capture, and nothing appeared to be missing from her home. She and Jack had spoken to the deputies at length regarding her theory about the stolen Iraqi artwork, but she could tell they were skeptical. Nevertheless, they promised to contact the Regency auction house to investigate further.
She took a deep breath and rose from the chair to fill a glass of water, feeling a familiar seed of anxiety settle in her chest. She had come a long way since those bleak days after Ian had died, and she didn’t want to let this situation send her back there again. Jack had been her rock in the weeks after she’d been given the tragic news. He did the school runs, took the girls to swim practice, filled the refrigerator with groceries and maintained the routines that she wasn’t strong enough to bear. All the while, she stayed in bed and grieved. But gradually she had emerged from her cocoon and reentered the world, taking it one day at a time, using her faith in God to try and come to terms with her loss. She closed her eyes for a moment and asked God to give her the power to repel any dark forces that had infiltrated her wonderful family home.
“Hey, Bec.”
She looked up to see Jack standing in the doorway, almost filling it completely with his broad shoulders. He held a hammer in his right hand and leaned with his forearm on the door frame. Her heart fluttered a little, and she pushed the feeling down. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact time when her belly had started doing somersaults whenever he entered the room. It had happened so slowly that by the time she realized what was happening, it was too late.
He was wearing blue jeans and a crumpled linen shirt, clearly picked up from the floor in his haste to dress and rush to her aid. His brown hair was unkempt, but he never really bothered to style it anyway, preferring a more natural look. Emily and Charlotte often teased him about being a surfer dude, and he took it in good humor. The girls loved going to the beach with him, and he had taught them both how to bodyboard pretty well. His hair was starting to show traces of gray, but his body was still as lean and firm as that of a man half his age, kept fit by his regular surfing trips. There were signs on his face of his thirty-eight years: brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, a brow that creased when he frowned and laughter lines at the sides of his full lips. His goatee and sun-browned skin added to the laid-back look. The overall persona he projected was one of gentleness and a carefree nature, totally at odds with what she knew about him, about his past as a tough navy SEAL, uncompromising in his pursuit of justice.
“You saying a little prayer, huh?” he asked, seeing her hands clasped together, elbows perched on the table. “Sorry to interrupt.”
She lowered her hands to the table and rubbed her palms on the smooth surface. “It’s okay. I’m not sure that God hears me these days, anyway.” She gave a little laugh to make it sound like a joke, but Jack knew her too well.
“I don’t profess to know much about God,” he said. “But I know how devoted you are to your faith, and that makes you special to Him, I guess.”
She smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I’m willing to keep an open mind on that score,” he said. “But it’s pretty hard to believe in someone I’ve never seen.”
“You don’t see God,” she laughed. “You feel Him.”
“Okay, then,” he said, walking to the table. “It’s pretty hard to believe in someone I don’t feel, but you feel Him, so I’m assuming He won’t abandon you when you need Him most, right?”
He already did, she thought, before angrily pushing the thought from her head. It wasn’t God’s fault that Ian was taken from her, and she tried not to blame Him. But she couldn’t deny the fact that she was clearly meant to be alone for the rest of her life. When she’d married Ian, she had made a lifelong commitment, and she couldn’t imagine breaking it, even though he was now gone. That was the hardest part to accept—the knowledge that she would not be sharing her life with a man she loved.
“You want some coffee?” She pushed back her chair to go to the sink. “The sun will be up soon, and you’ll be wanting to get to work, I guess.”
He put the hammer down on the table and stood close to her by the kitchen counter. “I can go days without sleep,” he said. “Besides which, being the boss of my own company has a lot of perks. Someone will cover for me.”
She busied herself making coffee. After Jack left the SEALs, he set up his own car dealership, and it was no surprise to anyone that it became a huge success. Jack’s easygoing, personable nature made him a big hit in their small town of Bristol, Florida, and he quickly built up a chain of dealerships across the Panhandle. He bought a house just a few blocks away and had supported Rebecca in so many ways until she felt well enough to return to her job as a newspaper photographer at the Liberty News in Blountstown. The Liberty News’s owner and editor, Simon Orwell, had been an ambitious young journalist when she worked alongside him during Operation Iraqi Freedom. When she decided to retire from overseas work after marrying Ian, Simon had been overjoyed to snap up her services as the paper’s primary photographer, and he often used the prestige of her name as leverage to scoop the best stories for the front page. These days she was more likely to take pictures of fluffy kittens than soldiers with guns, but she adored every minute of it.
Love Inspired Suspense May 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Trail of EvidenceGone MissingLethal Exposure Page 40
