Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He'd told them—completely seriously—that it was to keep the alien ships from using their yard as a landing pad.

  Sam wasn't openly rude to Donny's face, but he was never more than coolly polite, either, even when Donny made it clear that he thought Sam was just one step down from God, simply because he was a U.S. Navy SEAL. Sam chided Mary Lou for encouraging "the little freak"—a cruel name that would have badly hurt Donny's feelings if he'd heard it, which he hadn't, thank God for small favors.

  "I can't open the door," Donny called back to her now. "It's too dangerous today."

  She could see that he'd wrapped a hat with aluminum foil again and was wearing it pulled way down over his ears—to keep the aliens from being able to read his thoughts.

  The hat came out of the front closet when he was having a particularly bad day.

  "I need to talk to you," she said. She was going to explode if he didn't open this door. "Please, Donny. I'm always there for you when you need me. You know it. You call me, and I come over. So let me in, okay?"

  "I can't do that today."

  "Yes, you can. Just unlock the door. Or—open the window. I'll come in through the window, so quick that the aliens won't be able to come in with me."

  Donny backed away from the door. "That's what you'd say if you were an alien." He started to mutter and mumble to himself, chanting God knows what—maybe incantations designed to keep the aliens at bay. Once he started doing that, there was no hope of having a regular conversation with Kim.

  And Mary Lou's desperation and despair exploded in a burst of tempter. "Oh, for Christ's sake! I'm not an alien, you fucking freak!"

  As soon as the words left her lips, she felt instantly like shit on a stick. There was nothing Donny hated more than being called a freak. Except maybe having aliens really come down from Pluto and suck out his brains. And she wasn't even sure about that.

  "Donny!" she called, ringing his doorbell again. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!"

  He didn't answer. She listened hard, but now there was only silence from inside the house.

  Mary Lou slumped down on the front steps to Donny's house, aware that she'd just shortened her list of friends by a full third. No wonder Sam hated her and sought comfort in the arms of another woman. No wonder Meg Nilsson and the other SEAL wives wanted nothing to do with her. No wonder she hadn't been able to make a single friend among the women and girls who worked at McDonald's.

  She was a terrible person.

  She started to cry.

  She'd been holding it in since she was face-to-face with Alyssa at Mickey D's, but now it escaped, and she sobbed like a four-year-old with a skinned knee.

  She was a terrible, lonely person.

  She might as well go and get drunk. She might as well drink until she couldn't stand up, until she couldn't think, until she couldn't breathe anymore.

  If it wasn't for Haley, she'd do it.

  Of course if it wasn't for Haley, Mary Lou wouldn't be sitting right here. If it wasn't for Haley, she wouldn't be married to Sam.

  Oh, Lord, all she'd ever wanted was to be married to someone like Sam Starrett and to live in a cute little house just like the one that she lived in.

  Except here she was. On the surface, she had everything she'd ever wanted. But although Sam was her husband, he didn't love her. And although she finally had the house, it wasn't a real home.

  God, it sucked.

  And she wanted a drink as badly as she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

  She pushed her giant ass up and off Donny's concrete steps. She crossed his lawn and found herself standing out on her driveway.

  Where her car was parked.

  The car that she could climb into and use to drive herself to the Ladybug Lounge. It would be that easy.

  Her keys were in her pocket. She took them out.

  And threw them. As hard and as far as she could. All the way across her yard and into the yard of the neighbor on the other side of her house from Donny's. Into the carefully tended, thick patch of flowers and bushes next to the Robinsons' screened porch.

  And then she sat down, right there in her driveway, and cried some more.

  Wednesday, January 6,1944.

  It was a day that would change her life forever, but Charlotte Fletcher had been completely unaware of that at the time.

  She'd written in her diary, "Ate lunch at my desk again today, and still haven't managed to keep up with the typing. Stayed late, but Mrs. P. finally chased me out at 7:10.1 don't know why. I feel as if I'm helping the war effort while I'm there, and I've nothing to go home to. Mother F. was at her quilting circle at the church when I came in. This apartment that once held James's and my laughter is as silent and empty as I feel inside. And S. has brought yet another soldier home from the U.S.O. These walls and floors are paper thin. Or maybe the problem is mine. I find it impossible not to listen. Mother F. simply turns on the radio to mask the nightly noise, but I can't. Or maybe it's that I won't. It seems the perfect accompaniment to my misery as I lie alone and sleepless in this bed of mine that's far too cold."

  That had been an added burden to her during the two years since James had been killed—the fact that she missed the physical intimacy of their marriage so very sharply. It seemed petty and selfish, but she ached for more than just his smile and his arms around her. She missed his kisses, his touch, the way he'd quickly set her on fire.

  Her loneliness was made worse by the upstairs tenant, Sally Slaggerty. Sally the Slut, Charlotte called her in her less kind moments. She'd moved into the apartment upstairs two months ago and seemed determined to have intimate relations with every member of the armed forces who passed through Washington, D.C.

  Charlotte again read the entry for January the sixth. "Ate lunch at my desk again today..." Nope, no mention at all of Vince, who'd come into the senator's office even earlier than she had that morning.

  He'd been sitting there, in one of the straight-backed chairs that lined the outer office, waiting for a chance to talk to the senator, when she'd arrived at quarter to seven.

  She might not have even noticed him were it not for the fact that he sat directly across from her desk. Whenever she looked up from her typing, there he was. Sometimes watching her, sometimes with his eyes shut.

  He kept himself wrapped in a Navy overcoat. Only occasionally did she get a glimpse of the rumpled Marine uniform he wore beneath it.

  He was painfully young—Charlotte guessed nineteen at the most. He was quite handsome despite the fact that his face was thin and his cheeks hollow. His eyes and hair were both dark. He looked as Italian-American as his name—Vincent DaCosta.

  By ten A.M., Charlotte asked Mrs. Pierce in a low voice why the Marine had been kept waiting for so long.

  Mrs. P. told her, also speaking quietly, that he hadn't an appointment. He'd been waiting outside the office door this morning when she'd unlocked it. Mrs. P. had informed him that the senator had no extra time today, but he asked if he might wait, on the chance that something might open up.

  Charlotte ate her sandwich furtively at her desk, during one of the times he had his eyes closed. She knew that he must be hungry, but didn't know how to share lunch with such a handsome young man without seeming inappropriately forward.

  At two P.M., when it became clear that the day was becoming more snarled rather than less, Charlotte went out from behind her desk and over to the Marine.

  He got to his feet immediately, and she realized that he must've been injured recently, because, although he tried to hide it, she could see that it caused him pain just to stand.

  "You're wasting your time today," she told him, quickly perching on the edge of the chair next to his, so that he could return to his seat as well. She didn't have time herself to be anything but direct. "I'm sorry, but Senator Howard will be going from one scheduled meeting to the next all afternoon. I think it would be wise for you to make an appointment."

  "The next available appointment isn't for three weeks," the
young man countered. He sat, but not before his face had turned another shade of pale. "I need to see him now."

  "I'm sorry, but—'

  "Look, all I want is his ear for five short minutes."

  "You and his wife," Charlotte said dryly. "Get in line."

  The Marine didn't laugh. "It's very important," he said.

  He may have been young and only an enlisted private in the Marines, but there was something about his dark eyes in that lean, pale face that was disconcerting.

  "Everything that goes on in this office is very important," Charlotte informed him, retreating back behind her desk.

  "May I wait here anyway, Miss... ?" he asked.

  "Missus," she corrected him. "Fletcher. And yes, you may. It's still a free country, Private."

  He smiled and it transformed his face, turning him from merely handsome into truly beautiful. "Yes, ma'am. I do believe that's what we're fighting for."

  Joan liked both Jenk and Gilligan immediately.

  Jenk was the shorter of the two. In fact, with his slight stature, his freckled face, and his cheerful smile, he looked to be even younger than Muldoon. More like a high school freshman than a Navy SEAL.

  Gilligan was taller, with dark hair and an interesting.; angular nose that kept his face from being overly pretty.

  They were both friendly and relaxed, and she didn't have to work overtime to make them laugh.

  The SEAL nicknamed Cosmo was a different story. He not only was older than the other men, but he didn't say a word as she shook his hand in greeting. And although he kept his distance, running up and down the ropes as he rigged some kind of harness thingy to the top of the cargo net's frame, she got the sense that he was listening to everything that was being said.

  It was entirely possible that he even smiled once or twice. But it was hard to tell, especially since he wore sunglasses and she couldn't see his eyes.

  They were all extremely physically fit. There was no doubt about it—Brooke would enjoy this type of hands-on demonstration very much indeed. And the news photographers would be in heaven.

  And—alleluia—there would finally be a positive news story and photo featuring Brooke Bryant on the front page of every paper across the country.

  Muldoon took charge immediately, making sure they were ready to go. He gave orders effortlessly, without apology, maintaining his status of leader while at the same time managing to be a working part of the tight-knit unit.

  It was more than obvious that the other men—including Cosmo-the-silent-but-deadly, or maybe especially Cosmo— completely respected him.

  Joan couldn't help but be impressed.

  Which, she suspected, was one of the reasons Muldoon had set up this little demonstration. Although she wasn't quite sure if his intention had been for her to be impressed by him, or by the Navy SEALs.

  It was her guess that those two things were one and the same. Muldoon was the Navy SEALs, and the SEALs were made up of men like Muldoon.

  Yeah, she was impressed all the way to her toes, and the demonstration hadn't even officially started yet.

  "Here's the scenario," Muldoon told them after double-checking to make sure the harness was secure. "We've been sent in to rescue Joan DaCosta, a thirty-year-old American woman in good health who works, let's say, at the U.S. embassy in Manila."

  "Thirty-two," Joan interjected. "Almost thirty-three."

  Muldoon chose to ignore her. "She's been grabbed and taken hostage by Abu Sayyat, a terrorist group linked to al-Qaeda in the Philippines. We've pinpointed her location— she's on a remote island. We've gone in and eliminated the terrorists who were holding her and—

  "Eliminated," Joan interrupted. "Why don't you military guys just say what you really mean—killed?"

  "Because what we really mean is eliminated" Muldoon told her evenly. "Targets are eliminated and terrorists are targets."

  His eyes were a truly remarkable shade of blue. Cosmo was still wearing his sunglasses, so she couldn't see his eyes, but Gilligan's were a deep, soft brown, and also very pretty. Jenk's were on the blue side of hazel.

  They were all looking at her, and Joan looked back at them, one by one, suddenly aware that all of these men—and maybe particularly scary Cosmo—had eliminated many terrorist targets. It was part of their job description.

  She looked into Muldoon's eyes again, trying to see regret or even remorse at having taken human lives.

  It wasn't there. She only saw... patience and maybe a hint of warm amusement. He liked her. She knew that. But it wasn't going to ruin his day if she disapproved of this aspect of his job. He didn't need her approval—he was that sure of himself.

  It was a tremendously attractive thing—that much self-confidence. Joan quickly looked away from him, afraid of what he might see in her own eyes.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Please go on."

  "We've eliminated—" His gaze flickered back to her for a second. "—the tangos in the immediate area, but Intel has made us aware that the entire island is crawling with potential hostiles. World War Three will break out if they realize we're in the area, so we can't bring a helo—helicopter—" He looked at her again as he translated. "—for extraction. Extraction means leaving an operation—

  "And insertion means arriving. You told me that before," she said. "It's proven to be an effective tool for me in my job if I actually listen to the people from whom I'm getting information. Go on, please."

  "Our safest, fastest route off the island is to proceed with stealth down to the harbor and swim," he continued. "Out in the harbor is a French freighter about to leave port. They know we're coming, and have rigging similar to our cargo net here secured along the starboard side of the vessel—the side facing away from town. We can climb on board without drawing any attention to ourselves. Any questions?"

  "What do you do with a plan like that when your former hostage informs you that she can't swim?" Joan asked.

  "As long as Lieutenant Muldoon's with you, you don't need to know how to swim," Jenk told her with a grin. "You just need to know how to hold on."

  "Yeah, but what if she's really freaked out by deep water, like really can't handle it, can't even go out on a boat?" she asked.

  "Are you really?" Muldoon asked.

  "No. I love boats. My only fear relating to the ocean is being forced to wear a bikini in public. I'm much more the tank suit type." She liked to swim—although calling it swimming was an exaggeration. She was an excellent doggy paddler, despite the fact that she hated getting water in her ears. She was prone to sinus infections. "I'm just saying what if."

  "There's a good chance that information about any severe phobias would be included in the personnel records made available after the hostage went missing," he told her. "Although, you never know." He turned to Jenk. "You have Joan's file?"

  She turned to Jenk, too. Joan's what?

  The shorter SEAL was already holding something out toward Muldoon. A file. Her file. Holy shit. What exactly was in there?

  "This is your file," Muldoon told her. "It contains information about you—next-of-kin type stuff, as well as standard info like all the places you've ever lived, colleges you attended, you know. Any known medical conditions. There's also a list of basic physical characteristics along with several photos—because hostages are not always alert and able to identify themselves. And occasionally they've been beaten to the point that the photos really don't help, hence the list of identifying marks." He smiled. "You know that tattoo you got about five years ago... ?"

  "Oh, shit!" Joan snatched the file from his hands. "Let me see that."

  Not only were there several extremely hideous pictures of her in there—out of three, only one of them wasn't awful— but there was indeed a brief list of physical characteristics, including her double piercings in each ear, and yes, the small rose tattoo she'd gotten just below her left hip.

  She flipped through the rest of the papers.

  "God, how embarrassing. My tattoo's in my file, yet the
re's nothing here at all about my skill as a public relations person and a writer. Isn't that telling about our society?"

  Jenk pointed helpfully to the page that held a summary of her college transcript. "They list your SAT scores. Which were almost as high as mine."

  Muldoon gave him one look and Jenk pulled his hand back as quickly as if he'd gotten smacked.

  "This isn't that sort of file," Muldoon told her. "This is basic and limited information that will help us ID you and therefore be able to get you to safety. If there was more time to prepare, we'd receive more information about you." He smiled. "Maybe even a writing sample. But for right now, this file has one of the things we need most. Your measurements."

  "Excuse me?" Was he kidding? Joan couldn't tell because he was smiling. If he was, it was a bad joke. But he looked pointedly behind her, and she turned.

  "Your new wardrobe," Muldoon said.

  Jenk was now holding up a pair of ankle-high boots. And Gilligan held what looked like a green-and-brown camouflage jumpsuit. Jungle print, she remembered it was called.

  "When we kick down the doors and rescue you," Muldoon told her, suddenly serious, "we come in prepared for you to be in any condition. You might be beaten so badly that you can't walk. If that's the case, we'll stabilize you and carry you out. You might be naked and handcuffed in the corner of the room. We'll get you unlocked and cover you up. You might— and we always hope this is the case—you might be physically unharmed but wearing a skirt and high heels, like you are right now. I don't know about you, but personally, I've never been able to run well in heels."

  "Me, neither," Cosmo said, perfectly deadpan.

  Joan took the jumpsuit from Gilligan. "Is mere somewhere I can go to put this on?"

  "Chances are you wouldn't have time to be modest," Gilligan told her apologetically. "You'd either change right there or just pull this on over your clothes."

  "If those are my choices, I'll take option two." She kicked off her shoes and stepped into the pants.

  "It'll work better if you hike up your skirt," Muldoon suggested, and for a second she thought he might actually reach in and help.