by Vicki Hinze
The car hit them again.
Suffering the jarring jolt, Laura yelled, “Stay down, Timmy.”
Passing under a street light, she kept her gaze glued to the car behind her. When the light crossed its hood, she recognized the car. Madeline’s. Damn the woman. If she wanted Timmy so badly, then why in the name of God was she risking killing him?
Madeline backed off, and Laura’s blood chilled to ice. She was setting up to come at them again; Laura sensed it. What could she do?
She scanned frantically, looking for some way out, some safe place. A residential neighborhood on the left. A Wal-Mart parking lot full of people and cars on the right. And at the foot of the lot—a Dumpster.
A plan formed, and Laura whipped into the lot behind the Dumpster, then slammed on her brakes and stopped. “Stay down, Timmy. Don’t move.” She watched the mirror in a cold sweat and saw Madeline pull in behind her and stop about fifty feet away.
Laura had one shot at this. One shot, and her timing had to be perfect, or she and Timmy would get creamed. She clenched the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip. Please, God. Please!
The lights moved. Madeline was coming . . . fast.
“Mom.” Timmy’s voice rattled with fear. “She’s gonna hit us again!”
“Stay down!” The temptation to move burned strong, then stronger. Laura fought it. She watched Madeline’s car barrel down on them. Not . . . yet. Not . . . yet. Not . . . now!
Laura stomped the accelerator. The tires spun and churned up smoke, squealed, and then gained traction on the wet pavement. The car lunged forward. Fishtailing out of Madeline’s path, Laura grappled for control and got it.
Madeline rammed into the Dumpster.
Metal crunched. Glass broke. And her car came to an abrupt halt.
A safe distance away, Laura pulled to a stop and then dragged in three deep breaths, steadying herself. “You okay, Tiger?”
He sat up and stared over at Madeline’s car. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Shaking head to toe, Laura patted his hand. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Fury fueling her, Laura stepped out into the rain, slammed the car door shut, and then strode back toward Madeline’s car. The front end had folded. It wasn’t going anywhere, not without a tow truck.
Madeline climbed out of the car, unfortunately screaming.
And Laura had maxed on listening to it. She stormed over to the woman. “You’ve annoyed me in the past, but this time you’ve gone too far.”
“I’ve annoyed you?” Madeline huffed. “You bribed that judge, bitch. I know you did.”
“You want Timmy, then you give it your best shot to get him legally. But don’t you dare ever endanger his life with antics like this again. Jake might not have your ass jailed, but I will.” Laura trembled with rage, spat out from between her teeth. “Stay away from us, Madeline. Stay away, or you’ll wish to God you were safe in jail.”
Madeline leaned a hip against the door of her car, looking for all the world as if she were out on a Sunday drive rather than standing in the rain being confronted by a woman she’d just attempted to run over.
“He wasn’t in danger.” She lifted a hand and twisted her lips into an infuriating smile. “My foot slipped, and I slid on the wet pavement. That’s all. I didn’t hit you intentionally.”
“Three times?” Laura grunted. “Right.”
Madeline shrugged. “Accidents happen.”
“Tell it to the authorities. Maybe they’ll buy into that trash, but I’m not.” Laura stiffened her spine, lifted a warning finger. “Stay away from us. And don’t you ever, ever jeopardize Timmy again.”
Madeline laughed and snorted. “Or what?”
Walking away from her, Laura turned back, stopped, and stared at the woman. At that moment, she hated Madeline through to her very soul. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Madeline’s jaw went lax, and she gaped at Laura.
Shocked herself at that disclosure, and so outraged that she feared she might do it, Laura returned to her car and then quickly drove away.
Which upset her most, she couldn’t honestly say. That Madeline had endangered Timmy’s life, or that Laura had threatened to kill the woman, and she’d meant it. Never in her life had she lost control like that.
But never before had she been a real mother.
Motherly instincts. That’s what it was. Had to be.
And how exactly was Jake going to react to knowing the adoptive mother of his son had threatened to commit murder?
When he found out, he would understand perfectly—or he’d hear a lecture that would make him wish to hell he had.
Jake would have to move in from here on foot.
He removed his night vision goggles and set them aside, slung the strap to his black carryall onto his shoulder, then left the airboat.
Moonlight slanted through the trees. Spotting a half-inch long, grayish beetle feeding on a meleucca tree, he skirted the trunk. Scientists had released that beetle as part of a program to restore the wetlands, which were becoming overwhelmed by the meleucca trees. Neither the beetles nor the trees were native to the area. Someone had dumped the seeds and started the trees. Now someone else had dumped the beetles to keep the trees from overtaking the wetlands. The logic in the situation reminded Jake of Madeline’s father, Sean Drake.
He too had tried to insinuate himself and his attitudes into others. Jake hadn’t liked the man. He’d respected Sean’s accomplishments, which were legendary in CIA circles, but as a human being, Jake’s former father-in-law had been a walking disaster area.
He’d never forgiven Madeline for not being a son, which went a long way toward explaining many of the challenges Madeline now faced. Rather than accepting her, Sean never approved of her, and Madeline had followed him like a puppy, trying to please him. Sadly, she never had. He had died, and she only had succeeded in destroying her self-esteem and then her spirit. A damn shame, that.
Sean Drake had had an equally warped perspective about his work, and Jake knew exactly what the lean and wiry spy would have to say about Operation Shadowpoint. Finally, Jake, you see the truth. Spying on spies is as natural as breathing.
Drake was wrong about that. Jake didn’t like the idea of bringing down one of his own, though if it was necessary, then he’d do it. Duty and honor weren’t just words, they were a code Special Ops men and women took into their hearts and lives. Yet Sean relished being critical and scrutinizing, whether or not it was just. He thought he knew best. And the only time Jake could recall seeing a gleam of excitement or enthusiasm in the man’s eyes was when he’d dug up dirt that could destroy lives and breach trust.
But Shadowpoint was different. It wasn’t spying on spies. It was a coordinated effort, a cooperative venture to save the lives of spies and of innocent Americans. So maybe Drake liked unearthing dirt, but Jake hated it. And he’d never swallowed Drake’s claim that all the factions, including the hallowed Air Force, liked nothing better.
Disagreeing with Madeline’s father wasn’t conducive to Jake having a peaceful marriage. But what else could he expect from either of them? From a daughter who feared living her own life? Who had been devastated by her father’s first heart attack? Anyone would have been devastated, but he had laid a guilt trip on her worthy of an Oscar. What could Jake expect from a man who, on learning his only child was pregnant with his grandchild, insisted she have an abortion, and insisted Jake encourage her to do that?
Jake had done the opposite and married her instead. It still amazed him that Madeline had gone against her father’s wishes, though if Jake hadn’t married her, he wondered if she would have held out. Whatever the reason, Drake had been so opposed to Madeline becoming a mother, or why on that one front Madeline had had the courage to defy him, wasn’t important anymore. Both of them, thank God, were out
of Jake and Timmy and Laura’s lives forever—provided the adoption had gone through.
Pausing to orient himself to his surroundings, Jake leaned against the trunk of a moss-laden oak. Moonlight trickled down through the dense trees and sparkled on the dew-damp ground. Beautiful, in its own way. Hot and muggy and bug-infested, but beautiful in its own way.
He hiked on, clearing his mind, listening to the soft call of an owl and opening his senses to any warning alerts. Letting his instincts guide him through the marsh, he tramped through wet grass and tall weeds that rustled in the sultry night breeze.
About ten miles from the rendezvous point, he came upon a small clearing. Seeing three dark lumps on the ground, he stopped, and then took cover on the northeastern rim behind a clump of pungent-smelling swamp grass. The lumps were bodies.
The operatives’ bodies.
His stomach in knots, Jake scouted the area, looking and listening for signs of anyone, for movement or traps. He came upon three sets of tracks leaving the immediate area. Three men, judging by the size and depth of the prints in the marshy sand. His boots making soft sucking sounds in the mud, he followed the tracks half a mile to make sure the men hadn’t doubled back. Convinced they hadn’t, he returned to the clearing and then examined the operatives.
The mouths of the first two men had been sewn closed with a thick monofilament. Deep-sea fishing line. But there was no blood, not even at the needle’s points of entry. Stitched shut after their deaths. Small mercy, that. And no signs of physical injury to any of them that would explain their causes of death. But they were covered with a thin, odorless film of dust.
ROFF isn’t a religious organization. It’s a terrorist group. One amassing a biological warfare arsenal.
Recalling General Connor’s words, sweat beaded up on Jake’s neck and rolled down his back. Strong anthrax? Botulism? Those were the two germs currently most favored by terrorists.
Moonlight caught and reflected on the edge of something white in the third man’s hands. Jake squatted down, then pried open the man’s fisted fingers. A photograph?
Jake blew off the dusty film covering it, then squinted, straining to see who or what was in the picture. Not daring to use his flashlight, he held the photo up to the moon and studied the woman captured. Wearing jean shorts and a yellow shirt, her hair swinging down over her cheek, she rested on her knees, planting flowers near a gazebo. Jake’s gazebo. A shiver slithered up his spine.
Laura.
Seven
Eager to get out of her wet clothes and shoes, Laura dumped her purse on the kitchen counter and greeted Betsy Miller. “We’re home.”
“High time, too.” Short and round with soft white hair that clung in wisps to her cheeks, Betsy breezed into the kitchen, smiling at Timmy, her soft, powdery scent hovering pleasantly around her. “So tell me about your pizza party.”
“Don’t you want to know about me talking to Judge Barton?” Timmy frowned at the woman who had become his surrogate grandmother.
“Of course.” She pulled up a chair and sat down at the heavy oak table. “I just thought first you’d want to complain about eating too much pizza before getting dessert, that’s all.”
Toeing off her shoes, Laura laughed. Betsy knew Timmy well. And she gave him no clue, Laura noticed, that she’d called home with the news that the adoption had gone through. Betsy, being the blessing she was to all of them, knew Timmy wanted to tell her himself. If he thought about it, he would know Laura had called home, of course. Betsy had sat here on pins and needles, just as Laura had sat on them outside Judge Barton’s office. Nevertheless, in listening to Timmy’s recap, the woman’s kind eyes sparkled, and her expressions shifted to depict her changing emotions, as if she’d not heard word one until now.
“Well, it’s about time those—” Betsy glanced at Laura, who’d picked up the phone. “That message isn’t fit for mixed company.” She turned her gaze first to the answering machine, then to Timmy, and then back to Laura. “My Andrew would agree.”
When Betsy said her dearly departed husband, Andrew, agreed with her on something, Laura paid attention. It didn’t happen often, and the warnings always had proven accurate. She looked down at the blinking red light and nodded. “I’m calling the garage. The Mustang’s transmission is acting up.”
“It’s frozen in first,” Timmy said.
The mechanic answered on the second ring. “Green’s Automotive.”
Laura shifted her attention to the call. “Bill, this is Laura Logan.”
“Uh-oh.”
She frowned. Bill had sided with Jake about replacing the Mustang. More than once. “Don’t start.”
“What’s wrong with the heap now?”
“Transmission,” Laura said. “It’s stuck in first.” Now what were Timmy and Betsy whispering about? Timmy’s eyes were twinkling. Must be something good.
“I’ll send someone down to pick ‘er up first thing in the morning.”
“I can drive it in.” Laura made herself a note and stuck it up on the fridge under a magnet that read, Push here for Maid Service. If no one answers, do it yourself. The pink dot to push, of course, lacked a depressible button.
“Naw, we’ll tow ‘er. I want ‘er here early, not at noon. Just put the key under the mat.”
“Under the mat. Got it. Thanks, Bill.” Laura rubbed at her forehead and scrunched up the note. She hung up the phone, then turned around. Why did Betsy and Timmy suddenly seem solemn? She could almost smell their disappointment. “What’s wrong?”
Timmy looked to Betsy. She fidgeted with the pearls Andrew had given her for their twentieth wedding anniversary, clearly dressed to go out. “Did I forget something?” Laura asked, feeling guilty. Other than on birthdays, Veterans Day and Memorial Day, and, of course, her and Andrew’s anniversary, Betsy never dressed up or wore her pearls.
“No, no,” Betsy assured.
“Well, what is it, then?”
“It’s nothing, dear,” Betsy said, shifting toward the table. “It’s just that, since it’s your anniversary, I’d planned to take Timmy to my sister Alice’s with me for a visit. Until Saturday, we’d planned. I even got tickets to the ball game. But with the major being TDY, your car being broken down, and Madeline acting up, I’m thinking we’d best just stay put and keep you company.”
“Timmy.” Laura swiveled her gaze to her son. “Did you ask Mrs. Miller to get tickets to the game?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He jutted out his jaw. “If you want something, Madeline says, you’ve gotta ask for it because people can’t read your mind.”
Laura reminded herself of her promise to herself to never speak against Madeline or her friends to Timmy, to do nothing to make him feel uncomfortable talking about her. Prying definitely broke that promise, so she bit her tongue. Still, standing alone, her advice wasn’t a good lesson for Timmy. “I think she’s right and wrong, Tiger.”
“We’ve been saving for the tickets, Mom. Me and Mrs. Miller.”
“That’s right,” Betsy confirmed. “For six weeks.”
“Good,” Laura said, then turned back to the matter at hand. This was an opportunity to drive her point home, and she wasn’t going to let it slip by her. “Asking for things is fine, Tiger. But what if you know it isn’t within someone’s power to give you what you want? Is it right to ask them for it anyway knowing that having to refuse you will hurt them inside, and they’ll feel guilty that they’ve disappointed you?”
Timmy grunted. His neck turned ruddy, and he sent her a wise look. “You’re talking about Dad, and me being mad at him because he had to go TDY last night.”
“Yes, I am.” Laura leaned back against the counter and rubbed her stockinged toes against her instep.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Timmy sighed. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay.” She smiled,
very pleased with him. “Now about this going to the game—”
“No, we’d better not,” he said, his jaw drooping nearly to the floor.
“Don’t you want to go?” She knew he did; that’s what he’d been so excited about while she’d been on the phone, and he and Betsy had been whispering. He loved visiting Alice’s.
“Sure, I wanna go, but we better stay with you. Especially after Madeline ran into us—”
Betsy gasped. “She what!”
“It’s okay,” Laura said quickly. If Jake weren’t so opposed, she would already have been on the phone to the police having the woman arrested. “Her car’s messed up, but everyone is fine.”
Timmy looked up at Betsy. “We got a broken taillight.”
Eager to change the subject—Betsy looked ready to call in the National Guard—Laura reverted back to the ball game. “Tiger, don’t you want to see the game?”
“I can go a different day,” he said.
Touched, Laura’s heart softened. “Absolutely not. I want you to go now and have fun.”
Betsy frowned. “I don’t think—”
“Really,” Laura insisted, knowing Betsy loved ball games every bit as much as Timmy. “Jake’s Jag is here. I’ll be fine. Besides, you and Timmy need to celebrate the adoption, too. And we control us. Not Madeline.” Laura looked at Timmy. “Better get your Cards jacket and your glove—and don’t forget your toothbrush.”
Timmy grinned, then ran down the hall to his bedroom.
Betsy yelled after him. “I’ve got your toothbrush, but don’t forget your rabbit’s foot. I’m not driving all the way back for it again, Timothy James Logan.” She reached around the corner into the dining room and pulled out a little brown overnight bag and her purse.
She’d known Laura would insist, just as Laura knew full well that Betsy had come back home for the rabbit foot twice before, and probably would again a dozen times in the future.
