She hesitated, as if she were trying to decide how much to share. “I read this article about careers and actuaries were considered to be in safe jobs with good pay. Actuary actually was listed as the top-rated job, so I decided to do that.”
She stopped talking and for a few seconds he didn’t say anything. He was impressed and a bit in awe of her determination. “It’s interesting you realized the reasoning behind your choice. That’s very . . . self-aware of you.”
She lifted her water glass and silently toasted him. “That’s what six years of therapy will do for a person.” After a sip, she lowered the glass again. “It doesn’t matter because I’m not working right now.”
“Did you hit the lottery?”
She picked the last stray piece of lettuce out of her sandwich. “I’m on leave.”
Since he’d never really held down an office job, he wasn’t clear on what that meant. One of the benefits of being an independent contractor of sorts is he picked his schedule. Usually Wren or one of the other Quint Five tried to fill it. He assumed it was their way of keeping him out of trouble. But, technically, if he ever wanted to take a vacation he could schedule one in. Not that he was a lounge-on-the-beach guy, but the idea of riding his motorcycle across country without anyone texting him or bugging him or sending him out on some potentially fatal mission like this one, didn’t sound bad.
“You’re taking sick leave?” he asked.
“My company offers this special sixty-day time off period every five years. It’s a morale booster, an employment incentive sort of thing. My boss believes in people bettering themselves.”
“And you can accomplish that in sixty days?” Just the idea of that made him laugh. “I haven’t managed to do that in thirty-four years.”
“I think it’s more theoretical than realistic. But if someone wanted to travel or try a serious cooking class or go off and live in the woods, they could do it with pay.”
“That might convince me to try cooking.”
She smiled. “Do you ever cook?”
He ordered and grabbed takeout. The one time he’d tried a serious grocery run, he threw away almost every item he bought at the end of the week on trash day. He wasn’t exactly the type to burn through money for fun, so he stopped that shit and focused on his strengths. “I grill.”
“Burgers, right?”
“And steaks. I have skills with the entire meat family.”
She laughed and shook her head at the same time. “That’s very manly of you.”
“Thank you for noticing.” The bell dinged above the door and he glanced up, expecting to see another group of seventy-something older men like the three other times he looked. But no. “Well, that didn’t take long.”
The smile faded from her face but she didn’t whip around to look. No, she had more sense than that, but her eyes did grow huge. “What?”
“We have company.” Company he recognized. Company who wore long-sleeve shirts in summer, so who knew what weapons they hid.
Two men stepped inside the diner. Both with broad shoulders and football lineman builds. They looked like they worked the land, possibly flipped tires for fun. The type to skip any job that would put them in front of a desk, preferring to use their hands.
They didn’t glance around or look for a table. One stayed by the door, leaning against the glass with his arms folded over his chest. The other headed right for them in a faded navy cotton shirt and dark blue jeans.
The utility boots and hair snarled from a mix of working outdoors and fingers running through it. The look flipped Damon back fourteen years. A few less lines around the eyes and a slimmer build and he could be looking in a throwback mirror.
He’d performed this ritual back then. More than once, he’d gone to a motel room or this very diner and had an “honest” talk with someone looking for a loved one. It looked like the Sullivan informal communications system was up and running just fine despite the school being closed.
The man didn’t falter in his steps. He walked over and stopped at the end of their booth. His gaze stayed on Damon with a brief flicker to Cate, but he didn’t say a word.
“Hello.” Damon started the conversation because there was no way to avoid this. Not that he wanted to. He brought Cate to this exact diner, hoping to get a reaction. The speed of it was all that surprised him.
“It’s been a long time.” Their guest nodded toward Cate’s side of the booth. “May I sit?”
Probably on instinct, she slid into the corner, giving him room. “A long time?”
“I expected someone to swing through and say hello, but not you.” Damon didn’t see a reason to pretend not to know their guest, so he didn’t. But he couldn’t stop and fill in Cate now. “It has been a long time.”
“Not long enough.”
“It hurts when you say things like that.” Damon made a joke but deep down he wondered if there was a spark of truth behind the words. He never regretted leaving this place, but it shaped him. Remained a part of him. From the second he crossed the county line, he could feel the hum of the land in his heartbeat.
“I’m here to offer a friendly reminder that there’s nothing left in Salvation for you.”
“You guys are the ones who insist Sullivan isn’t a prison.” Damon glanced at Cate and saw her hanging on every word. Her gaze flipped back and forth across the table. She seemed to be taking it all in, and if the slight frowns that floated across her face were any indication, she assessed each comment as she heard it.
Vincent Barton. He was a walking, talking memory from Damon’s past. The fact that he showed up meant someone at Sullivan already knew Damon was in town.
Vincent’s gaze never left Damon’s face. “No one knows but me and a few others. Keep moving before it’s too late. Before something happens that can’t be undone.”
Knowing Vincent, he meant that more as a friendly suggestion than a threat . . . right now. But the harsh sound of his voice and the way he moved forward on the booth seat as he talked hinted that he would follow through, unload, the second he was ordered to.
Damon just wasn’t sure who was giving the orders these days or what those orders were. And he would find out. He’d made a personal vow when he read the file from Wren and agreed to help with Cate. No matter what anyone at Sullivan fired at him, he would go down swinging and kicking, protecting her with his last breath. “I don’t think so.”
“We both know you shouldn’t be here after all these years and all that happened.” Vincent shook his head. “Come on, don’t do this. You’re asking for trouble.”
“What does that mean?” Cate asked.
“He knows.” Vincent stared at Damon’s plate for a few seconds before looking up again. “What name are you using these days?”
“Same one. Damon.” But he would bet Vincent knew that. “What’s with the threats?”
Cate frowned. “So, you two—”
“Are you saying you just happened to be in the neighborhood and aren’t really here to poke around Sullivan?”
Damon snorted. “I’m not really the poking type.”
“Definitely no poking. We’re just having an early dinner and engaging in awkward conversation.” Cate popped the smaller onion ring in her mouth as if to prove her point.
She had Vincent’s attention now. He watched her with a gaze that bounced up and down, assessing with a blank expression. “And you? You’re not the wife, so what’s your story?”
“The wife of what?” She didn’t say you’ve got to be kidding but it was written all over her, from the stiff way she held her shoulders to the tension snapping in her voice.
“You have to like her spunk.” Damon sure did.
She was tough as hell. Vincent’s size intimidated most people. Damon had wrestled with the guy growing up and almost always lost thanks to Vincent’s thirty-or-so-pound advantage. But Cate didn’t hide in the corner or behind her plate of food. She was actively engaged, not missing one minute.
Vincent
exhaled. His frown suggested he had no idea what to make of her. “Her being here, attitude or not, is not going to help either of you.”
That only made Cate’s eyes narrow even more. “You have a very threatening tone.”
Damon decided to jump in before she smacked Vincent with a spare onion ring. “That’s the point. He’s here as a warning. Aren’t you, Vincent?”
Cate’s eyes narrowed. “Finally I hear a name. I’m Cate, by the way.”
“Sorry.” Damon sent her a small smile. The sarcasm in her voice and the way she held it together were the best things about this cryptic and mildly threatening conversation.
Vincent leaned in, bringing his body in closer to Damon’s across the table. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“From?” she asked, clearly refusing to be ignored.
Damon started talking faster to prevent Vincent from circling back and filling in that blank. “How did you know I was here?”
Vincent shrugged. “You should assume people here keep track of your location. For obvious reasons.”
Not a surprise but no less creepy. “You must have better things to do up here. Chopping firewood. Cleaning weapons in case the apocalypse comes.”
“This isn’t funny.” Vincent glanced back at his buddy standing by the door. “Your coming back makes people antsy.”
“I’m not back permanently. This is a short visit.” Not on anything more than a temporary basis. But it was official, he hated this assignment. Wren would pay for this.
Cate was staring at Damon now. “Back?”
Vincent pointed at Damon’s plate. “Eat and move on and we’ll forget this meeting ever happened.”
“We?”
Before Vincent could answer, Cate asked a question of her own. “Who are you exactly?”
“An old friend.”
She treated Vincent to an eyeroll that might have been more impressive if he had been looking in her direction. “Are you sure you know the definition of that word?”
Damon knew what she was doing, keeping the guy talking while she memorized his face. Even now he could see her mentally searching her files to see if his name or anything about him sparked a memory.
“Let’s make this easy.” Vincent motioned for the waitress by making a check signal in the air. “I’ll even pay the bill.”
As if Damon would agree to owe anyone in this town anything. “No thanks. We’re good.”
“You stay, the past gets dredged up. Old wounds open. Angry people remember why they’re angry,” Vincent hissed. “I can’t let that happen.”
Vincent kept his deep voice at a low whisper. His hands rested, open, on the table. Nothing about his demeanor or tone was overtly threatening, but the words he kept dropping telegraphed only one message—get out.
Well, there was nothing subtle about that.
“Maybe I’m angry.” The comment wasn’t exactly an overreach. Damon swam in a river of guilt and disappointment every day. He’d tried to wash it away by warning about Sullivan all those years ago. Thought it was a penance of sorts. When that didn’t work, he moved to burning it out with alcohol. Now he’d developed a shield of complete indifference. He pretended not to care about anything. Most days he could pull it off.
“Are you looking for a showdown, Damon?”
Cate jumped in with that. “No.”
“Maybe,” Damon said at the same time.
“Well, I delivered the message. I saw you and tried to step in before anything escalated. What you do from here is your choice.” Vincent slid to the end of the booth as he talked.
That comment made Damon think there were cameras stationed all over town in addition to informants of the human variety. “I’m eating a burger.”
The corner of Vincent’s mouth twitched. “Meat?”
Thanks to the moment of understanding, some of the tension twisting Damon’s gut eased. “Things change.”
Sullivan ran on a strict no-meat policy. It stemmed more from a need to eat what they could grow than a deep belief in something. The school long ago decided keeping animals added a new level of commitment and strength, so they kept mostly to gardening.
Fourteen years ago, days started early with the choice of an apple or a previously boiled potato followed by a hike. Every morning followed the same pattern. After hours of labor, by the time he got to lunch, even lentils had sounded good.
“We all cheat sometimes,” Vincent said.
That mentality was a change. The Vincent that Damon knew, the one where they called themselves cousins but weren’t actually related by blood, followed every single house rule. The idea of Vincent sneaking out for a hot dog almost made Damon laugh.
“Good to know.” Damon sobered as he thought back to Wren’s comments about having an inside contact. Vincent wasn’t the most likely candidate to go against the commune but there wasn’t a long list of people it could be either. “Anything else we need to talk about?”
For a second Vincent looked confused. His forehead wrinkled a bit, making him look older than thirty-five, which Damon remembered him to be. But when Vincent didn’t continue on or drop a hint, Damon silently ruled him out as the inside person, the one Wren somehow got into the middle of Sullivan’s insular operation.
“I’m done.” Vincent didn’t waste time on more chitchat. He stood up. “Just think about what I said. Nothing good can come from a nostalgic walk through the past.”
But him being there might prove uncomfortable enough for the right people and get them to talk. That’s what Damon was counting on . . . you know, if he lived through this.
Vincent nodded to Cate. “Ma’am.” Then his long legs carried him back to the door and his snooping friend and they left.
With him gone, the noise of the diner filtered back into Damon’s head. Dishes clanked all around them from the other booths. The fake leather from the seat across from him squeaked as Cate shifted into her original seat.
She shoved her plate to the side and leaned in on her elbows. Those big eyes stared him down. “Want to tell me what that was about?”
He thought that was pretty obvious. “A warning.”
“For me?”
“Both of us, but mostly me.” The people in charge at Sullivan had been tracking him. The informal snitch circle likely kicked into gear the second he came back into the county. People were talking. Vincent knew that this wasn’t about driving across a few state lines to get this particular patty melt. It was good but not that good. Not risk-your-life good.
“Are you ready to tell me what your ties are to Sullivan?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
She deserved to know the truth. Maybe not every last detail, but this was a big piece and he couldn’t hide it. “I used to live there.”
“In Salvation or at Sullivan?”
“Both.” He’d spent every minute of his life there until he turned nineteen.
Cate shook her head as if questions pummeled her and she fought to figure out which one to ask first. “Did you know my sister?”
It’s the first question he would have asked, so he didn’t blame her. “I was gone before she got there.”
That was the honest truth. They never met. He hadn’t heard much about her because he’d been gone well down his path of self-destruction by then. Only Quint and his friends pulled him back, and even that had been close. Some days the darkness consumed him. The memories would gnaw and bite until they swamped him.
Blocking, ignoring, pretending it was all in the past. He’d employed every defense mechanism. Letting go proved impossible. That’s why he understood Cate’s insistence about needing answers. Others might call it an obsession, but he knew caring was a thousand times better than not being able to feel anything at all.
“But you went to school there?” Cate asked the question nice and slow, drawing out each word as if she couldn’t believe she hadn’t asked earlier.
“Worse.” He watched the color drain out of her face. “I can get on the inside
because I know exactly what the inside looks like.”
“What are you saying?”
“I got out.” When she continued to stare at him, he clarified. “I grew up here. Sullivan was my home until the day it ceased to mean anything to me.”
“When was that?”
He shoved the plate away from him now that his appetite had vanished. “Fourteen years ago, right after the first shoot-out with the FBI.”
“So, your knowledge about the place is . . .”
“Firsthand.”
Chapter 7
A half hour later, standing alone in the middle of her musty motel room with the green shag carpet, a thousand questions bounced around inside Cate’s head. Damon, or whatever his real name was, had lived there, at The Sullivan School. He knew what he knew about it from the inside out. His talk about guns and blueprints wasn’t about guessing. He’d been walking her through his memories.
His connection to the place seemed like a pretty important nugget of information to keep quiet about. At the very least, Garrett or Wren, or Wren pretending to be Brian—someone—should have filled her in. Finding out over a turkey sandwich with some random guy sitting in next to her was not the optimal time to learn important new facts.
Really, these covert guys needed to pick one name and stick with it. Then they could work on telling the truth now and then. Images flashed in her mind and she didn’t know what to call anyone, except Vincent. She’d nicknamed him Mr. Spooky Pants in her head. It made him slightly less scary to give him a stupid nickname than to think about his huge hands and how he likely could crush her neck with one and wouldn’t care. Hell, he’d barely spared her a glance at the diner.
Thanks to him she left her sandwich behind. She’d managed to get one onion ring down before Damon slapped cash on the table and dragged her out of there. The only good thing was that he didn’t take one bite of his hamburger so, technically, he hadn’t had his required amount of red meat for the day. Maybe that would teach him a lesson.
The racing around, the half stories, the thing about him growing up here, all had her on the verge of exploding. She hated the secrecy. He’d withheld so much . . . admittedly, for only a few days and they barely knew each other, but still. She was not in the mood to be rational right now. Or alone, which had her peeking out the peephole into the parking lot and dark night beyond.
The Protector Page 6
