The Colonel's Daughter

by Debby Giusti

  “Michele.” He closed the gap between them.

  She squared her shoulders, determined to remain in control. “What about Yolanda?”

  “We live in the world, Michele. Evil exists. Bad people who do bad things exist, no matter how much we want to pretend they don’t. We can’t control what they do—only how we respond.”

  A roar filled her ears. She wrapped her arms across her chest and stepped back again, wanting to distance herself from Jamison and his hollow rhetoric.

  Yolanda shouldn’t have died, and Michele shouldn’t have made a bad decision that resulted in her brother being on board the helicopter that fateful day. A decision everyone in her family refused to talk about.

  As if in a dream, the memory from ten months ago of Jamison’s blood-smeared white shirt returned unbidden. Dawson had been hit, but when she’d gotten the call about the shoot-out on post, Michele thought Jamison had been the one not expected to live.

  She turned away, no longer able to look at Jamison, and fled into the hallway. Tears burned her eyes. Her hand grabbed the banister.

  “Is something wrong, dear?” Her mother’s voice came from the living room. “Michele?”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t reply or she would break down on the stairway. At the landing, she turned into the first bedroom. Her room. Closing the door, she slipped the lock into place.

  Lance’s picture smiled at her from the dresser. She opened the top drawer and saw the Bible he had given her. A book she hadn’t read since his death.

  Her gaze fell on a small framed verse she’d received as a child. All things work together for good to those who love God.

  After everything that had happened, she couldn’t trust the Lord. Not now. Not ever.

  A small wooden box nestled next to the Bible. Her fingers touched the wood, unwilling to open the lid. She pushed the drawer shut and fell onto her bed.

  She clenched her eyes closed, hoping to block out the moment. Instead, her mind filled with the horrible vision of Yolanda’s body.

  “No.” Michele shook her head and groaned.

  Lance’s funeral. The cloying smell of flowers surrounded his casket.

  The minister’s voice sounded in her ears. “The Lord giveth life and the Lord taketh away life.”

  Once again, she saw Jamison’s blood-smeared white shirt, only this time he was dead.

  “Why, Lord?” she cried. “Why do You always take the ones I love?”

  SIX

  Cell phone in one hand, Jamison gripped the steering wheel with the other as he talked to Dawson. “I’m on my way to the auditorium. Mrs. Logan and Michele should be along shortly in their own vehicle. Stiles will remain at the quarters while McGrunner follows the ladies. I told him to stick like glue to both of them.”

  “Mac’s a good man.”

  “Who understands the importance of protecting the colonel’s wife.” Jamison’s tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Just so long as Mac would keep Michele safe, as well.

  “Were all the spouses notified about the briefing?” Dawson asked.

  “Affirmative. Mrs. Logan sent out an email to the Family Readiness Groups earlier today. All the spouses should have received the information. Everyone has been waiting for word of the brigade’s redeployment, so the briefing wasn’t a total surprise, despite the short notice. Those who don’t have internet access were contacted by phone.”

  “You checked the auditorium?”

  “The building’s clean. I’ve got men patrolling the parking lot and surrounding area. They’ll remain on-site until everyone leaves the premises.”

  Dawson blew out a breath. “You’re expecting the killer to show up tonight?”

  “It’s a possibility. Having that many people, mainly women, amassed in one area is a perfect opportunity for a psychopath to wreak havoc on Fort Rickman.”

  “Yet there’s no indication he’s on post.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not. I plan to stress that point when I brief the families tonight. I’ll also discuss the

  welcome-home ceremony as well as the security issues at the airfield.”

  “I’ll be glad when the brigade returns to post. Soldiers home from a war zone are a formidable protective force.”

  “Even then, we can’t let down our guard until the killer is apprehended.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  Jamison wasn’t as confident. “What’s happening with the press?”

  “The commanding general is asking the media to go through the Public Affairs Office. They issued a statement, and so far everyone’s been compliant.”

  “No one tied the run-in at the cemetery to the murder?”

  “Not that I’ve heard so far. I contacted the Freemont police. They’re still tracking down the names of townspeople who have relatives buried near the oak tree.”

  “Simpson was the officer at the cemetery today. He seemed competent.”

  “Freemont P.D. verified the blood on the gravestone was bovine, not human.”

  “Exactly as Simpson suspected.” Jamison made a mental note to call the Freemont cop. “Did you discuss the autopsy with Major Hansen?”

  “The doc seems to be as busy as we are. He finally returned my call. What he found was consistent with the victim’s wounds. The autopsy revealed nothing we didn’t already know.”

  “What about the Prime Maintenance man?”

  “Danny Altman? Evidently he took a couple days’ leave.”

  “Convenient.” Jamison focused his gaze on the road ahead. “Any word from Special Agent Warner in Afghanistan?”

  “Negative. You want me to call him?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Listen, buddy—” Dawson hesitated. “I was as surprised as you were today when the chief gave me the lead on this case. You know I wouldn’t go behind your back or ask for you to be taken off the investigation.”

  Jamison didn’t want to rehash a decision the chief had already made. “Wilson’s in charge. He did what he thought was right.”

  “It’s not how it looks.”

  “He believes in you, Dawson. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Just keep me informed,” Jamison said before he disconnected.

  Dawson was a good agent. A few months junior by date of rank to Jamison, but Dawson had excellent instincts and was a bulldog when it came to tracking down evidence. Plus, he could handle the pressure of both the chief and the commanding general demanding an arrest. As much as Jamison hated being removed from the investigation, finding the killer and putting him behind bars was the goal, no matter who took the lead.

  Turning into the parking lot, Jamison flicked his gaze over the large freestanding auditorium. Military police stood guard at the doors, ready to check the identification cards of all who sought entry. Each MP had a list of spouses’ names, which had been pulled from the master roster at the brigade. Anyone seeking entrance other than family members would be questioned. Purses and totes would be searched, and every precaution would be taken to ensure the safety of all those attending the briefing.

  Leaving his car at the far side of the auditorium, Jamison double-timed toward the building. Once he confirmed that the proper security measures were being implemented, he stepped back outside and eyed the stream of cars heading into the parking lot.

  Car doors slammed as women exited their vehicles and walked toward the large central structure. Despite the news of the unit’s impending arrival, the women’s eyes were solemn and their faces strained with worry—no doubt, because of Yolanda’s death.

  A light blue sedan turned into the lot. Michele sat behind the wheel, her mother next to her in the passenger seat. A military police cruiser followed close behind. As Michele parked, the cruiser pulled over to the curb where Jamison stood.

  Corporal McGrunner, a tall Midwest farm boy with a lanky body and a ready smile, rolled down his window and saluted. “Both Mrs. Logan and her daughter are present an
d accounted for, sir.”

  “Anything happen at the Logan quarters after I left?”

  Mac shook his head. “Negative. Except Mrs. Logan offered us sweet tea and chocolate chip cookies.”

  “I won’t ask whether you succumbed to her Southern hospitability.”

  The MP’s eyes twinkled. “Mrs. Logan can be insistent.”

  Jamison had to smile. “Remain outside, Mac. Keep watch. After the briefing, we’ll escort the ladies back to their quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jamison adjusted his tie as he hustled across the parking lot. He approached the sedan and held the door open for Mrs. Logan.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Evening, Jamison.”

  Michele dropped the keys into her handbag. She stepped onto the asphalt and turned to close her door.

  Their eyes met for an instant, causing a muscle in Jamison’s jaw to twitch. “Evening, Michele.”

  “Jamison.”

  She wore a pretty dress that hugged her waist and flowed around her knees. A gentle breeze pulled at her hair. She arranged the wayward strains back into place and heaved a sigh that reminded him of her struggle earlier this afternoon.

  “How’s the leg?” he asked.

  “Not as sore.”

  “And the muscle in your back?”

  “Better.”

  A car turned into the lot and drove toward them. Jamison placed his hand on Michele’s arm, warning her of the approaching vehicle.

  Moved by her closeness, he tried to ignore the swell in his chest and guided her forward once the car passed. “Did you get some sleep?”

  She nodded, her eyes on the pavement.

  Evidently, she didn’t want to talk.

  He turned to Mrs. Logan. “Ma’am, as you probably know, the chaplain’s been on temporary duty in South Carolina. He returned to post this afternoon and will be available if any of the women want to schedule an appointment. He also mentioned a prayer service tomorrow for the unit’s safe return.”

  “You and the chaplain have thought of everything, Jamison.”

  “What are you planning to tell the ladies tonight?” Michele asked, raising her gaze.

  Pointing Michele toward the auditorium, he tried to concentrate on what she had asked instead of her smooth skin and silky hair and the vulnerability he felt emanating from her whenever he got close.

  “Basic safety with emphasis on being cautious. And I’ll encourage those gathered to call us if they’re concerned about anything. We’ve increased the number of phone lines coming into CID headquarters. Plus, we’ve set up a neighborhood watch program in each housing area. Luckily, some of the units aren’t deployed, so we’ve got military personnel organized on foot patrols.”

  Michele raised her brow. “What about the women who live off post?”

  “We haven’t forgotten them,” he said with a flicker of a smile. “The Freemont police have the names and addresses of all the military families in the surrounding area. They’re organizing neighborhood watch programs, just as we are at Fort Rickman.”

  Mrs. Logan patted Jamison’s arm. “I certainly appreciate all you’re doing.”

  “It’s my job, ma’am.”

  “Yes, but you go above and beyond.” Her attention turned to a minivan that had just parked.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” Always the thoughtful colonel’s wife, Mrs. Logan stepped toward the three wives who climbed from the van and greeted each of them with a warm embrace.

  Jamison guided Michele across the street. His hand touched the small of her back, and her hair blew against his shoulder. For an instant, he had a sense of the world’s being in right order.

  Then he glanced at the military police standing at the entrance to the auditorium. With a killer on the loose, nothing was right tonight.

  Tugging the free-flowing strains of her honey-brown hair behind her ear, Michele drew in a shallow breath. “I need to apologize about the way I acted earlier. The muscle relaxer made me tired and emotional.”

  He flicked his free hand, trying to dispel her concern. “Michele, it’s okay. You’ve been through so much. No need to apologize for anything.”

  “I wasn’t myself, Jamison. You know I’m usually levelheaded.”

  Levelheaded? Michele was beautiful in so many ways and stronger than even she realized, but while she tried to make good decisions—levelheaded decisions—she saw life through a prism that twisted reality.

  “You’ve had two shocks in the last twenty-four hours that have taken a toll on you,” he offered, knowing she was waiting for his response. “The hit-and-run accident today was stressful enough without what happened last night. Everyone reacts differently, and you need time to rest and heal. You probably should have stayed home this evening.”

  She shook her head. “I needed to be here for my mother. She seems in control on the outside, but she’s struggling inside. Yolanda’s death, compounded by the anniversary of Lance’s crash. It’s a lot to carry.”

  Michele was able to recognize her mother’s struggle but not her own. The last rays of the setting sun shadowed her flushed cheeks and expressive brows raised in question as if she wanted him to agree.

  When he didn’t respond, she continued, her voice low so only he could hear. “Even though Mother rarely talks about Lance, I know she’s still grieving.”

  Michele was, as well. Jamison held his tongue, hoping she would make the transition to her own internal struggle. Exposing her pain would be healing, but as he waited for her response, he sensed she needed prodding.

  “What about you, Michele? Are you still grieving?”

  She stopped her forward progression and seemed to try to mask her own confusion by straightening her spine and raising her jaw. Although determination flashed from her eyes, he could read through her false bravado.

  When they had dated, Michele had given him only a glimpse of what she held within. Now that they’d been thrown together again, he could see that her grief was still so raw.

  Wanting to console her, he said, “You were lucky.”

  She titled her head and looked defiantly into his eyes. “In what way?”

  “From what you’ve said, Lance was a great brother. You had a close relationship. The pain you feel is because you loved him. Some people don’t grow up surrounded by love.”

  Jamison thought of his own childhood and his wayward father who didn’t know anything about raising a child. “I can only imagine the blessings you experienced growing up. The affirmation alone—”

  He had already said too much. She was starting to shut him out. Jamison had to stop, but he couldn’t resist making one more attempt to pull down the wall she had built around her fragile heart.

  “Some people—” He hesitated, needing to choose his words. “Some people don’t know how to love. Treasure the close relationship you and your brother had, but don’t allow it to keep you from living life in the present.” Jamison struggled every day to keep his past from poisoning his happiness. He hated to see Michele suffering the same way.

  In truth, his father had been a dysfunctional narcissist, who had taken everything from his young son and given him nothing in return. Nothing except condemnation.

  “You’re a failure, a good for nothin’.”

  Michele had grown up with strong role models who practiced loving, giving relationships. She would never be able to understand a man who thought the world owed him everything and who resented his son’s drive and determination.

  Only through the grace of God had Jamison been able to hold on to the truth. He didn’t want a handout or a leg up, nor did he want to live on the dole like his old man. His refusal to compromise on that had destroyed any chance of a working relationship between him and his father, but it had allowed him to build new relationships that he treasured. Relationships with his colleagues. His friends. And God.

  Jamison had worked hard to distance himself from his father and his past. The military had been a good influencer, and the c
haplain who had taught him about the Lord had given him a firm foundation on which to stand.

  But now the military community that had given him so much was in danger. That was why he had to push forward and right the wrongs and protect the innocent and catch the bad guys so no one else would get hurt. Jamison had to succeed. If not, he would turn into the person his father wanted him to be. A failure just like his old man.

  Jamison caught up to Michele as she neared the security checkpoint at the entrance to the auditorium. Had they made any progress tonight? The fact was, he had revealed more than he needed to, which made him wonder about his own internal struggle. As usual, Michele had been more reticent.

  She gave her name and handed her driver’s license to the military policeman, who checked her off the roster. Jamison escorted her to a seat near the stage.

  The woman next to her had rosy cheeks and expressive blue-green eyes and evidently knew Michele because they embraced in a long hug and talked about the last time they had been together.

  “It must have been the battalion’s homecoming,” the rosy-cheeked woman said. “What was it, three years ago when the guys came back from Iraq?”

  “Then you moved on to a new assignment. I didn’t know Paul had been transferred back to post.”

  “He was reassigned to Fort Rickman five months ago,” the woman explained. “Paul left for Afghanistan after we moved into quarters.” Her smile waned. “I...I’m sorry about your brother. His death must have been hard on all of you.”

  Michele nodded and then glanced up at Jamison. “Have you met Special Agent Steele?”

  “Alice Rossi.” She extended her hand. “I’m Sergeant Paul Rossi’s wife.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  Knowing Michele was in good company, Jamison excused himself and joined Mrs. Logan on the stage.

  The seats in the auditorium quickly filled, and a buzz of conversation carried across the hall as the audience chatted among themselves.

  Chaplain Grant, a tall lieutenant colonel with a long face and a sincere smile, joined them on the stage.

  Jamison accepted his outstretched hand. “Thanks for being here, sir.”