Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  "Yeah, Mark. I'm not an idiot."

  He yanked his sweatshirt off and tossed it onto the sofa beside him, revealing a fitted navy blue T-shirt. "Man, it's hot in here."

  "Yeah, well, I don't have to keep it at sixty-five anymore, do I?"

  He closed his lips tightly, squeezed his eyes shut.

  She braced herself, waiting for some cutting remark.

  He opened his eyes and half-smiled. "Nope. I guess not." The smile faded. "I don't think you're an idiot. I think you don't see the danger. You're worried Sheppard might manipulate you? I'm worried he might try to shut you up. Permanently."

  Amanda shook her head. "You don't know him. He's not violent."

  "The gentlest dogs in the world, when backed into a corner, will fight their way out. By publishing this memoir, you're backing him into a corner. And I wouldn't describe him as gentle. Subtle, maybe, but with people like him, when subtlety doesn't work . . . Let's just say he's used to getting what he wants."

  "You've never even met him."

  "I read your memoir. Was it true?"

  "Of course it was true! What are you trying to say?"

  He leaned back and rested his head on the sofa cushion. "It wasn't an accusation." With a puff of cheeks, he exhaled a long sigh and met her eyes. "I'm saying you're naïve. You fell for this guy, and even now you're not willing to accept that he might be dangerous. And that's okay—I understand you had feelings for him once. I know it's hard for you to see past that. But I'm telling you, he's dangerous, and I don't want you to get hurt."

  Amanda crossed her arms. She wanted to argue with him. But she could almost feel the way Gabriel's hands had squeezed her thighs in the hotel lobby only a few days earlier. The memory choked off the words.

  "You have to consider the possibility that this whole accidental meeting . . ." Mark used air quotes to frame the word accidental, "was orchestrated by Sheppard to convince you not to publish it."

  She tried to relax her thumping heart. "It doesn't matter, Mark. Even if he has someone feeding him information about me, it doesn't matter."

  "How can you say that?"

  "Why did you join the Marines?"

  He cocked his head to the side. A moment later, he smirked. "That was different."

  "You joined the Marines to fight for your country. You put your life on the line because you thought the cause was worth it. Well, maybe I think this cause is worth it. Gabriel needs to be stopped. Who knows how many other young girls he's taken advantage of over the years."

  "You're saying this is about justice?"

  "Exactly."

  Mark slid across the long sectional, reached out, and took her hand. Gently, he said, "This isn't about justice, it's about revenge."

  "No, that's not true." She heard the doubt in her own words. Was he right?

  "You're not going to find what you're looking for in revenge."

  "I told you—"

  "Or in justice. You're seeking peace, but this isn't the way to find it. Believe me, I've had my share of regrets." His eyes darkened, seemed to reflect a sorrow she couldn't place. He turned toward the wall. When he shifted his gaze back to her, the haunted look was gone. "Revenge, regret—these things won't bring you peace."

  "I'm not looking for peace." Her words were too harsh. She started over in a softer tone. "I just need to know Gabriel can't hurt anyone else. Why can't you understand that?"

  "And then you think you'll be at peace."

  "And then . . . it doesn't matter how I feel. I have to do this, to protect other girls."

  "What about our girls? They need you." He squeezed her hand. "I need you."

  She jerked away. "I'm publishing it. If Gabriel comes after me . . . no, he won't come after me. He's not violent."

  Mark rested his forearms on his knees again and squeezed his hands together. She studied his biceps, bulging beneath the T-shirt, his forearms as they lay across his knees. She'd always loved those arms, and until recently, she'd felt safe in them. But now, being with him felt anything but safe.

  He smacked his hands on his legs. "Not violent. Right. Whatever. Can you write down those names for me? Chris and I are going to do some checking, see if we can find a link between you and Sheppard."

  "Don't you think getting Chris involved is a little over-the-top?"

  He grabbed Madi's sketch pad and a purple crayon off the coffee table and held them out to her. "Please?"

  She took the paper and crayon and wrote down the names of everyone she thought might have known she would be in New York. There weren't that many. Her agent, her editor, her roommate, and a woman on the conference committee she'd emailed once.

  Why was Mark willing to spend so much time investigating these people? Probably for her daughters' sake. If only she could believe he was doing it out of love for her. With a yank, she tore the sheet off the notepad and handed it to him. "Here you go."

  He glanced at the list, folded it, and slid it into his jeans' pocket. "Thanks. I know you're not convinced, but the safest course is to assume he'll do whatever he must to protect himself."

  "That's crazy—"

  "So I got my gun out of the safe deposit box for you."

  She gasped. "What? No way. I don't want your gun. I don't even know how to use it."

  "I'll teach you."

  "Absolutely not. You know how I feel about guns around the girls."

  "If you keep it where they won't see it—"

  "Then it'll be so well-hidden, it'll be useless. No. I'm not having a gun in this house."

  Mark studied her with pursed lips. They stared at each other before he finally shrugged. "Fine." He walked to the dining room table, where he'd dropped a sack earlier in the evening. "I anticipated that and bought you a few cans of pepper spray."

  Pepper spray. She flashed back to when they'd first met. He'd bought her pepper spray back then, too. She felt her lips slip into an unbelieving smirk.

  Walking back to the couch, he continued. "Worse case, if the girls get ahold of it, they only hurt their eyes. I didn't get the ones that look like perfume or lipstick, 'cause I thought that might be more enticing to them." He handed her a black spray can. "You remember how to use it?"

  "It's not that complicated."

  "You're right. Just point and shoot."

  "You're crazy."

  "The thing is," he continued as though she hadn't spoken, “this guy is arrogant, and arrogance lends itself to overconfidence. You should have time. He's not going to start with violence."

  "You talk like you know him."

  "I have good instincts. Anyway, it should give you plenty of time to grab the spray. I got three. I thought you could carry one on you, have one somewhere downstairs, and keep one in your bedroom."

  "I don't know—"

  "This isn't optional, Amanda. Tomorrow I have—"

  "Wait a minute! What do you mean this isn't optional? You can't make me carry pepper spray."

  His eyebrows rose, then relaxed. Turning toward the rack by the door, he continued. "This black coat—this is the one you wear most of the time, right?"

  It was. She vacillated between nodding and throwing something at him. He grabbed the coat off the hook and carried it to the couch, laid it across the back near her and opened it up. He stuck his hand in the inside pocket. "Perfect." He slipped the pepper spray in the pocket.

  "What if I'm not wearing my coat?"

  "Wear it or keep it by you when you're not at home."

  She considered that. It was cold enough outside that she usually had the coat on when she left the house. The inside pocket was the perfect place for the pepper spray. She sat back and crossed her arms.

  Mark continued without the slightest hint of smugness. "Tomorrow night I have a guy coming over to install a security system. He should be here about six. He's a friend of mine, and he's actually pretty backlogged, but he said he'd work late for me."

  "No. I have a class tomorrow night. There'll be a houseful of women."

  T
ilting his head to the side, he grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket, pressed a button, and studied the screen. "I don't have that on my calendar."

  "Do I have to run my schedule by you?"

  "If you need me to watch the girls—"

  "Jamie's watching them."

  His lips flattened into a thin, white line. "Why? Why wouldn't you ask me?"

  "Whoa." She raised both hands, palms out. "Don't get mad. After this weekend, I didn't want to impose."

  "Impose? They're my daughters!"

  "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'll call Jamie—"

  "You weren't even going to give me the option?"

  "I thought you'd want a break, that's all."

  He shook his head. "And you accuse me of not knowing you."

  Another uncomfortable silence filled the air. Mark stretched his hands, which had suddenly clenched into fists. "Okay, so tomorrow night's out. He gave me the option of tomorrow morning, too, but I figured you'd prefer the evening. I'll call him and try to get him over here in the morning."

  "I really don't think I need a security system."

  "Also, not optional. You'll need to keep it on whenever you're home, and make sure—"

  "You can't make me." She sounded like a petulant child, even to her own ears.

  "If I don't think this house is secure, then I won't allow my daughters to stay here."

  Amanda stood. "Is that a threat? How dare you!"

  He dropped his chin to his chest. With a deep sigh, he looked up and met her eyes. "I don't want to take the girls away from you, and I don't think I'm asking that much, Mandy. I just want you—all three of you—to be safe."

  She crossed her arms and stared at him. But . . . was it really that much to ask that she set an alarm and carry a can of pepper spray? No, of course not. She not only sounded like a petulant child, she was acting like one, too. She pushed her hair back with both hands. "You're right. I'm sorry. Thank you for taking care of this stuff."

  "Of course. It's my job to protect you, you know. I just wish . . ."

  His voice trailed off, but she didn't ask him what he was about to say. She already knew.

  "Thanks for putting the girls to bed."

  He slid on his sweatshirt and grabbed his untouched ice water off the coffee table. "Anytime. And I mean that. I really miss them."

  She grabbed her own glass, following him to the kitchen. "I wasn't trying to keep them from you, I just thought . . ."

  After a moment, he said, "Yeah." He set his glass in the sink. "I'll be over about seven."

  "The class starts at seven, so—"

  "Seven in the morning, to meet my friend."

  "He must be quite a friend if he's willing to get here that early."

  "He used to work for me. I throw a lot of business his way."

  "Oh. That makes sense. I can let the guy in. You don't have to be here."

  "I'll be here. Then you can do what you have to do without worrying about him. And I'll get the girls after school tomorrow. Can I keep them overnight?"

  She shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

  One hand gripping the front door, Mark turned to her. "Will you at least think about not publishing the memoir? We don't need the money. Your book is selling, your business is doing great, and so is mine. I mean, there's no reason—"

  "I'm sorry, Mark. I'm publishing it. I get that you don't understand, but it's something I have to do."

  He studied her face. "Is it really worth risking your life?"

  "My life's not in danger."

  He let out a halfhearted chuckle. "Whatever you say. Will you be okay here alone? I can spend the night if you want—on the couch."

  She shook her head. "That would only confuse the girls."

  "Right. I can see how having both of their parents sleeping under one roof would confuse them."

  "You know what I mean."

  "Fine. See you at seven."

  Mark backed down the long driveway and turned onto the two-lane state highway toward the center of town, past beautiful old homes and an ancient cemetery, which seemed small tonight in the shadows of the tall trees lining the road. Everything about this street screamed country lane except the line of traffic.

  Mark pulled into the small lot of a corner store and parked. Leaving the car running, he slipped his hand into his front pocket and retrieved his cell phone and the piece of scratch paper Amanda had given him.

  He pressed Chris's speed dial number.

  "Hey, pro," Chris said.

  "You still at work?"

  "Yeah. Long day."

  "Do you have time to look up some names for me?"

  "Did you get the list already?"

  "Nope. I decided we should start with a smaller list and work our way out. She wrote down the names of the people who knew she was going to be there. I can text them to you if you want, or—"

  "Just read 'em. Who has time for texting?"

  Mark chuckled and read the list.

  "Are these people all writers?"

  "Tim is her editor, Roxie is her agent, Suzie is a writer. Not sure about the other name."

  "All from New York?"

  "I think so. Susie's from upstate. I don't know about the rest, but she said it was a small conference. If you need more information—"

  "Nah, this'll probably be enough. I can print some stuff out, but I won't have time to look at it for a couple of days."

  "Can you bring it to me?"

  "Sure. How about I drop it by in the morning before work?"

  "That's fine. Bring it by our house. I'm having an alarm installed at seven."

  "Great. See you—"

  "Wait! Did you dig up anything on Sheppard?"

  "A little. I'll have something for you in the morning."

  "Thanks. I owe you one."

  Chris snorted. "You saved my life. I'll never stop owing you."

  "You know what? You help me keep Amanda safe, and you'll be saving my life. Then, we'll be even."

  Ten

  Amanda straightened her tank top, tugging it to her waistline while she ran down the stairs. "Coming!" she yelled, her sweatshirt trailing behind her like Linus's blanket. She called over her shoulder, "Girls, you have five minutes until breakfast."

  At the bottom of the stairs, she slipped, righted herself, and shuffled across the wood floor to the front door. She unlocked the deadbolt and yanked it open without looking through the peephole, but it wasn't Mark on the other side of the door, it was Chris. He wore a dark suit with a turquoise shirt and matching tie. His closely-cropped hair and clean-shaven face would still fit in the Marines, but the roll that hung over his pants was an accessory he'd added since retirement.

  "Oh, hi." She smiled, crossing her arms over her tank top, protection against the blast of cold air.

  He didn't return her smile. "Is Mark here yet?"

  "Nope. He should be any minute, though. Come on in."

  She stepped aside to let Chris through, then closed the door behind him. After three precise steps, he stopped, standing straight as if at attention. A manila envelope hung from his left hand.

  "What's up?" she asked.

  "I have some stuff for him. He told me to meet him here at seven."

  Amanda glanced at the digital clock on her microwave. "He's a little late. Can I get you some coffee or something?"

  "I have a cup in the car."

  She nodded.

  He lifted the envelope and tapped it against the palm of his right hand. Tap, tap, tap.

  She realized two things quite suddenly. One, this was the first time she'd seen Chris since she and Mark separated, and two, Chris, usually very friendly, was glaring at her. Although she'd known Chris had been Mark's superior in the service, she'd always thought of him as a kind, gentle man, never seeing him in a tough Marine demeanor. She'd never been able to picture him carrying a gun, either, but the image wasn't so difficult to conjure now. He looked angry and, when she looked into his icy gray eyes, terrifying.

  She forced
another smile. "What's in the envelope?"

  "He gave me some names to look up," he said, still tapping the envelope on his palm. "This is what I found."

  "I can't believe you let him drag you into his paranoia." A nervous chuckle escaped. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."

  "Do you know his nickname?" he asked.

  Amanda slipped on her sweatshirt, suddenly needing the protection, and not just from the cold. "Uh . . . you call him pro, right?"

  Tap, tap, tap. "Do you know why?"

  She shrugged. "I guess I assumed he behaved like a professional. Is that not it?"

  "It's short for prophet."

  She shifted onto the other foot. The girls were giggling upstairs. She didn't want them to come down yet. "Did he make a lot of money or something?"

  "Not that kind of profit. The kind who sees into the future. The kind who knows things."

  "Oh." She'd seen that skill at work. The nickname made sense.

  He tossed the envelope onto the dining room table. "Can I tell you a story about something that happened over there?"

  Over there. In Afghanistan. "I guess."

  "We were on the road one miserably hot day. Some of the villagers were happy to see us. Every so often, we'd stop for a few minutes. In the back of one of the trucks, we had a bunch of soccer balls, and we'd been handing them out. I was with a buddy, leaning against the tailgate, waiting for orders. Mark was standing next to the driver's window, and they were laughing about something."

  Chris closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened them, trained them on hers, and continued. "This kid was walking toward us. Young, skinny kid, maybe eleven or twelve. He was smiling and waving and yelling, 'Ball! Ball!' I reached in the back of the truck to grab one of the soccer balls, figuring he'd seen another boy with one. I started to walk toward him. All of a sudden, Mark grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, yanked me backwards, and flipped me over the side of the truck into the bed. Climbing in beside me, he pounded on the side and yelled, 'Drive!'"

  Chris scrubbed his face with his hands before dropping them to his sides. "I thought he was crazy. Why would he run from a skinny kid? We weren't fifty yards away when that kid . . . exploded. Suicide bomber."