Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "Well, then she can't be from the White House," Izzy countered.

  "I've met her, too," Jenk said. "And I'm in love. Hey, Lieutenant, can I come to lunch with you?"

  "Let's keep this on track," Jacquette intoned. "We've got a long night ahead of us. Sit down, Collins."

  Collins sat as Jacquette turned back to the commander.

  "We're going out tonight to do the first in a series of night dives," Paoletti told them. "There's a certain cave in an as-yet-undisclosed location that's a big favorite of a high level al-Qaeda leader due to its proximity to an underground source of fresh water. A lot of fresh water. As in an entire lake's worth.

  "We've found what we think is an access route into that cave, via that underground lake. At least one seven-man team is going to swim in and get a read on how many al-Qaeda fighters are inside this cave. If the numbers are small enough, they'll rise out of the lake like creatures from the Black Lagoon—hence the op's name—and secure the cave from the inside out. If the numbers are too large, they'll stay invisible and plant explosives."

  "In addition to night dives, we're going to be spending a serious chunk of prep time over the next fourteen days spelunking," Jacquette added.

  "As well as practicing everyone's favorite: close quarters combat," Paoletti said. "Are there any questions?"

  Wildcard raised his hand. "I ran into a couple of members of Max Bhagat's FBI counterterrorist team in the parking lot today. I've heard a lot of conflicting rumors about this that maybe you can clear up, sir. Is the Bureau going to play a major part in Black Lagoon?"

  "Not that I've been told," Paoletti said. "Although maybe we should ask that question of Max Bhagat himself."

  He nodded at Jenkins, who left his seat to go open the door at the back of the room.

  Standing next to Muldoon, Sam got very tense as, one step behind Max, FBI agent Alyssa Locke walked in.

  Chapter 7

  Sam had fully intended to crash after the dive in the BOQ—the Bachelor Officers Quarters—on the base instead of going home.

  But he changed his plans when Jules Cassidy intercepted him on his way out the door. It was right after the meeting in which Max Bhagat—who was sleeping with Alyssa—had h> formed them that the FBI had a source claiming San Diego was a viable target for an impending terrorist attack. That source had indicated a threat to the area's airports.

  This type of threat had been going on pretty much nonstop since 9/11, and no one in Team Sixteen was particularly perturbed. Security at the Coronado Naval Base would be moved up a notch, which meant it would take them all a little bit longer to get through the gates when they arrived in the morning as the vehicles of any strangers coming onto the base were subjected to random searches.

  Max—who was sleeping with Alyssa—had asked them all to be aware of and report any suspicious behavior, and to remind their families to do the same.

  The good news was that the FBI wasn't playing any part in Operation Black Lagoon.

  The bad news was that Max, Alyssa, her partner Jules, and a support team would be spending the next few weeks in the area, although not on the base, per se.

  It was good they wouldn't be hanging around, since Sam would prefer sticking needles in his eye to seeing Max and Alyssa together, day in and day out.

  Jesus, she'd looked good with her hah- cut short like that.

  Jules was a different story. Jules was an okay guy and Sam didn't mind him hanging around. Over the years, he'd even managed to become one of Sam's closest friends.

  Which added an interesting twist to the entire surreal situation, considering that Jules was flamboyantly homosexual.

  And Sam wasn't.

  Jules had approached him after that meeting with a smile that couldn't hide the worry in his eyes. "I know you're in a hurry, Sam, but I thought you should know that Alyssa and I ran into your wife today at the McDonald's here on base."

  Oh, fuck. "Well, that'll teach me to think 'It can't get much worse.' Thanks for the warning."

  "It's been a while—I've been meaning to call you, but..." Jules walked with him toward the boats that would take the SEALs to the dive's location. "Are things okay with you?"

  "Oh, yeah," Sam said. "Everything is fucking wonderful. And now when I go home, I'm going to get four straight days of accusations on top of 'But why do you have to leave? Why can't you stay home this time and let someone else go?' That'll be loads of fun."

  "I'm sorry we went in there," Jules said.

  "Yeah, fuck sorry—you didn't know. You just wanted a burger."

  "Actually, it was a chicken sandwich, but, yeah. We went in for lunch, not to add to your personal hell."

  There was silence then as Mike Muldoon moved into earshot. But as he glanced from Sam to Jules, he broke into a trot, quickly passing them and giving them a chance to continue talking privately.

  "Be still my heart," Jules said, gazing after him. "I don't suppose Michael Muldoon has come out of the closet yet."

  Sam rolled his eyes. Jules knew damn well that Muldoon wasn't gay. He was only doing this to annoy him. Or maybe distract him from his shitty home life. "Even if he was gay, I thought you and Adam were, you know ..." Living together. Jesus, he couldn't believe he was friends with a guy who was romantically involved with someone named Adam.

  "Adam packed up and moved out. He went to L.A."

  Ouch. "Sorry."

  "Yeah." Jules's smile was forced. "Well, life goes on, doesn't it?"

  "Yeah," Sam agreed. "It sure as fuck does." But, Christ, wasn't anyone happy anymore?

  Max. Max Bhagat was happy. He had to be happy, with Alyssa Locke in his life, the lucky son of a bitch. Sam had found himself watching the man tonight, thinking that for someone who shared a bed with Alyssa, he sure as hell didn't manage to look blissfully content.

  He and Jules walked in silence for a bit, and then Sam said it. He swore to himself that he wouldn't, but he couldn't keep his stupid mouth closed.

  "How is she?"

  As soon as he said it, he didn't want to know. He couldn't bear to know. But now he couldn't seem to get his mouth open to say, Ignore that. Ignore me.

  Jules, of course, knew he was talking about Alyssa. "She's all right. She's been spending a lot of time with her sister and her niece, which is always good for her. That little kid is amazing. Lanora. I've met her a few times. She's good medicine. So that's good. And well, I'm sure you've heard that career wise, Alyssa's doing great—"

  "Yeah, way to go. Sleeping with the boss'll really make those promotions happen."

  "What's that earthy expression you always use?" Jules said. "Oh, yeah. Fuck you. Fuck you, Sam. You dumped her and married someone else. Remember? Does that ring any bells for you?"

  Sam hated arguing with Jules because the little fucker had all the answers. He was always right. But this time Sam had access to insider information. "Yeah, well, Alyssa was never serious about me anyway, so—

  "Oh, you have no clue what she went through—"

  "I was just a transition out of her private ice age." Alyssa had told him herself that she 'd never intended her relationship with Sam to be anything but temporary. "She probably had her fucking eye on Bhagat the entire time. Why just have an affair when you can have an affair and a promotion, too?"

  God, Sam sounded like the pathetic loser that he was, but he couldn't stop himself.

  Jules stepped directly in front of Sam, getting right in his face, despite the fact that the fruitcake was seriously vertically challenged. "Double fuck you! You have no right to whine or complain or belittle the emotional support she's found from a solid, stand-up guy who's been nothing but good to her. Whenever she spends time with Max, I applaud. And you should, too, you dumb shit! If you really care about her, you should be happy for her."

  "Are you happy for Adam?" Sam countered.

  "I'll be happy if he falls into the La Brea tar pits with his new pretentious friend Branford," Jules said tightly, "but that's hardly the same situation. This was you
r choice."

  "I had no fucking choice." Sam brushed past him. "I got Mary Lou pregnant."

  Jules caught his arm. "You and Mary Lou had already split up, what, four months earlier? That's a long time, Sam. Why didn't she tell you about the baby back when there were other options? Why did she wait so long to let you know?"

  "She tried," Sam said. "All right? She didn't manage to connect with me. I was the one who didn't take her phone calls—I never called her back. And then I was out of the country ..." And then he was with Alyssa, thinking that the rest of his life was going to be one golden, glowing, good time.

  But Mary Lou's sister called Johnny Nilsson's wife, Meg, who called Johnny, who called Sam. And the shit hit the fan.

  "Mary Lou didn't manage to connect with you because she didn't want any options other than the one she got." Jules could be a regular pit bull when he was feeling self-righteous. "Marriage to a Navy SEAL. Congratulations. The bride may kiss her grand prize. The groom wins a chance to be completely miserable for the rest of his life. And the baby grows up with this really warped sense of family and—

  "Stop," Sam ordered. "Maybe you don't understand this, Cassidy, because you live your life however the fuck you want to, but I got Mary Lou pregnant, and I had to deal with it. I had to do the right thing."

  His words echoed in his head as he crept into his house at 0400, as he found Mary Lou asleep in the living room, curled up on the sofa, in front of the TV

  Shit.

  Her makeup was smudged around her eyes and running down her face in big black streaks—obvious evidence that she'd been crying.

  Maybe from watching one of those weepy romantic movies she liked so much.

  But probably not.

  On the TV screen, Tom Hanks, dressed in WWII combat gear, died. Saving Private Ryan. It was a long movie, but still, she must've started it well after midnight. Well after she usually was in bed.

  Unless she was up, crying over something Sam had done, or something Sam had failed to do, or something she was afraid he might go and do.

  Jesus save him, what a god-awful way for both of them to live their lives.

  He'd wanted to do the right thing, but it was entirely possible he'd done the exact opposite for everyone involved.

  Except maybe Max Bhagat, who was sleeping with Alyssa.

  Sam wanted to cry, too. But, Jesus, he'd shed enough tears in the past few years to float a battleship. It didn't do a damn bit of good. In fact, it only made him feel worse.

  The remote was on the floor in front of the couch. Sam picked it up and turned off the TV.

  Which woke up Mary Lou. She was groggy at first. "Sam?" With her thick southern accent, she could make his name sound as if it had two syllables.

  "Yeah, it's me. Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

  She sat up, got her bearings. "What time is it?"

  "A little after four."

  She was wearing a pair of thin cotton pajamas that did little to contain the bounty of her bosom. He'd read that somewhere. He couldn't remember exactly where or what. But the phrase came to mind immediately whenever he looked at Mary Lou.

  She had a body that didn't quit. After her pregnancy she thought of herself as fat, but Sam had seen her naked and the more appropriate word was lush.

  With just a little bit of sweet talk, a few hints, and some extra warmth in his smile, he could have her. Whenever he wanted.

  Trouble was, he didn't want her.

  He knew she was working hard to try to make him happy. In every possible way. Even right now, after she'd spent the night crying over him. If he so much as told her that she smelled good, she'd be on her back, waiting for him.

  And, Jesus, that was weird. Like, instead of a wife, he had a concubine. Her selflessness—and he didn't mean that in any positive sense of the word—was getting kind of freaky.

  She did something of the same thing when it came to her so-called domestic duties. She cooked and cleaned and did his laundry with a devotion that was a little frightening. If he so much as mentioned that the kitchen floor needed sweeping, she not only had the broom in her hands, but the mop and bucket out as well.

  As if maybe keeping the house clean enough would magically make him happy.

  Mary Lou opened her mouth to speak, and he braced himself. Because as compliant as she was these days about everything else, the line was drawn when it came to Alyssa Locke.

  And no matter how often Sam assured her that he hadn't slept with Alyssa since they were married, Mary Lou didn't buy it.

  But this time she only said, "You're home earlier than I expected."

  "Yeah." Unwilling to wait for her to bring up the subject, Sam threw it out on the table. "I spoke to Jules today. He told me he and Alyssa bumped into you at work."

  "Yes." Mary Lou stood up. "They both looked ... fit. It was... nice to see them."

  What the hell... ? Sam stared as Mary Lou headed toward the bedroom.

  "I'd appreciate it if you took a shower before coming to bed" was all she said before she vanished down the hall.

  His first thought was that she finally believed him. That everything Sam had told her about Alyssa hooking up with Max had been verified through the local grapevine and that Mary Lou now knew the truth—that his affair with Alyssa really was a thing of the distant past.

  But he knew that wasn't a possibility. Because who would've told her that about Alyssa? Who would've dared bring Alyssa up in a conversation?

  No one, unless Nutjob Don next door had received the info via an alien radio signal picked up by his fillings...

  Sam looked at the video box for Saving Private Ryan that was lying on the coffee table. Mary Lou hadn't been watching that movie because she'd wanted to. She didn't like war movies. She didn't like anything that didn't have a happy-ever-after ending.

  But just last week Sam had casually mentioned how much he'd enjoyed that film.

  It was all just more goddamn selflessness, both her watching this movie tonight and her walking away from a potential fight about Alyssa.

  She was trying to make herself as easy as possible to live with.

  Because on some level she knew that Sam no longer truly believed he'd done the right thing by marrying a woman he couldn't even pretend to love.

  Charlie couldn't sleep.

  She'd fallen asleep right after dinner, and now she was up, drifting about the' use like a ghost at 4:30 A.M., trying to be quiet while Vince , :pt.

  Of course, she could probably vacuum the bedroom rug and he wouldn't wake up. He was losing his hearing, despite his insistence that he wasn't. She was getting good and tired of repeating herself every time she spoke.

  But whenever she brought up the idea of his getting fitted for hearing aids, Vince found some excuse to go out into the backyard—usually on the pretense of tending then- garden.

  Was it possible that he was in denial about growing old? She had to chuckle at that. His eightieth birthday was fast approaching. It was hard to pretend that you hadn't achieved elderly status when you hit the old eight-oh milestone, as she'd done three years ago.

  Despite their advanced years, they were both in good health, and she thanked God each day for that. Their children and grandchildren were all healthy, too. Well, with the exception of Donny. And she'd long reconciled herself to the fact that he'd never be well.

  God worked in mysterious ways, and for some reason He'd decided that Donny would be one of His special people.

  Perhaps it was His way of reminding them that without sadness, joy wouldn't be quite as sweet.

  Charlie had learned that lesson years ago. Firsthand.

  She stopped her early morning waltz around this house— their "new" house—that she'd shared with her husband for the past twenty-five years, pausing by the picture of Vince in his Marine uniform. She picked it up from its place of honor on the fireplace mantel. It had been taken right after he'd signed up. The day after Pearl Harbor. The day after James had left this world.

  Vince w
as grinning in the photograph, looking as if he were going to burst into merry laughter. He looked healthy and robust, with the very devil in his sparkling eyes.

  It was true that the photo had been taken several years earlier, but it was a far cry from the intensely grim, hollow-cheeked young man who'd fainted at her feet in Senator Howard's office in January 1944.

  As Charlotte had rushed to help him, Mrs. P. had started to phone for an ambulance. He'd revived almost right away, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees and insisting that he didn't need to go to the hospital.

  It was then that Charlotte found out he didn't have a hotel room in the city. Apparently he'd been sleeping in churches. Lots of servicemen did, those days.

  Those few men who didn't spend the night in Sally-the-upstairs-tenant's bed, that is.

  And so Charlotte had done the only thing she could think of to do. She'd brought Private DaCosta home.

  She and Edna Fletcher took turns sitting with him those first few nights. But the penicillin Dr. Barnes had prescribed won the battle with his infection, thank goodness, and it wasn't long before the young Marine was resting more comfortably.

  By Monday, he was doing well enough that Charlotte felt able to return to work.

  But for the first time in years, she actually put on her coat at 5:00. For the first time since the early days of her marriage, when James had been stationed here in Washington, she was not merely ready but eager to return home when the evening rolled around.

  And it felt wrong. It felt as if she were being unfaithful. As she got off the bus and walked those last few blocks home, it felt like a terrible betrayal to James's memory.

  By the time she went into the apartment and hung up her coat, she was good and upset.

  And Mother Fletcher was singing—singing—in the kitchen as she prepared dinner.

  Charlotte didn't say a word as she went in to help.

  "He's much better," Mother reported. "He actually ate quite a bit at breakfast and again at noontime. And he even asked me to help him shave just a short while ago." She winked at Charlotte. Winked. "It's a good sign when a young man cares enough about his looks to ask for a shave."