Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "Well, that's good news," Joan said, "seeing as there are no commercial airports on the base."

  "Commander Paoletti hasn't put it into these words exactly, but I know he's had a bad feeling about this visit from the moment news came down from Admiral Crowley."

  "That'll go over well. 'We need to cancel your visit to Coronado, Mr. President, because Commander Paoletti has a bad feeling about it.' " Joan laughed.

  Muldoon didn't. "This is a man whose hunches you should trust," he told her. "Talk to your bosses."

  "I will, but don't expect too much." She leaned slightly across the table, and for one brief moment, he thought she was going to take his hand. No such luck. Jeez, he really liked her. Every minute he was with her, he liked her even more. This was so totally not fair.

  And meanwhile, on the other side of the room was Mrs. Tucker, whom Joan seemed to think was ready to blatantly proposition him if she had half a chance. Oh, boy, wasn't that perfect?

  "My turn for serious conversation," Joan said. "I still want—"

  "To see Team Sixteen in action, training." This tune it was his turn to finish her sentence. "I know. So, okay."

  "Okay? Just like that? Okay?" She was purposely echoing the words he'd used earlier and, he realized, quite possibly trying to imitate him with that wide-eyed look.

  "Very funny. I've set up a simulated training exercise this afternoon. It's a beautiful day for a boat ride, so at 1600 hours I've got a bunch of volunteers—including Jenk, who publicly proclaimed his total devotion to you at a recent team briefing—:

  "Jenk?" she said, laughter in her eyes. "Cherub-faced with freckles? Why is it that I seem to attract the children?"

  Mark Jenkins was actually a little bit older than Muldoon— a fact he chose not to point out. "Cosmo volunteered, too."

  "Old break-your-neck-without-a-sound Cosmo, huh? That's... lovely."

  "He's a good man."

  "I'll have to take your word for it. He's not exactly a glowing conversationalist."

  "If you're done insulting my friend—"

  "I wasn't being insulting," she told him. "Just observing. He also has very nice sunglasses. But that's all I know about him."

  Muldoon had to laugh. "If you're done with your observation of Cosmo—"

  "I'm done with everything I can say aloud without being accused of being harassing and sexist." She smiled at him, and he lost his train of thought.

  What was she telling him? That she found Cosmo attractive? Cosmo?

  He pulled himself back to the point. "Look, at 1600 hours, there're about seven guys willing to put in some additional time to demonstrate some helocasting and recovery techniques. Just for you. Is that okay?"

  "Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?" she countered.

  "No. Just maybe a little appreciative."

  "I am. But I still think I'll keep my distance from Cosmo, thanks. What's helocasting?"

  "It's an insertion technique," he told her. She wanted to keep her distance from Cosmo. He gave up trying to figure her out. "Helocasting is just a fancy name for jumping out of a helicopter and into the water. Of course, there are wrong ways and right ways of doing it. Hopefully this afternoon we'll demonstrate only the right ways. And we'll also show you a recovery technique—basically hooking the men in the water with a big rubber loop and yanking them up and into an inflatable boat. It's a tried-and-true method for getting guys out of the water, developed during the Second World War."

  "Demonstrate," Joan said. "That means I watch, right? No one's pushing me out of any helicopters? I stay out of the water?"

  "Lose the heels," Muldoon recommended, "and your chances of staying out of the water will greatly increase." He smiled at her. "But just in case, I'll make sure you have a life jacket on before we leave shore."

  Joan looked at him. "Michael."

  "Just in case," he said, and flagged down the waiter to get the bill.

  "What are you doing here?" Donny pulled his laptop back as he scooted into the farthest possible corner, away from Vince.

  "People worry about you when you don't answer the door. That's what I'm doing here." It smelled like a gym locker in there, but Vince shut the closet door behind him, hoping that would calm down his grandson. Way too much whites of his eyes were showing.

  He sat down on the floor of the closet—which Don had completely covered, walls and ceiling, with aluminum foil. "Your friend—that gal with the southern accent—gave us a call."

  "Did you lock the door behind you when you came in?"

  "You know I did," Vince said. His grandson was wearing his favorite hat today. With that, the closet dwelling, and the rocking back and forth, Vince was pretty sure it was safe to assume that he'd been off his medication for at least a few weeks now. "You know, Don, you need a few pillows in here. Once you pass seventy, you start to bruise your own ass just by sitting on the floor without a cushion."

  The rocking got more pronounced. "Don't let Gramma open any windows."

  "No, son, she's not even here. She had a ladies' auxiliary meeting." Vince had gotten the call from that southern girl— Mary Lou—on his cell phone after he'd dropped Charlie at the church. "I can't stay long. I just wanted to stop in and make sure you're all right."

  "I'm all right."

  Yeah, if all right meant wearing an aluminum foil hat and living in a closet, Donny was stellar.

  "Last time we were here, you told me you were taking your pills," Vince told his grandson as mildly as he possibly could. "Now, you know I've never judged you, Donny. I've never blamed you and I've never told you how to live your life. I've never done anything but be here in case you need me. So why would you want to tell me something that's not true?"

  Tears welled in Don's eyes. "I can't let them know," he whispered. "Shh. Shhh. They got to my pills and switched them with their pills. But I found out and ... Don't think it, don't think it or they'll find out. Don't think it..."

  Beneath his aluminum-covered hat, Donny was starting to lose his hair. He was approaching forty, a beefy bear of a man, with about thirty extra pounds sitting around his waist.

  Vince could remember him at five. At ten. A shy kid with wide, worried brown eyes who only laughed if you really worked to entertain him. At fourteen, his focus in life was getting A's in school. He stayed in his room and studied as if he were chained to his desk, and everyone told Tony and Sheryl how lucky they were to have such a good son. By sixteen, though, they all knew something was very wrong with Don. By seventeen, he'd stopped leaving the house.

  Medication worked well enough at first for him to be able to attend college. But instead of getting better, getting strong, he crumpled under the intense stresses of college. He got worse. And he went back home to live.

  Which marked the official beginning of the end of Tony and Sheryl's already rocky marriage. Vince's youngest son and his wife had been struggling to stay together for years, and having to deal with a seriously mentally ill child broke the so-called camel's back.

  Sheryl had moved with Donny here to California. Bought this little house, and then proceeded to die of cancer, breaking everyone's heart. Especially Tony's.

  Charlie and Vince had wanted Donny to move in with them after the funeral, but Donny refused. And then surprised the hell out of them all by revealing that he'd been investing in the stock market via the Internet for years. He had enough money—a small fortune—saved to support himself in this little house for the rest of his life.

  "Don't think it," Donny was still repeating.

  A change of subject was in order. "Joanie—your sister—is in town."

  The rocking stopped, and just for a moment, Don sat up a little taller. "Yeah, she E-mailed to tell me she was coming out to San Diego for a few weeks."

  It was the brief glimpses of normal beneath the aluminum-covered hat that were sometimes the hardest to bear.

  "She works for the president," Don continued. "She said the Secret Service makes sure that the aliens can't get to anyone in t
he White House. I need to ask her how they do that."

  Of course, normal never stayed around for longer than a glimpse.

  Vince glanced at his watch. He was going to have to scoot soon in order to get back to the church to pick up Charlie on time. "Joanie told me they all take this special pill that keeps them safe." He was glad Charlie wasn't here, because it drove her crazy when he played to Donny's illness. "How about I call her and ask her to bring you some?"

  Donny started rocking again. It was pretty close to a nod yes.

  "She'll come tomorrow morning," he told his grandson. "And if she's busy, I'll go to her and pick up the pills and bring 'em over myself. How's that?"

  More rocking.

  "Good." Vince creaked his way to his feet.

  Donny didn't like being touched, so he gave the kid a mock salute. "I'll see you tomorrow, kiddo."

  "You said Joanie would come."

  "All right, then. Joan'll see you tomorrow."

  Vince let himself out of Donny's house, locking the door behind him. He had his cell phone out and open before he got into the car, calling back Donny's doctor to give him the thumbs-up for that new prescription.

  Joanie, he knew from experience, would be a little harder to reach.

  Chapter 9

  Joan DaCosta was all right.

  Sam had always thought that Muldoon's taste in women leaned slightly toward grim, whip-cracking Nazi types, but Joan spent most of her time out on the boat laughing. She wasn't afraid to let the salt spray whip through her hair, tying it back only to keep it out of her mouth. In fact, once or twice he'd caught her lifting her face to the wind, to get a good, solid noseful of ocean air.

  She wasn't pretty, not by a long stretch. Her cheeks were too round, her mouth too wide, her chin too pointy. And her nose—he didn't know what the deal was with her nose. It looked like maybe it came from someone else's face entirely.

  Yet, somehow, when she smiled, she was beautiful. It was pretty freaking weird, but within two minutes of meeting her, Sam knew exactly why Muldoon was dogging her.

  Not that Muldoon was capable of getting into any woman's face far enough to call it dogging. He was more like casting wistful glances in her direction and kind of pathetically hoping she would notice him.

  The good news was that she did notice. She played it really cool, laughing and joking and teasing everyone, but her female radar was up and working. And part of her was monitoring Mike Muldoon at all times.

  She thanked them all after they pulled back into the dock, after the demonstration was over, calling each of the men by name and shaking his hand.

  "Thanks for taking the time to do this, Lieutenant Starrett," she said as she shook his. "I think I've probably made you late for dinner."

  Any reason not to go home was a good enough reason to stick around.

  "No sweat," he told her. Just as he'd expected, she had a nice, solid grip. "Dinner's not that big a deal at my house."

  Mary Lou usually ate early, with Haley. She saved a plate for him and heated it in the microwave when he got home. And then she sat there and watched him eat. It was weird eating with an audience like that. Every time he tried to make conversation, he was reminded of just how incompatible they were, which depressed the hell out of him. So he always just sat and ate as fast as he could.

  He'd taken to arriving home minutes before she had to leave for her nightly AA meeting. That way she'd leave, and he'd heat the plate himself.

  Of course, then he'd eat standing up, chasing Haley around the house. He hated the playpen that Mary Lou had bought and put front and center in the living room. Sometimes, if Haley was particularly energetic, he'd put her in there, but climb in, too, and just sit cross-legged while he ate his dinner, careful to keep his plate out of range of his daughter's grasping little fingers.

  After dinner, he'd heat a bottle of milk in the microwave, then sit with Haley on the couch and watch hockey or baseball until she fell asleep, a warm little lump of life on his chest.

  Lately, his timing had been off, and Mary Lou took Haley with her to her AA meetings. Which meant Sam got to come home to an empty, responsibility-free house. Which was what he missed, wasn't it?

  "Regardless, I do appreciate your spending all this time with me," Joan told Sam now with a smile.

  The sun was setting and it was about as romantic as it could get there by the water. Muldoon was hovering nearby, ready to walk her back to the parking lot.

  "What time's that phone call you're expecting?" Sam heard him ask her.

  "Ten o'clock eastern time, which is ... help me out here. All of my already pitiful math skills completely vanished at the shock of watching you guys get lassoed out of the water at top speed by a guy with a rubber noose. I still can't believe necks don't get snapped when you do that."

  "That's generally why we need to get an arm up in there, too," Muldoon told her.

  "You can't be like normal people and stop the boat so the guys in the water can climb on? I mean, sure, it's not as flashy, but..."

  "Stopping the boat can be a major liability."

  "Why?" Joan asked as Sam gathered up the last of his gear.

  "There're a lot of reasons, the biggest being that stopping can be bad for everyone's health if the enemy's shooting at you."

  "Aha!" she said. "Civilian versus military reasoning. I wasn't thinking about any enemy or any shooting, because in my world, I get up and go to work, and occasionally I'll stop at a store on my way home, and there's never anyone shooting at me. But that's what you do when you go to work, right? Get shot at."

  "Actually most of the time we don't get shot at, because the enemy never knows we're there," Muldoon said. "We usually sneak in and sneak back out. What you saw today was an extraction technique that pulls us out of an area quickly. Once the enemy does know we're there, we tend to use speed instead of stealth. I think I mentioned earlier that this technique was first used during World War Two."

  No, no, no, boy wonder. Save the lecture for the classroom. Ask her about herself. Confess a secret. Make this sunset conversation count.

  But Muldoon was an idiot. "See, Navy frogmen would swim all the way to the shore of an enemy-held island to find out what kind of underwater barricades had been constructed," he continued. "They'd do readings on tides and coral reefs and all that other stuff that really matters when you're about to attempt a full-scale invasion, right? The frogmen would check everything out, then swim way back out to a point where they'd be picked up. The idea was to get them out of the water without the boat being hit by enemy shells, and without the enemy catching on that there were swimmers out there being picked up."

  "Gee, and I thought it was just something you did to show off."

  Muldoon laughed. "No. Well, today it was."

  She laughed, too. "It worked. I was impressed."

  "There's probably not enough time to get dinner before you have to take that phone call, huh?" Sam heard Muldoon say.

  Sam rolled his eyes. Amazing ineptitude. Way to give her an excuse not to share a meal with you, Mike, you flipping genius.

  "Actually, I'm still reeling from lunch," she said. "I think I'm just going to get a salad from room service while I watch some CNN."

  That sounds good. Mind if I join you? Come on, Mike. She obviously likes you, she's friendly... This was not that hard to do.

  "The news is on all the time in my office," Joan continued as they started walking toward the parking lot. "I go into withdrawal when I'm away from D.C. because out in the real world, nobody's got the news on."

  Sam didn't catch exactly what Muldoon said, but Joan answered by saying, "I'm having lunch with Commander Paoletti and his fiancée."

  Obviously Muldoon, the fool, had given up on seeing her again that evening and had moved on to tomorrow.

  "She's not in town for that long, blockhead," Sam muttered. "So make your move before it's too late."

  "And you would be talking to... your invisible friend?"

  "Shit!" S
am turned to see Wildcard standing behind him. "Where the hell did you come from?"

  "I am like the wind," the Card intoned. "I move silently across both land and sea."

  "Fuck the wind. You up for getting a beer, Chief?" Sam asked.

  "Since Savannah's in New York, yes, sir, I am." Wildcard fell into step with him. "So. You've started talking to yourself, I see, Captain Queeg."

  "I was talking to Muldoon. I wasn't talking to myself." Although Sam knew that if he could go back in time just a few years, he'd hunt himself down and start talking to himself in earnest. And he wouldn't stop until he was convinced that his younger, dumbass self wouldn't make the same stupid mistakes all over again.

  Christ, speaking of mistakes, what the hell was he going to do about Mary Lou?

  Sam finally called at 8:30.

  Mary Lou waited for two rings before picking up the phone. It was an old habit from when she was a teenager, an attempt to come across as if she wasn't desperate, as if she wasn't eagerly waiting by the phone. Which she always had been. Which she still was even now—a pathetic thought since she was married. "Hello?"

  There was a pause, then Sam's voice. "I thought I'd get the answering machine. I didn't expect you to be ... Didn't you have a meeting tonight? It's me," he added, as if anyone else might ever call her.

  "No, I, um, I didn't go tonight." Mary Lou looked over at the dinner table. She'd gotten out a linen tablecloth—a wedding gift from Sam's sister Elaine, who lived near Boston— and even put out a candle. The steak she'd finally decided on cooking for this "special" dinner was still marinating in Italian salad dressing—a trick Janine had taught her back before she hooked up with Clyde-the-vegetarian and moved to Florida. Lord, she missed her sister.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Yeah," she said. Haley was watching her, sitting in her swing, chewing on her plastic keys, so she forced herself to smile. "Are you still at the base?"

  Another pause, apparently while he decided whether or not to tell her the truth. "No, I'm, uh, over at the Ladybug with Ken."

  He'd gone for truth—at least partial truth. The big question was, who else was at the bar with him?