Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  She felt like a fugitive from a spy novel. There had to be an explanation. A logical, sensible, nonparanoid explanation. People just didn’t try to kill people like her.

  Oh, a random street mugging, maybe. Even a burglar. But someone desperate enough to go into a hospital room with flowers in her name? That was serious stalking.

  She still couldn’t believe what had happened. Despite an unusual childhood, she’d never really felt physically unsafe. She’d survived the constant moves, her mother’s boyfriends, the lack of stability, but part of her had hungered for normalcy, or what she considered normalcy. Though a few of her mother’s views took root in her, most had not. Like her mother, she hated injustice. Unlike her mother, she’d never believed that copping out—or breaking the law—solved the problem.

  Her grandfather had had more of an impact on her than he had ever known. His sense of honor had invaded her psyche, despite her mother’s disdain for the military. Which was why, she knew, she wanted to get to the bottom of this affair. Her grandfather would have wanted it. She knew that as sure as she knew that someone on the hospital staff would wake her at midnight.

  “Ah, Grandfather,” she whispered. “What is going on? What might you have left me that someone would kill for?”

  Now she wished with all her heart that she had gone through his papers at the time of his death. But she’d been heartbroken. They’d had a long and rocky relationship, but in the end he was the only family she’d had. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to love him during his last courageous months. She was in college then, in an accelerated program that took all her time. It only made sense to sell his house. She had glanced through his belongings and sold most of them, but kept his papers, always intending to go back and examine them thoroughly. Instead, they had remained in a storage facility. She hadn’t looked at them again until Jon had asked her whether he’d left papers. Or had she mentioned them to him?

  Now she realized she’d been trying to escape the reality of her grandfather’s death by putting his possessions in storage. She hadn’t wanted reminders. When she was stronger, she’d told herself. And then she let month after month go by, then years.

  The phone rang, and she picked it up. One of the friends she’d asked to check on Colonel Flaherty was on the line.

  “I think he’s who he says he is,” Eric said. “I have a photo I’ll bring over later. He’s with CID, as he said, and apparently is one of their best people. Commanded a unit in Kosovo and is in line for battalion command. His grandfather was your grandfather’s commanding officer during the last months in World War II.”

  “Is there any other family?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Eric said.

  “Does the man in the photo have dark hair, a lean face? A small indentation in his chin?”

  “You described him.”

  So Lieutenant Colonel Lucien Flaherty was who he said he was. Why did she not feel safer? “Thank you, Eric,” she said. “I don’t think I have to see the photo.”

  “Righto. Anytime I can help.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Professor. Hacking into the Defense Department.”

  “All in a good cause, Eric.”

  “And that is …?”

  “My life.”

  There was a long silence, then he said somberly, “Take care.”

  “I will,” she said.

  She slowly put the receiver into the cradle. What now?

  She’d already been told she was being discharged today. An hour. Or two. And then the doctor would be here, telling her she could leave.

  Amy sat on the side of the bed and tried to analyze her situation. Physically, she was much better. Her side was stiff, but the world no longer spun in crazy arcs. Emotionally, though, she felt overwhelmed. She hadn’t felt that way for years, not since she was thirteen and her mother died, and there was no one to turn to, no one but a name that belonged to a man in an old photograph, a portrait of a man with a stern expression.

  She’d been bewildered, then, when the social workers had come to get her. They wanted to know whether she had family. She had a photograph. Nothing else. It had been several weeks before they had located him because her mother used another name. Amy hadn’t wanted to go with him then; she hadn’t wanted to go with someone who’d disapproved of her mother. She’d been scared, but tried hard not to show it.

  Amy was scared now, and she was still trying damned hard not to show it.

  She dressed in a pair of slacks and blouse that Sherry had brought earlier, the few pitiful pieces of clothing she’d bought since her home went up in flames. She looked at them again and fought back tears.

  There was a knock at the door, and then it opened. It was the police officer who guarded her room. And the colonel.

  “Is everything all right, Miss?” the police officer asked.

  She nodded.

  “The colonel asked to see you. Is that all right?”

  Not exactly, but at the moment any company would be a diversion from her very dark thoughts. She nodded.

  “I’ll be outside if you need me,” the officer said, casting a doubtful eye at Lieutenant Colonel Flaherty, dressed casually in blue jeans and a dark blue shirt. Unfortunately, he looked as striking as he had before.

  “The doctor said you could leave this afternoon. Can I offer you a ride home?”

  She hesitated, suddenly wanting to take him up on the offer. She didn’t want to go to the hotel alone, and Sherry had a meeting with her adviser this afternoon. She’d had no idea how long it would take.

  Her visitor held out a card. “You can call this number,” he said. “My commanding officer will vouch for me.”

  “I don’t have to,” she said. “A friend of mine already checked you out.”

  He looked surprised, then impressed. “Good girl,” he said.

  “I’m not a girl, Colonel,” she said a little waspily. She hated to be called a girl. She’d worked too hard to get her doctorate and now a full professorship.

  “Irish,” he said.

  Her puzzlement must have shown in her eyes.

  “Nearly everyone calls me Irish.”

  “Why?”

  “If you had a first name like Lucien, you wouldn’t ask that question,” he said with that damnably attractive smile.

  He was being charming, and she didn’t want to be charmed. Still, she couldn’t resist. “Where did Lucien come from?”

  “Damned if I know. My mother had probably just seen a movie and liked it, and my older brother had been named after my father. At his insistence. I think Lucien was my mother’s revenge.”

  “I like it,” she said.

  “You weren’t called Lucy when you were a boy.”

  She couldn’t help a smile. It was probably a weak one, but it was a smile. She couldn’t imagine someone calling the man in front of her Lucy. But kids could be cruel. She’d been taunted as a child because she didn’t have a father, then because she was so tall. She’d struck back once and bloodied a boy’s nose. Her mother had been appalled. Violence, she’d said, never solved anything. But it had solved her immediate problem. From then on, the teasing was behind her back.

  “You smiled,” he observed.

  “I did,” she admitted. “You have to admit I haven’t had much to smile about since we met.” She paused. “And again, thank you. If you hadn’t come in.…”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I may have stirred things up. When I read about the investigation, I made some calls. Maybe if I hadn’t.…”

  “Has your home been invaded?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I’m not sure. My grandfather had a ranch in Colorado. I inherited it, but I haven’t spent much time there. When I read about the commission report, I did go through his papers. There was nothing there that touched on the months when he served in Austria. But someone could have gotten to them before I did. I’ve been gone for months at a time. There’s a ranch fo
reman, but he has his own place and is often out on the range. A maid cleans my house every month, but she’s completely trustworthy.”

  “And you’ve had no accidents?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing suspicious?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing but my encounter here in your room.”

  “You hesitated,” she said.

  “You’re observant,” he replied.

  “Obviously not observant enough,” Amy retorted. “Why did you hesitate?”

  He shrugged. “I just returned from Kosovo after eighteen months there. My tour was supposed to be a year, and was unexpectedly extended even after I’d already received orders to return to the States. I didn’t think much about it then, because unlike others, I didn’t have a family. But now I wonder whether someone wanted to keep me out of the country.”

  “Why didn’t anyone contact us?” she asked. “Anyone official, I mean.”

  “Third generation? No reason to. I don’t think anyone really thought that the three senior officers actually stole anything. It was more about carelessness, and that was easily explained by the circumstances of the time. War was still raging across Europe. Who really cared about a train of wedding rings and second-rate paintings?”

  “But the gold?”

  “After more than fifty years?” he asked. “I don’t think anyone thought it could be recovered, but now with the United States putting pressure on other countries to make reparations, it couldn’t avoid looking into this. Unfortunately, our grandfathers aren’t here to defend themselves.”

  “You think they’re being made scapegoats?”

  He shrugged. “A commanding officer is always responsible for the actions of his men. But I imagine their minds were on the drive across Germany, not inventories of trains.”

  Amy digested that, then, uncomfortable with more questions about her grandfather, asked, “What did you do in Kosovo?”

  “Tried fruitlessly to keep the number of arms down,” he said wryly. “Stockpiled arms and destroyed them. But there are so many of the damn things that they can go on killing each other for the next century.”

  The light had left his eyes, and she realized that he felt things far deeper than he wanted her to know. That made her want to trust him. Want to. But could she?

  He walked over to the window. She wondered whether it was an attempt to remove himself from recent memories.

  “You said you had an older brother? Where is he?”

  “He died when he was twelve,” he said flatly.

  His voice was noncommittal, but she sensed pain in him. She wondered how old he’d been, but she’d already been too invasive. While inquisitiveness was in her nature, she didn’t want to revive sad memories.

  He turned around and looked at her. “And you? Any siblings?”

  “I thought you knew everything about me,” she said.

  He had the grace to redden slightly. “I didn’t check that closely.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t find one,” he said, obviously a bit abashed. “That doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”

  “Well, there weren’t,” she said without going into details she knew too well. She’d heard them too many times as a child.

  A short knock came at the door then, and the doctor entered. “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He looked at the chart, then at her. “You’ll probably feel some discomfort for a while. The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, but you’re going to be sore. The dressing needs to be changed frequently, but everything looks good.”

  “I can change the dressing,” she said.

  “I’ll have a nurse and patient’s representative come in. They’ll give you instructions and a prescription for pain. I want you to take it easy.” He hesitated. “You do have someone to look after you?”

  “Yes.” Herself.

  “I don’t want you driving for a few days,” he said. “You’ve lost some blood. You need a lot of rest.”

  How could she do that when someone was apparently trying to kill her? But she didn’t ask that question. Instead, her gaze went over to the colonel’s, and his met hers. His face was impassive, and yet she thought she saw a flash of sympathy. That and a dime might buy her a cup of coffee, but wouldn’t assure her that there wasn’t poison in it.

  At this point, she could depend only on herself. And so she paid lip service to the doctor, and later to the nurse with her prescription, knowing she wasn’t going to pay any attention to either. Wise or not, she planned to retrieve her grandfather’s boxes from the police and drive to someplace safe. She did agree to return to the doctor’s office in ten days and make sure the stitches had dissolved as they should.

  Then she was left with the colonel and his offer. Could she really trust him—and if not him, then who? A ride home would be safe, particularly if others knew about it. She would leave a message on Sherry’s answering machine and also make it clear to the officer outside that Flaherty was taking her home.

  And when she returned to the hotel?

  A shudder ran through her. A gun. Should she get a gun? She, who had always been on the front lines for gun control?

  She did know she was not going to follow the doctor’s suggestion and not drive for several days. As soon as she could, she was going to get in a car and leave the city.

  “The offer of a ride remains, Dr. Mallory,” Flaherty said.

  Her eyes turned to his. “Thank you,” she finally said. “I would appreciate a ride. I’ll call Sherry and let her know she’s off the hook.”

  A gleam appeared in his eyes, and she knew that he knew exactly what she was doing. Protecting herself. Was it approval she saw there? Or chagrin? She wasn’t sure.

  She only knew that her trust was limited. Very, very limited.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Art’s was a small and noisy bar. It was a place Dustin wouldn’t usually frequent, and a place his cousin would.

  It was situated in a working-class neighborhood, squeezed between a laundry and a loan company.

  Sally loved it. She was a princess there. The bartender loved her. So did most of the customers. It was her second home.

  It wasn’t that she drank that much. She was cautious about that. Two drinks, maybe three. Nursing them. She seemed to feel more at home here than in her own home. He suspected he knew why. No one expected anything more from her than her quick smile.

  Just thinking about it made him smile. Sally’s smile was infectious. It always had been. He knew, though, that it curtained a well of insecurity. That insecurity had been her worst enemy.

  He had tried to give her what she needed, but his own feelings were too dangerous, and he’d found himself backing away.

  He parked his car, hoping it would still be there when he returned.

  The bar was dingy and filled with smoke. He had quit smoking years ago, and nearly choked on it now. Sally was at the bar, leaning over it in discussion with the bartender. He sidled in next to her, but he didn’t sit.

  Sally looked at him and her eyes lit up, even in the dim light of the bar. The bartender frowned.

  “Let’s find a table,” Dustin said.

  She leaned over the bar. “Take tomorrow off,” she told the bartender. “Your daughter’s birthday is more important than a day’s pay.” She started to leave, then added, “Hey, I used to be a bartender. Ask your boss if I can fill in.”

  The bartender’s face brightened. “I’ll call him.”

  “He knows me,” Sally said. “He’ll agree. I’ll phone in sick tomorrow at work.” She looked around the bar, located an empty table. “I’ll be over there with Dudley Doright.”

  Dustin felt the familiar ache. She’d called him that on and off for years, sometimes with affectionate teasing, sometimes with resentment. He couldn’t quite catch tonight’s nuance. It had started when she’d once tried to kiss him, and he had given her a stilted, uncomfortable lecture on why h
e couldn’t do it. He’d been stiffer than usual because he’d wanted her so badly, even while not wanting her to know it.

  “That is ridiculous,” she’d scoffed at him. “It’s only a friendly kiss, and even if it wasn’t, cousins have married throughout the centuries.”

  But not in a straitlaced Episcopalian family, they didn’t. And he knew that one kiss often led to another, and another.…

  “Oh, pooh,” she’d said. “You’re such a Dudley Doright.”

  It had hurt then. But over the years, it had become an endearment of sorts. She was the outlaw, and he was the careful one.

  He tried to ignore the yearning in him as they sat in a little booth, protected on both sides by tall wooden dividers. He waited until she had settled down, then leaned over, keeping his voice low. The feeling of privacy created by the dividers was, he knew, an illusion.

  “Tell me what happened,” he demanded. “You said it was urgent.”

  “A Colonel Flaherty called me. He said there had been attacks on General Mallory’s granddaughter. He’s one of the.…”

  “I know who he is,” Dustin said. “I had a message from him, too, but it just asked me to get in touch with him. What, exactly, did he say?”

  “He asked whether anything strange had happened to me. A burglary or mugging. I told him no.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it?”

  Sally hesitated just long enough to make his stomach twist.

  “I’m not sure,” she said finally.

  “What do you mean you’re not sure?”

  Her gaze met his directly, and there was worry in it. “I had an odd feeling a week ago. It was several days after I took the painting to a safe deposit box, as you suggested. I went in the apartment and I just felt … weird. As if something was wrong. Nothing was missing, though, and I’m not sure.…”

  The knot of apprehension grew tighter inside him. “Nothing was out of place?”

  She shrugged. “You know I’m not the neatest person. I never pay attention to where I put things. I don’t even know why I felt uncomfortable. An unusual scent, maybe. I just don’t know.”