by Irene Hannon
Nor were her feelings one-sided.
Some of her embarrassment dissipated. Replaced by a deeper emotion she wasn’t yet ready to deal with.
“I take it you had a ringside seat for the show.” She hoped he’d attribute the tremor in her voice solely to the aftereffects of being violently ill . . . even though there were other causes too. Ones that had nothing to do with her stomach and everything to do with her heart.
“No. I was in the bleachers. But I could hear enough from the living room to figure out what was going on. Do you feel up to talking to the FBI agent? He’s here.”
What she wanted to do was curl up in a ball on the bed, pull the covers over her head, and shut out the world. Pretend that everything was fine. That’s what she’d done when her mom died. But it hadn’t changed the outcome then. And it wouldn’t change it now. As she’d learned through the years, putting off the tough stuff didn’t make it any easier to deal with in the end.
“I might as well get it over with.”
She flipped off the bathroom light, and as she headed toward the hall, Jake took her arm in a solid, comforting grip—as if to remind her she wasn’t alone.
That helped.
More than he would ever know.
He paused as they approached the door, leaning over to pick up the picture of her and Stephanie. The one she’d asked a passerby to snap last summer when she’d talked her sister into a girls’ weekend at Lake of the Ozarks.
“Do you mind if I borrow this for a few minutes?”
“No. Why?”
He turned off the light in the room and guided her down the hall. “I’d like to show it to Mark Sanders. The FBI agent.”
Before she could ask him anything else, the doorbell rang. Jake gave her arm a slight squeeze as they reached the end of the hall.
“Wait here.”
He crossed the small foyer, peered through the peephole, and opened the door. She heard him murmur a quiet “thank you” before he closed and locked it. When he rejoined her, he was carrying a glass of white soda. After passing it over, he took her arm again.
“This might help settle your stomach.”
His gesture of kindness threatened to break the tenuous hold she had on her emotions, and it took every ounce of her self-control to keep her tears contained as they continued toward the living room.
At their approach, a tall, brown-haired man in a dark suit rose from the couch. Once Jake did the introductions and Mark took her hand in a firm grip, they all sat. Jake handed the photo to the FBI agent.
“A picture of Judge Michaels and her sister.”
The man studied it, arched an eyebrow, and exchanged a look with Jake. “The resemblance is remarkable. It wouldn’t be difficult to confuse the two of you from a distance. Or from behind.”
Now Liz understood why Jake had homed in on the photo. More support for the notion that she’d been the intended victim. She took a sip of her soda, hoping it would quell the renewed churning in her stomach.
“I’ve already discussed with Liz our theory that the killer might have been targeting her,” Jake told Mark.
“That’s becoming a very real possibility.” He set the photo on the coffee table. “As you may be aware, Judge Michaels, that puts the FBI in charge of the investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’re up for that.”
“I’ll help you in any way I can. But as I’ve already told Jake and the police, I don’t have any enemies I know of. In all my years as an attorney and judge, I’ve never even gotten a threatening letter from a disgruntled client or either party in a lawsuit.” She took another sip of soda.
“Still, there’s a loser in every case. And not everyone is a good loser.” Mark flipped open the folder that rested in his lap. “Our preliminary research indicates you’ve been involved in some high-profile lawsuits. A few have received national attention and media play.”
She shrugged. “Most of those are from my days as a practicing attorney. Ancient history by now, I would think.”
“Grudges can have a long lifespan.” He consulted the file again. “You’ve also tried some controversial cases.”
“That goes with the territory.”
Mark closed the file. “What we’d like you to do, Judge Michaels, is review the cases you’ve been involved in over the past five years, working backward. Think about anything that happened during those trials that perhaps didn’t appear to be sinister at the time, but which, in view of recent events, might merit investigation. Do any cases immediately come to mind?”
Searching her memory, Liz drew a blank. “No. Off the top of my head I can’t even remember all the cases I’ve dealt with in that time frame. If any had struck me as being dangerous, I’m sure I’d recall them. But I’ll go through my files and flag any that might be worth investigating. To be honest, though, it seems like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“You never know. It might trigger some ideas.” Mark extracted a card from his pocket and offered it to her. “I’ll be in regular touch with the police and the Marshals Service. If you want to talk with me directly, however, feel free to call.”
As she took the card, he rose. “My sympathies on the loss of your sister, Judge Michaels.” He extended his hand, and she found hers engulfed in his strong grip.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll show you out.” Jake stood, and the two men walked to the hall.
She could hear the low rumble of their voices as they conferred in the foyer, though their words were indiscernible. Fingering the card, she read the words: Special Agent Mark Sanders. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The notion that she was the target of some lethal plot was surreal.
Yet the evidence was all too real. The security of her home had been violated. Stephanie was dead. And she was now under the armed protection of U.S. marshals while the FBI sought the person who wanted her dead.
She was still gripping the card, sipping the soda, when Jake reappeared and took the chair Mark had occupied.
“This helped a lot.” She lifted the glass. “Thank you.”
He acknowledged her expression of appreciation with a nod. “I’m assuming you may need some records from your home office so you can review past cases.”
“Yes.”
“We can take you back there, or you can describe what you need and we’ll retrieve them.”
“I’d rather you get them. All of the boxes are marked, and I can tell you where to find what I need. In terms of more current cases, I can have one of my law clerks bring me some files from my office in the courthouse. A lot of stuff is on my computer too.”
He withdrew a small notebook from his pocket. “Just tell me what to look for at your house.”
As she did so, she finished off the soda.
“Would you like some more?” He gestured toward the empty glass, pocketing the notebook.
“No. This was perfect. Thank you again.”
“Feeling better?”
“Some.” More because of his kindness than the soda, though she left that unsaid.
“We’ll get these boxes to you first thing in the morning. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight before I leave?”
A hug would be nice.
Instead of voicing that unexpected thought, she wrapped her arms around her middle and held on tight, forcing her stiff lips into what she hoped passed for a smile. “No. I’m fine. Thanks again for everything.”
The slight narrowing of his eyes suggested he wasn’t buying her reassurance. But he let it go.
“There’s one other piece of information I need to pass on.”
His careful tone implied more bad news, and she braced herself. “Okay.”
“Your sister’s husband plans to attend the funeral service.”
“What!?” The word exploded from her lips.
“We have no grounds to keep him away, Liz.”
“No!” Shaking her head, she lurched to her feet and stumbled to the windows. “I c
an’t deal with that.” The closed blinds hid her view of the skyline, but light seeped in around the edges. Struggling to find a point of entry.
She heard him rise and move behind her.
“I know you don’t want him there. But he has rights too. He wanted to have the funeral in Springfield and bury your sister there. His attorney convinced him to let your arrangements stand.”
Was she supposed to be grateful for the consideration of a wife beater? And perhaps a murderer? The bitter taste returned to her mouth.
Closing her eyes, she tried to be generous. To muster some kindness and compassion. To live the values her faith taught.
She came up empty.
But Jake was right. She had no legal grounds to stop Alan from showing up. The best she could do was try to ignore him.
“I don’t want to talk to him.” Her words were brittle.
“We can keep that from happening.”
She gave a stiff nod. “Okay. Thank you.” She didn’t turn around.
A couple of beats of silence passed before he spoke again.
“If you need anything later, remember there are two deputies next door. Don’t hesitate to call on them.” His inflection underwent a subtle shift, a nuance of warmth adding a more personal touch. “And remember that you also have my BlackBerry number, if you’d rather communicate with me.”
Some of the tension melted from her shoulders. It wasn’t fair to hold Jake responsible for Alan’s decision. He’d already gone above and beyond with this assignment. Even made himself available in his off hours. She should be grateful, not miffed.
Taking a deep breath, she swiveled back toward him. “Sorry. This latest turn of events isn’t your fault.”
“I’d keep him away if I could.”
“I know.” And she did. “I also appreciate having your number. But you’ve put in enough long hours on this assignment already. I don’t plan to bother you on your time off.”
His brown irises deepened as he regarded her. “It’s not a bother, Liz. I mean that.”
She could tell he did. The question was, why? Was it because he took the responsibilities of his job so seriously—or something more?
Without giving her a chance to dwell on his comment, he started toward the foyer. “I’ll be back in the morning. Try to get some rest. And you might want to experiment with a piece of toast. It should stay down.”
“I think I’d rather have some of your mom’s chicken soup.”
Flashing her a rueful grin, he twisted the dead bolt. “Yeah. You can’t beat it for comfort food. I could use some myself about now. See you tomorrow.”
With that, he slipped through the door, closing it with a soft click behind him.
She followed, securing the lock as she pondered his remark. Why did he need comfort food?
The answer was obvious. He was worried about keeping her safe.
And that did nothing for her peace of mind. Or her stomach.
Meaning no toast tonight.
9
______
Martin Reynolds pulled into the driveway of the two-bedroom brick bungalow he’d occupied for the past year and gave it a quick, disinterested scan in the deepening dusk. It was an okay house, and he’d kept it up since moving in. He mowed the grass every Tuesday—though it was too late to do so tonight. But it had pretty much stopped growing for the year, anyway. He trimmed the bushes when they got shaggy. He’d even painted the garage door a few weeks back.
But he didn’t lavish care on it, as he’d done with the house he and Helen had shared for twenty-five years. The one they’d bought six years into their marriage, after scrimping and saving and living off macaroni and cheese until they’d accumulated enough for a down payment.
That had been a home.
This was just a house.
Thank you, Uncle Sam.
Fighting back the rancid bitterness that had become his daily companion, Martin pulled into the one-car garage and set the brake. There had been a time when he’d loved the United States. But the country that had earned his deep affection and devotion was disappearing a little more every day as Big Brother chipped away at the freedoms the founding fathers had fought so hard to defend. If citizens didn’t wake up soon and do something about taking America back, there’d be no America left to take.
At least he’d done his small part. Fought back against the terrocrats, as Jarrod called them. A feeling of satisfaction swept over him as he walked down the driveway toward his mailbox.
“Hi, Mr. Reynolds.”
He missed a step at the unexpected greeting and peered into the fading twilight. His next-door neighbor—Molly something or other—waved at him from her front porch as she juggled a baby on her hip.
Lifting a hand in greeting, he kept walking. Since moving in, he’d made no attempt to befriend his neighbors. An elderly widow lived across the street, and a yuppie-type couple lived on his other side. The widow only came out in front to retrieve her paper, and the yuppies were gone from first light until dark. They were easy to avoid.
The young mother was a different story. She’d trotted over with a plate of cookies to welcome him when he’d moved in, and despite his efforts to discourage her, she continued to give him a cheery greeting whenever their paths crossed.
“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you,” she called. “I didn’t want you to think someone had stolen your papers. I noticed they were piling up, so I collected them and put them on your front porch. I thought maybe you took a little trip.”
He ignored the half-question in her inflection and picked up his pace. “Thanks.”
“I would have gotten your mail too, but I didn’t want to pry.”
Disregarding that comment, he withdrew three days’ worth of letters, ads, and bills. Mostly bills, he noted in disgust.
“Well, you have a nice night.”
The sound of a door closing told him she’d given up trying to start a conversation.
Good.
Back at the car, he opened the rear door and lifted the cat carrier from the seat. As he used his hip to close the door, Josie regarded him with her almond-shaped green eyes. He’d found her last winter rummaging through his garbage can, and while he’d never been much interested in pets, he’d felt a kinship with the lost, abandoned kitten that had seemed in need of a friend.
“We’re home, girl.” He reached through the metal cage to stroke her golden hair and was rewarded with a soft, contented purr.
Once he’d toted the travel cage into the house, he set her free and riffled through the mail again. A letter buried among some ads caught his eye, and he pulled it out, squinting at the familiar handwriting and exotic return address.
After three years, he still didn’t have a clue what had gotten into his usually sensible sister. She’d taught school for thirty years. Bought her own little house in Cincinnati decades ago, when she’d realized she’d probably never marry. Went to church every week. Lived a nice, quiet, stable life.
Her only idiosyncrasy had been her penchant for annual vacations to far-flung destinations. He’d never even heard of half the places she’d visited.
But her decision to spend her retirement in the Peace Corps—in some African country called Sierra Leone, of all places—had blown his mind. He stared again at the return address, clueless about the pronunciation of the primitive village she now called home.
Yet Patricia seemed happy with her life.
Which was more than he could say about himself.
After retracing his steps to the porch, he collected the newspapers his neighbor had tucked into a corner. He had good reasons for his discontent, though. He was sick of being victimized. Sick of the government turning his life upside down. Sick of feeling helpless.
That was why he’d finally taken some action.
Patricia would never understand what he’d done. Or condone it, Martin knew, as he opened his front door and stepped back inside.
But Jarrod would.
Now there was
a true patriot. As far as Martin was concerned, the leader of the Patriot Constitutionalists was as brave as the founding fathers. He was doing his best to let Americans know their liberties were being usurped, that the Constitution was being subverted by the very government whose framework it defined.
Jarrod was a big advocate of using fraudulent legal documents to intimidate and harass public officials. Paper terrorism, he called it. But Martin was convinced he’d support more drastic steps, if they were warranted. It was a tough fight—Gideon against the Midianites, Jarrod had said—but a worthy one.
After months of listening to the leader’s rhetoric, Martin had at last joined the battle.
He passed through the living room, dim now as the day waned, and continued to the kitchen. Dumping the papers and mail on the counter, he poured a glass of water and guzzled the whole thing. He hadn’t had a drink since he’d left his cabin two hours ago, and the summer-like heat of the past few days hadn’t relented one iota, even though fall had begun three weeks ago.
He’d have stayed longer in the country, except he didn’t want to miss Jarrod’s meeting tomorrow night. Still, the short visit to his hideaway had been good for his soul. There, he felt insulated from the craziness of the world. Someday he might move there full time.
Soon, maybe.
Pouring himself another glass of water, he opened a can of food for Josie and sat at the kitchen table to read Patricia’s letter. As usual, the breezy narrative was filled with anecdotes about her daily life and the children she taught. He read the line about eating fried ants twice, thinking he might have misunderstood it on the first pass. But no. There it was, in black and white. This from the woman who hadn’t even been willing to try fried shrimp on the one family vacation they’d taken to the East Coast when they were kids.
People sure could change.
Not until he reached the end of the letter, however, did he find her most important piece of news.
“I’ll be heading home for some R & R in a couple of weeks, Marty. Just in time to catch the last of the fall color, I hope. I’ll swing by Cincinnati first to check on my house, but I’d like to spend most of my three weeks off in St. Louis. I haven’t seen you in two years; we need to catch up. Can’t lose touch with my kid brother, you know. And you’re not the best letter writer. Look for me Sunday, October 27. If this doesn’t work for you, call the emergency phone number I gave you. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch to give you my flight information so I can bum a ride from the airport!”
