Too Far Gone

by Marliss Melton

  “Carl’s birth certificate,” Ophelia noted after a moment. She pulled it out and scanned it. “There’s no father’s name?”

  Ellie looked to where she was pointing. “No, Carl never had a daddy,” she recalled. “His mama lived with her parents. She never did marry.”

  Ophelia laid the certificate aside and pulled out Carl’s photographs. “Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he looks just like a younger Owen Dulay. I did tons of research on him before I came here. I knew there had to be a connection somewhere!”

  The observation stopped Ellie’s heartbeat for a full second. “No way,” she breathed.

  “Why not? Isn’t Dulay old enough to be Carl’s father?”

  “I guess so,” Ellie relented, peering at the photograph, “but it just seems so far-fetched.” The similarity wasn’t apparent to her, but then again, she’d never seen an early photograph of Dulay, only the oil-on-canvas portrait at the homeless shelter. “He has a grown daughter named Skyler,” she added.

  “The one who volunteers at the homeless shelter,” Ophelia recalled. “We need to talk to her,” she added, placing the photos alongside the birth certificate.

  Ellie glanced at the clock. “She’s probably there right now.”

  “And that’s where the Centurions hold their weekly meetings, right?”

  “Right,” said Ellie.

  “Okay, then,” said Ophelia, tugging down her purple jacket. “Let’s see what Skyler has to say about the possibility of Carl being her father’s illegitimate son.”

  “I’m going with you,” Ellie declared, swinging a look between the reporter and the cameraman.

  Ophelia gave her a candid inspection. “You’ll have to disguise yourself first,” she replied. “After all those news reports last night, you’ll be recognized anywhere you go in this town. Also, you’ll need to stay somewhere else,” she added. “I had no trouble finding you here. It wouldn’t take the Centurions any time at all to find you and silence you.”

  “Like they’ve done with Sean,” Ellie murmured, pressing a fist to her roiling abdomen.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Ophelia apologized. “Sometimes I just say things without thinking.” She offered Ellie a comforting hug. “You can stay with me,” she offered magnanimously. “And changing your appearance won’t cost a dime. All you need is my hair straightener, a little makeup, and some clothes. You’ll look like an entirely different woman.” Which, obviously, would be an improvement, in the reporter’s opinion.

  “But what about Sean?” Ellie asked, glancing at his duffel bag, which she’d carefully repacked last night, pausing to smell his clothes, savoring his scent, worrying for his safety—despite the fact that the last time they’d spoken, he’d shaken her with the truth of his alibi. But, then again, the possibility that he’d been killed for helping her find her boys went a long way toward easing her illogical jealousy. “How will he find me?” she asked, refusing to consider that he might already be dead.

  “The first thing he’ll do when he resurfaces is check in with his command,” Ophelia replied with certainty. “I’ll make sure Vinny relays the message that you’re staying with me at the East Bay Inn. Or you can stay here and take your chances,” she added with a shrug.

  It wasn’t the threat of reprisal that made up Ellie’s mind. More than anything, she wanted to follow Ophelia, to be there if there was any news about Sean, to learn if the preposterous idea that Owen Dulay was Carl’s father could actually be true. “I’m going with you,” she decided.

  “Excellent,” said Ophelia. “Hurry up and pack. We’ll check you out now and let the Centurions think you left town.”

  Sean found himself in a semidark and unfamiliar bedroom, with a clock beside the bed that read 5:23—in the morning or evening?

  The sky beyond the heavy curtains was still light. He kicked off the covers and looked down. The unfamiliar boxers on his otherwise naked body had him looking around in confusion.

  Then he recognized the room from a previous surfacing to consciousness. Oh, yes, his rescuer had brought him in here after her last attempt to wake him up. Before that, he’d lain half-slumped on her couch, wrapped up in a blanket. She’d annoyed the hell out of him by repeatedly tapping his cheek, talking to him, ordering him to keep his eyes open.

  Having been trained to obey orders, he’d complied as best he could. He’d wanted to be coherent, to get on the phone and call for help. But between the concussion and his exhaustion, his body had refused to cooperate. Sleep was what he’d needed. The woman must’ve finally seen that.

  Sitting up slowly, Sean felt a dull thudding in his head, but nothing compared to the excruciating headache he’d suffered earlier. He touched his temple tentatively and realized the wound had been bandaged.

  Cautiously, Sean swung his feet to the carpeted floor. Thank God, his dizziness was gone.

  The sound of a refrigerator closing drew him out of the bedroom and into the living area, which had a soaring ceiling and glass windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean. His gaze went straight to the woman working at the stove with her back to him.

  “Hi,” he said, and she jumped, whirling in surprise.

  “You’re up,” she exclaimed, her gaze sliding briefly over him. “How’s the head?” she asked a little breathlessly.

  Sean was used to women gawking at him. Only Ellie pretended not to stare. Mascara now enhanced the intelligence behind the woman’s light brown eyes.

  “Better,” he said. “Thanks for letting me crash in your bed,” he added.

  “You didn’t give me much choice,” she retorted dryly.

  “Whose”—he indicated his hips—“boxers am I wearing?”

  “My ex’s,” she confessed. “Come on in here. I bet you’re thirsty.”

  As he stepped into the arena of granite-covered counters, she poured him a tall glass of orange juice. “Thanks.” He drained it in four long swallows.

  “You’re welcome, Sean,” she said, startling him by calling him by name. Of course, she said she’d seen him on the news. “I’m Maggie,” she added, offering him a handshake.

  “Thank you, Maggie,” he repeated.

  Pulling a flashlight out of a drawer, she clicked it on. “Look at me,” she ordered, touching the side of his face with cool fingers as she flashed it in his eyes. “Your right pupil is still dilated,” she reported, putting it away. She returned to the stove to stir the meat and vegetables.

  “Are you a doctor?” Sean asked, looking around the room for a telephone. He spied a cell phone charging on the kitchen counter.

  “Yes, actually, but not that kind of doctor. I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

  He wondered if she’d thought about calling the police.

  “There are clothes hanging in the bedroom closet,” she announced, her gaze glancing off his chest. “Once you’re dressed, you can use my cell phone if you like.”

  Obviously, she’d caught him eyeing her phone. With a grimace, Sean retreated to the bedroom.

  Five minutes later, he ventured out again in a short-sleeved tropical shirt that barely met in the front and Bermuda shorts that showed off his farmer’s tan.

  Maggie bit her lip as if to keep from smiling. “Here you go,” she said, handing him the cell phone and gesturing toward the living room.

  “Can you tell me where I am?” he asked.

  “Tybee Island,” she said with a pitying look. She jotted her address onto notepaper and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” Taking the phone and the note to a recliner in the far corner, Sean watched Maggie with one eye as he punched in the number to Spec Ops with the other. It was Friday evening. The only person there at this time would be the duty officer.

  Vinny DeInnocentis answered the call. Sean wanted to lunge through the phone and kiss him on both cheeks. “Yo, bro,” he said, leaving it to Vinny to guess who he was.

  “Harley! Shit, is it you?” Vinny asked with great relief.


  “It’s me,” Sean confirmed as Maggie measured out soy sauce and poured it in a bowl.

  “What the hell is going on?” Vinny asked. “We heard you were arrested in Savannah and that you eluded the police on the way to jail.”

  “Not exactly,” drawled Sean. “They just did their best to kill me.”

  “Yeah, they were bought off by the Centurions,” said Vinny.

  Sean sat forward. “How do you know that?” he asked intently.

  “Ophelia saw Ellie Stuart on the news. Ellie accused the Centurions of kidnapping her boys for her ex-husband.”

  Ellie, on the news? Christ, what was she thinking, openly challenging the Centurions like that? “I need your help, Vinny,” he said. “I don’t have my cell phone, my ID, nothing.”

  “You got it. Senior Chief and I were gonna take a military hop tomorrow morning and come looking for you. Where are you?”

  As Sean relayed the address, Maggie whisked her sauce in a ceramic bowl.

  “We’ll be out to get you tomorrow,” Vinny promised. “The CO gave us three days off. He’s shitting bricks over this. You want me to call him?”

  “Yeah, give him this number. Also, I need to talk to Lieutenant Lindstrom’s wife, Hannah.”

  “I think he’s already been talking to her.”

  “Tell them to call me, whoever wants to talk to me first.”

  “You got it, Chief.”

  Ending the call, Sean sat for a moment, thinking. For Ellie to speak with reporters, she had to be out of police custody, back at the hotel.

  He called information for the number, got the front desk to connect him to room 317, and listened to the phone ring and ring until the message service picked up. What if the wrong person learned that he was still alive? The less Ellie knew, the safer they both were. With reluctance but wanting desperately to reassure her, he hung up.

  Reno, he thought, thinking hard to remember his lawyer’s number. It’d be safer for Reno to get in touch with Ellie. Plus, Sean truly needed him now that he was considered a fugitive.

  “Hello?” Reno answered.

  “Hey, buddy, this is Sean.”

  The sound of a bed creaking told him Reno had just jumped to his feet. “Where are you?” the lawyer asked with gunfire urgency. Apparently he’d already heard of Sean’s circumstances.

  “I’m safe,” Sean replied. “Have you talked to Ellie?” he asked, craving reassurance of her safety.

  “I did last night,” the lawyer answered. “She called from the hotel room, distraught, of course. She said the police didn’t charge her but that they’d arrested you, that you’d evaded police on the way to jail and were wanted as a fugitive. I thought I’d better fly down and see what the hell was going on.”

  “I’m being framed,” Sean said shortly. “That’s what’s going on.”

  “Sean, I just came from a meeting with Butler,” Reno announced unexpectedly.

  “I hope you didn’t believe a fucking word he said,” Sean defended himself. “I sure as hell didn’t kill those kids. Why would I be down here helping Ellie look for them?”

  “I know you didn’t. Anyone who knows you would realize a charge like that is ludicrous.”

  “Then where did this so-called evidence come from?” Sean demanded. “Supposedly they found a Gerber blade with the boys’ DNA on it in my truck,” he whispered, not wanting Maggie to overhear. “That’s bullshit. I would never have let those boys play with my knife. Butler’s trying to frame me,” he insisted.

  “I’m not so sure it’s Butler,” Reno countered. “We spoke at length yesterday. He admits that after speaking to Ellie, he began having second thoughts. But your subsequent disappearance made you look guilty all over again.”

  “I didn’t disappear,” Sean insisted, his temple throbbing. “The officers who were supposed to drive me to jail took me to a marina out in the middle of nowhere. When I realized what they were up to, I tried to run and they shot me. I woke up on a fishing vessel with a concussion and a fifty-pound anchor tied to my feet!”

  “Jesus,” muttered Reno. “Hold on. I need to write that down.” A scribbling sound followed as the lawyer jotted himself a note. “Okay, listen. I need to try to straighten this out. As your attorney, I’m supposed to urge you to surrender to the authorities—”

  “I’m through with trusting the authorities around here. Just find Ellie for me, will you? Let her know that I’m all right.” He hoped to God she hadn’t been convinced by Butler’s lies.

  “I will,” Reno promised. “Sean, I have to admit that there might be something to your Centurion conspiracy. Everything points to a massive cover-up, with someone in a position of authority pulling strings. If that’s going to be our defense, then we need a motive. Carl’s being a member isn’t enough. Why would the secret society go to such lengths to help him?”

  “I don’t know,” Sean admitted. “I only know that Centurion privileges are passed from father to son.”

  “Be careful, whatever you do,” Reno pleaded. “The more time I have to work on this the better.”

  “Will do,” promised Sean. “Oh, my alibi,” he recalled. “Maybe you could get a hold of Tiffany Hughes on Lake-view Drive in Greenbriar. Butler said she never called him back, and given all that’s going on, I’m worried something happened to her.”

  “I’ll look her up now,” Reno promised. “If I can’t get a hold of her, I’ll have a friend swing by and pay her a call.”

  “Thanks, buddy.” The phone beeped in Sean’s ear. He glanced at the incoming number. “Listen, I have to go,” he said to Reno. “Hannah Lindstrom’s calling.”

  “Take care, Sean. Stay in touch.”

  “Bye.” He pressed the talk button. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks for calling.”

  “No problem,” Hannah tensely replied. “Bring me up to date.”

  He spent the next five minutes telling Hannah what he’d just told Reno and what Reno had told him. “Look, I don’t know how Butler came up with the evidence he has, but I don’t trust him. I think he’s been bought off by Centurions, or he is one himself,” Sean added.

  Hannah kept notably quiet for a moment. “You need to keep that allegation to yourself for now, Sean,” she warned him. “Let me see who assigned him to the case.”

  “There’s something else you should know. The FBI has an undercover agent already scrutinizing the Centurions’ leader, Owen Dulay.” He spent a moment telling her about Drake Donovan. While Sean had sworn not to reveal Drake’s cover, the dire straits in which he found himself made it necessary. “Maybe his division can shed some insight.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Hannah promised. “Can I call you back at this number?”

  “I guess,” said Sean. He glanced at Maggie, who was ladling food onto two plates.

  As Sean brought communications to a close, Maggie waved him over. “Take a break and eat,” she invited. “You’ll feel better if you get some food in you.”

  The smell of beef simmered in garlic sauce compelled him to join her at the glass-top table. His hand trembled weakly as he forked up a bite of savory meat and vegetables. “It’s good,” he murmured, nodding his appreciation, aware that Maggie was studying him intently.

  “Sounds like you’ve been through hell,” she stated, proving she’d been listening to his calls.

  He shrugged and kept quiet.

  “I’ve never heard of the Centurions,” she admitted, reaching for her iced tea.

  “They’re originally from the South,” Sean explained, “but now they’re everywhere.”

  “And I’m from upstate New York,” she said. “Where are you from?”

  “Missouri.”

  She regarded him as if he were a puzzle that needed solving. “What’s a boy from the boot heel doing in the Navy SEALs?”

  He shrugged again. “Beating back terrorists.”

  She smiled a little at his patented answer. “I’m sure it’s not that simple,” she wagered.

  “Probably not,” he agreed
.

  Her interest in him was faintly disturbing. Not that women hadn’t been interested before, but it was his body they wanted to know better, not his history. He was relieved when the cell phone jangled. “Excuse me,” he said, snatching it up and leaving the kitchen area to seek some privacy.

  “I guess you won’t be coming in to work on Monday, Chief,” Commander Montgomery needled in lieu of a greeting.

  “No, sir,” Sean agreed, wincing. The CO sounded good and ticked.

  “I suppose being AWOL is better than being dead,” the man relented with a trace of irony.

  Sean swallowed hard. Would the commander really report him AWOL? “Sir, there are extenuating circumstances—”

  “It’s okay, Sean,” the CO cut him off. “I’m just razzing you. For some reason, I get a kick out of it.”

  Yeah, I wonder why, Sean wanted to retort. Couldn’t have anything to do with carrying a grudge, could it?

  “We’ll just adjust the date on your leave chit,” the CO offered.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve been in touch with Hannah. She promises to keep me posted on what’s happening. I’ve heard of the Centurions before, by the way,” he added. “I used to work for a captain who wore a signet ring with a griffin on it. Kimball was a strange man. Always seemed to have some agenda other than that of the mission.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sean agreed, grateful for his commander’s implied support. Without it, he’d be facing serious charges under the UCMJ.

  “You’ve got a week to get yourself out of trouble,” the man warned, now sounding stern again.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sean told him fervently. He hoped a week would be enough. If not, life as he’d known it would never be the same.

  Ending the call as abruptly as he’d started it, he was left with no choice but to sit across from Maggie and finish his meal.

  “More?” she asked when he scraped his plate clean.

  “No, thanks,” he said. His stomach wasn’t up to being overfilled. “Listen, I don’t want to outwear my welcome. Thanks for saving my life, but I can stay somewhere else if I make you uncomfortable.”

  She sat back and stared at him in amazement. “First of all,” she retorted, “it would take more than a concussion to kill you, so I didn’t save your life. Second, you’re in no condition to go anywhere. Besides, your friends will be picking you up here in the morning.”