Taylor

by Irish Winters

  “Not necessary. Once I confront the sonofabitch, he’s all yours. Do with him as you will.”

  Another chuckle. “I like you, Alex. For hell’s sake, take up golf.”

  “Later, Art.” Alex hung up. His fishing expedition had begun. Only four others, Secretary Turner, Mark, the SECDEF’s inside man, and of course, Mother, knew that the man Steele had just hired was really an undercover FBI agent.

  The time had come for Steele to get a taste of his own medicine. His buddy, Charles Oakes, too. Rat bastards.

  Now, if I could only find Taylor.

  Alex worried for his missing agent. There’d been no contact. No ransom note. No sign of his truck, either. Mother’s report back from the lab confirmed it was Taylor’s blood on the curb. The police said they’d look into it, but until they had more evidence, nothing would happen. Blood on a curb meant nothing. A witness who’d actually seen something might.

  Where the hell is he?

  Alex knew the dirty cops, their background, and their current location. He also knew the innocent men in prison. Harley and Gabe had gone to the facility and provided a thorough investigation into Angel Green, Lavar Johnson, and Dicky Benjamin’s lives before, during, and after their trial.

  The young men without direction up to that point, had actually benefitted during their time in the state correction facility. The warden commended them for their good behavior. Angel had been assigned as trustee to one of the cellblocks, but it was Dicky Benjamin who’d caught Alex’s attention. The man wanted to be an actor. He’d spent hours online working on his master’s degree in fine arts. An MFA. Despite a life sentence for the crime he didn’t commit, Dicky still had dreams.

  Alex had solid evidence that Bob Hemmings, Crosland Webster, and Victoria Levitt, their barhop girlfriend, were truly involved in the rape. It didn’t matter what the trumped up police report said, one of the three had been smart enough to contact off-duty Officers Craft and Atkins once Webster and Hemmings sobered up enough to realize what they’d done.

  Craft and Atkins took it from there. They contacted Webster’s and Hemmings’s detective fathers, then facilitated the real culprits swift departure from the crime scene. They cleaned the pool table, intimidated a few witnesses and covered their asses.

  But some one had to go down for the assault, and they had to go down fast. Enter Green, Johnson, and Benjamin, three unfortunate but ready-made scapegoats. They all had petty records. Who’d argue in their behalf? Certainly not the public defender.

  Alex had to give Craft and Atkins credit. It was damned quick thinking for two loser cops with their own troubled records.

  Brotherhood. It might be the binding glue on the battlefront, but it could damn sure lend itself to complicity in crime just as easily. The Alexandria police force was chock full of plenty of decent, hard working officers, but these two scumbags detracted from the honor of their brothers. They were nothing but low-life accomplices. They needed to pay.

  Then there was poor little Mary. Mother had located her high school yearbooks. Before the crime, she was a happy sophomore and an honor student at Saint Joseph’s High School, a strikingly pretty young woman with dark straight hair that hung to her waist.

  One picture showed her hamming it up for the camera in her Chemistry class, her eyes crossed and her nose scrunched up in a funny face while she played flute with a glass pipette. She’d played her real flute in the school band. Another image showed her at a prom on the arm of some kid with thick glasses and a cowlick that made his hair stand up on his forehead.

  In Mother’s detailed and thorough investigation, she’d located the name of that young man: Jacob Rathborne, a special education student with Down’s syndrome. That single prom picture spoke volumes about Mary’s character. She wasn’t just pretty. She was damned kind.

  Alex thought back to her father, the stoic man who’d stood with him in Baghdad fifteen years ago, at most. Peter had been called in as an advisor. He was an older man, and shouldn’t have been where he was when hell broke loose. He’d taken a direct hit to his body armor. Alex thought he’d died, but just when the battle seemed lost, Peter lifted his head out of the dust, took careful aim and killed the man locked in hand-to-hand combat with Alex.

  A look passed between them when the assailant dropped, a look that for his part said, “My God, thank you.” The answering nod from Peter. “Just doing my job.”

  They’d talked for hours back at base camp that night, bragging and telling lies about their perceived hunting and fishing prowess like all guys did. When Alex questioned the SOS on Peter’s boonie hat, he’d become quiet, almost reverent. He pointed one finger to the starry sky. “It’s my prayer to the Father. I’m always calling for help. He’s always answering. You ought to try it sometime.”

  Alex dug his thumbs into his eyes, wishing that finding Taylor were that easy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So tell me about your stalking tendencies,” Taylor said.

  Whatever happened in the game shed must have snapped something inside of him. He seemed intent on not meeting her gaze. Throughout their simple lunch of bologna sandwiches and spinach salad, he’d kept his thoughts to himself. That was his problem.

  The man didn’t seem to know how to open up, how to vent. He kept everything bottled up inside, but Gracie knew better. She’d always been able to read him like a book. He just needed time.

  “I guess we never looked at it as stalking. Wait. I have something else to show you.”

  Before he could grumble ‘Don’t bother’ in that pessimistic way of his, she flew to her bedroom and retrieved his photo album from her top dresser drawer. There were a thousand different scenarios and ways she’d planned to give him this very important record of his life. Never once did she think he’d return to her because of an arrow, but now that he was here it might be just what he needed.

  When she placed the four-inch thick photo album in his hands, his brow furrowed. Ah, this handsome, moody man, the eternal pessimist to her eternal optimist. No matter.

  She flipped the plastic-protected cover open and proceeded with the very first picture of what had become his life with his father. She gulped, remembering how long she and her mother had waited at the park that Easter Sunday for the egg hunt to begin.

  The tenderness in her heart grew as he ducked his head to take a closer look. His brows furrowed. He squinted. These photos recorded his private tragedy. The lonely years as a child and teenager unfolded in living color, a stark contrast to the loving first four years of his life.

  “Holy hell. That’s me.”

  “Yes. They’re all of you.”

  The first shot showed his father walking briskly away from him across a green lawn, his eyes forward, his stride sure and quick—and long. Taylor ran behind, his face crinkled in tears and one arm outstretched. By then he’d been given a military-style crew cut, his long childhood locks shorn. Dressed in a white Navy outfit with its big square collar flapping on his back, the unhappy boy dragged a bright blue but empty Easter basket behind him.

  Poor baby. He probably didn’t realize he was supposed to get excited about brightly dyed eggs. Another white man’s tradition.

  She could only surmise the fear he must’ve felt at being ripped out of the only family he’d ever known and forced to deal with a stranger the likes of his father. Taylor looked scared to death that day. He must have thought his only familiar adult was leaving him behind in the park.

  He’d squealed across the rolling green lawn, the panic of a lost child about to be lost again.

  All she and her mother could do was watch from a distance. And cry.

  The next shot of the same scene showed Taylor on his hands and knees on the lawn, crying, that same hand stretched in a sobbing plea of ‘Wait Daddy, you’re walking too fast.’

  Taylor grunted and flipped the page.

  “You remember that day?”

  He nodded without explaining. There was no need. The picture said it all, but she w
ished he’d talk about it, stop being Michael’s angry son and remember when he was only her friend—the loving, teasing, irresistible Taylor White Hawk.

  She pushed the limit, flipping the page back. “Do you remember what happened that Easter Sunday?”

  He growled. “Yes.”

  “Tell me,” she coaxed, needing him to admit once and for all what really happened. Her mother and Peter had always suspected abuse, but could never get close enough to prove it. Gracie needed to hear from Taylor if what happened that Easter Sunday was the exception or the rule.

  He snorted. “What’d it look like? Bastard hit me. Said I needed to quit whining. Knocked me down.”

  She pushed onto his lap and made herself comfortable beneath the heavy album. He needed to know he was not alone. He never had been. If she had to sit on him to prove it, well, she had all day.

  “My mother and I saw him slap you,” she said, taking hold of his left wrist and draping his arm around her neck and shoulder like she used to do when they were kids. “That’s why we took these two pictures. We couldn’t believe he’d do strike you in public, so we tried to catch it on film. For evidence, I mean. In case—”

  “In case what?”

  “In case we could help Peter prove that your father mistreated you.”

  “Let it go. That was years ago.”

  Gracie stilled. She wouldn’t ask again. He had to take the next step.

  Taylor flipped the page over, but just as quickly turned it back again and circled her in a tighter hug. “The thing is that a kid gets used to being slapped around. What the hell did I know? He said it was for my own good, that it’d make me tough. Said he’d probably never live to see the day I became a man, but it was worth a shot.”

  The jerk. Gracie held her breath at what Taylor might reveal next.

  “I learned how to take it. He wanted to see tears. I fucking wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Damn. I’m sorry, Gracie. I shouldn’t have said that—”

  She cupped his chin to make him look at her. “Taylor. Say anything you want. I promise. I’ve heard it all before. Just talk to me.”

  And he did. The story came out haltingly at first, but by the time it was done, Gracie knew why Taylor had joined the Marines too early to be an officer, why he’d taken every deployment that came along.

  “Where was Judith during the beatings?”

  “Out. The General knew when to pick his battles. He’s smart that way.” Taylor rubbed his thumb over the sad four-year-old’s face in the photo. “I remember the day Granpa gave me away, too.”

  “No. Oh, no, no, no Taylor.” Gracie peered into her friend’s tortured face. “He didn’t give you away. He would never.”

  “Yes, he did. I don’t know what I did to make him mad, but I remember, Gracie. He didn’t want me anymore. I wasn’t—her.”

  “Who? Martha?”

  Taylor nodded and Gracie’s heart split. She set the album aside so she could wrap her arms around him, smothering that little lost boy against her, needing him to know better. “No Taylor. No. It wasn’t like that at all. Losing you destroyed Peter. We all cried for days, but he turned dark. And lonely.”

  A bitter groan escaped. “I was four, for hell’s sake.”

  “I know. Oh, you poor baby,” she crooned, her fingers combing through his hair, intent on helping him understand what really happened. “I can see why you might have thought Peter was mad at you, but honest—no one in their right mind would’ve given a child as beautiful as you away unless they had no choice. Oh, Taylor. Michael had every legal right to take you. Peter had none. And you know how your father is. He threatened Peter. He brought the sheriff and an attorney along with him that day—don’t you remember?”

  “But how could he hurt Peter? Granpa was a Marine, too. He could’ve stood his ground. He should’ve! Why didn’t he just knock the General on his ass and take me... back?”

  Ahh, Taylor’s voice cracked. His question broke her heart. That poor little boy was still there, still buried beneath a world of guilt for never being good enough for anyone.

  Tears flooded her eyes. She rocked him, needing him to know how much the White Hawks had always wanted him. “Your father’s a powerful man. Once he threatened bodily harm to you, Peter backed off. He made the rest of us back off, too. We couldn’t prove a thing. I’m so sorry.”

  Her maternal instinct took over. Gracie let the lullaby pour out of her heart.

  “A thousand tiny butterflies, a million baby stars;

  You’ll want to know who made the moon. You’ll want to go to Mars.

  But you, my baby warrior, my tiny baby king,

  Are all I’ve ever dreamed of, Love. To me you’re everything.”

  Taylor calmed, his head still bowed and his ear pressed to her chest. “Again.”

  So Gracie obliged with verse two.

  “There is no mountain high enough, no trench beneath the sea;

  Could ever keep my heart from you, no matter where you’ll be.

  I live for you. I breathe for you. You’re every song I sing.

  And if God choose, I’ll die for you, my tiny baby king.”

  Of all the White Hawks, Taylor knew firsthand his father’s misuse of power. She hummed the lullaby she’d grown up with, Martha’s only link with the perfect child who would become her lost son. It wasn’t a number one hit. Not even much more than a young woman’s poem set to music, a mother’s love for her new born babe and exactly what Taylor needed to hear.

  “I know that song,” he whispered against her blouse. “I’ve heard it before.”

  She inhaled deeply, letting her body relax around him, letting every last bit of her unspoken love pour into him. “You should. Your mother wrote it for you the day you were born.”

  He wiped his face before he eased out of her embrace, but tiny droplets lingered on his lashes. She bit her tongue before the words slipped out, but he’d have to know. She’d have to tell him soon. She might have lied to protect Luke and Ryder, and she’d have to ask for forgiveness, but she loved this proud man more than words could ever tell.

  She always had.

  Taylor struggled to regain what little pride he had left. The magnitude of devotion spilling out of the album amazed him. Some pictures had been taken too far away. Some were blurry. Several shots showed the border of chain link fences, but each photo proudly proclaimed some special day in his life: birthdays and his graduation military school.

  All were labeled with a personal handwritten note that detailed the day, his age, and other interesting trivia. It was a remarkable collection, a photo essay taken from afar for the family who’d lost their child. He wiped his eyes, unashamed to show a little emotion in front of Gracie. She didn’t judge him. Didn’t even roll her eyes.

  This crazy family had more pictures of him as a child than he’d ever seen before. They hadn’t stalked him. They’d been grieving for their lost son. They wanted him back. That’s all.

  His heart hurt. They’d always wanted him and every image was just one more bit of evidence to that very real fact. It was nice to see. The General had lied for years that Peter hadn’t wanted him when the exact opposite was the truth.

  Peter wanted him. The General didn’t. Not really.

  “Oh, look at this one.” Gracie pointed to a loose picture amongst the pages. Similar to the sandbox scene, it portrayed an older girl with toddlers Taylor and Gracie, her sassy smile bright with mischief while she filled Taylor’s cowboy boots with plastic shovelfuls of sand. Both Taylor and Gracie had the same kind of shovels, his red, hers blue. They looked just as busy helping their pretty accomplice.

  “Is that Mary? Wow. She was just a little girl.”

  “Yes. Look how pretty.”

  “I see,” Taylor murmured. With her black hair pulled back in two pigtails, Mary White Hawk looked to be just a couple years older than him and Gracie in the shot.

  “She was seven when Martha died.”

  Again his brain did the mental math
. Mary was three years old when he was born, seven when Martha died, and fifteen when her life changed forever. “She wasn’t much older than us.”

  “Right. I grew up believing she was my big sister. I loved her. I still do.”

  In the blink of an eye, Mary came to life in the palm of his hand. How could anyone have hurt such a bright-eyed child?

  Another several shots documented nine-year-old Taylor sitting alone on the front step at one of his parents’ many homes. He was dressed in a gray military school uniform with two matching duffel bags beside him. A wide-angle shot had captured the entire brick staircase, the bright red geraniums in the brick planters behind him. The other shot caught the fear barely masked by mock bravery on a young boy’s face. The far-off stare offset by the bitten lower lip. He’d tried to be brave that day. The General told him to.

  You don’t want to be a sissy, do you?

  “I took these pictures. You were waiting for the bus.”

  Another red-letter day in the life of a military brat. New schools were just one of the many struggles he’d faced. His life was a constant string of new friends, of never belonging and always having to prove himself to the powers that be.

  That particular year it was Blair, another angry kid who hated his parents for deserting him. He’d bullied and badgered Taylor until the afternoon Taylor had enough and popped him a stiff one on the nose. Of course, that resulted in detention, demerits and an apology Taylor didn’t mean, but it also resulted in Blair becoming one of his few real friends. That’s when he learned he wasn’t the only one dumped in a military school by parents who could care less.

  “You waited a long time that morning.”

  “It’s no big deal.” The story of his life. The General made sure he knew he was not going to be mollycoddled by a ride to the far-off school. Marines weren’t made that way. They had to learn how to survive, and if that meant they had to suffer, so be it. Even if they were only nine-years old.