“You didn’t give yourself much time for fun—or returning to New Orleans.”
“No, I never went back.” Because he was afraid as hell he’d never leave. Everything went wrong when a cop put pleasure first.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Logan held his paddle in the water and stalled his kayak, keeping it within the forest’s shade so he could observe. The sun shone quiet and soft over the marsh ahead. Crystal blue river water wove in and out of the ancient marshes and forests, in a dance older than time.
In the woods, a trio of woodpeckers competed for the title of Loudest Noisemaker, uncontested by any human. Off to Logan’s left, an osprey regarded him suspiciously, then apparently decided the human didn’t want to steal the branch in its beak. It flapped off, mottled plumage rippling in the wind, to build its nest.
A flock of red-winged blackbirds swooped onto the tall marsh grasses, making them dance faster than the gentle breeze had. A wing of plovers dove past his head and into the headland, ready to begin a hearty meal.
All so damn different from any desert or war.
He lifted his paddle, then dipped it again, letting the lightweight craft ease forward into the sunlight.
“Thanks for bringing me down here,” Logan said. “You were right: there’s nothing like it close to Washington.”
“Any time, dude, any time. You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for one of the old squad.” Brant Slater shot his ’yak forward to catch Logan’s. When they were side by side, he held his hand up.
Logan snorted and mimed exchanging a high five. Brant was quite right, though. Those two years of hell together ten years ago in the Special Forces had forged a solid bond among the squad’s survivors, no matter where they were now.
Gulls flew overhead, wheeling and dancing like magicians.
“It sure is peaceful through here.” Logan eyed the large groves of trees rising beyond the marsh grass. “Good idea to launch from that Army post.”
“Yeah, they don’t use their boat dock for much of anything, since it’s so close to the marsh.”
“Not even crab fishing?” Logan asked, remembering childhood pleasures involving chicken necks and a long string.
“That’s not official use,” Brant said, in his most sanctimonious voice. “Remember I know all the land that the Pentagon has around Washington.”
“Which is how you knew about the dock.” Damn, it felt good to fall into the rhythm of paddling, here in this world where everything was peaceful and serene.
“Yup. And the nice little wildlife refuge just downriver, which makes sure all those ducks stay well fed.”
“And happy.” Logan sighed in contentment. He’d have to remember this place when duck-hunting season arrived.
A school of minnows flitted past, their silver bodies breaking in and out of the surface as they surged to escape larger fish.
A gap in the trees opened up, leaving the marsh exposed to the sun. Was that a grassy knoll behind the marsh? With low white buildings on it?
“You’re looking good, Brant,” Logan commented. His old pal had always enjoyed mealtime more than most, but now he looked as fit as when he’d gone through SF selection tests. His unlined face made Logan feel scuffed and worn around the edges. “Has your wife—uh, Mary—learned some new recipes?”
“No, I’ve been working out regularly.” Brant’s next stroke cut the water a little harder than necessary and splashed his hands. “Ladies like eye candy in the guy who’s giving the briefings.”
Logan glanced sideways but didn’t say anything.
Nobody had seen Brant in a gym since the knee injury that ended his frontline career. He’d always chased skirts but he’d never worked particularly hard at it.
His true talent was politics. Whenever the team needed something done, Brant took care of it damn fast.
“Besides, it’s good for my knee,” Brant went on. “You got to watch your act when you want to move up from the A Ring to the E Ring, dude.”
“Not me, man,” Logan said with complete sincerity. “I’d rather count bald eagles.”
“Or a sergeant’s stripes.”
“Yeah, that.” It was a good life. He knew what he did had value, even if he was about to be shackled to a desk.
A little boy ran out onto the bluff above the marsh grasses and watched them. Surely he was old enough to be in school, especially since his clothing shouted money. Yet he stood there, sucking his thumb and staring at the strangers.
“At least I don’t have to own a bunch of ties.” Logan stretched to name more of his job’s benefits.
“True.” Brant frowned. “Plus, I got screwed when they shut down the government the day after the big March snowstorm so the plows would have room to work.”
“Had you already arranged to take vacation?”
The boy was rocking back and forth like a much younger child in the middle of a storm, too scared to either run or take cover.
Logan hesitated and scanned the shoreline for a landing spot. Maybe the kid needed an adult’s help.
“Yeah, we took the girls to Florida. But if I’d realized it would snow—”
“You could have stayed in the city and saved your vacation time. Happens to all of us, dude.”
“Yeah, shit happens.”
A young woman skidded to her knees beside the boy and hugged him close. A tall, dark-haired woman ran up behind her and came to a halt only a few feet away. She stood like a guardian angel, arms akimbo, her gaze searching every inch of her surroundings.
The younger woman spoke to the child urgently until he finally nodded and placed his hand in hers. She stood up and gathered him against her hip.
Even from this distance, Logan could see the darkening bruises on her face.
He hissed in a breath.
Then she and the boy vanished, running like the wind into the grass.
Logan stared at their guardian. Look after them, he demanded silently. Stupid thing to do. Did he think she could read his mind?
Her body rocked back, as if in surprise. An instant later, she bowed very slightly to him and disappeared. She hadn’t even taken a step.
Logan closed his mouth and told himself any chill on his skin was solely because some water was tickling his wrists under his dry suit.
Yeah, right. He’d mastered staying dry in a sea kayak during winter years ago, especially during good weather.
But that was his story and he’d stick to it, no matter what his subconscious muttered.
“What do you think?” Brant asked.
“Huh?” Logan replayed the last few minutes in his mind. He’d learned how to record conversations going on around him long before puberty. It was a useful way to keep his own thoughts private.
This time, he didn’t like his companion’s ideas.
“You want to visit Mallows Bay at low tide? Are you nuts?”
“I promised Rebecca I’d take her over to see the ghost ships. This way, we can scout it out first.”
“Brant, there are drowned ships there. You know, really big ones, not just boats.” Their SF skipper had said sometimes you had to drag the obvious out into the open before Brant believed he couldn’t get what he wanted. Besides, what the hell did this Rebecca have to make Brant take such a huge risk for her?
Deep shade edged the water again.
“Yeah, so what? We have to go in carefully, that’s all. It’s not very far.”
“All those wooden World War I boats have rotted away, leaving big iron spikes sticking up. They could rip our ’yaks apart at low tide.”
“Adds a little spice, just like the good old days.”
A pair of bald eagles watched them, enthroned in their nest high atop a tree.
“You’re doing this for some chick named Rebecca?” Logan asked. That phrase might make Brant identify her as his daughter. If not, then she was his girlfriend.
“Do you need a better reason?” Brant shot back, echoing one of the squad’s oldest jokes.
“Hell, no!” Logan roared. It would be neither desert nor war. Did he truly need a better reason, no matter how stupid Brant’s were? “Race you down the river.”
Their paddles dug eagerly into the water, followed a moment later by their kayaks.
The eagles didn’t move, but simply resettled themselves into their perch like knights on guard duty.
“Idiot!” Elswyth shook herself angrily. She’d let two of Enfield House’s most vulnerable residents be seen by passersby.
Worse, she’d allowed a farasha to see her work magick—and then had not wiped away the memory.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She couldn’t even tell herself she’d been entranced by his handsome form because she’d only seen him from the waist up.
At least she had one small consolation. He had a bit of magick in him, since he’d projected his request far enough to be heard by her. Clumsy, so emotional that she could barely make out the words, but enough to tell he cared about the mother and child.
Enough to protect his sanity from her counterblast.
Edmund Carter, formerly of Carter Station, raised a haughty eyebrow at his secretary. Even a Northerner should know better than to receive guests when her boss was due to arrive.
He was certain there were no appointments on his calendar. Everything before noon was dedicated to catching up on legal gossip and sipping coffee, from the comfort of his sole remaining Virginia refuge. After that, he’d have another long lunch with an old friend.
“Good morning, Miss Clay.” He trod across the carpet and picked up his mail. The ugly furniture was all in her office, of course, including the requisite bare steel cabinets.
“Good morning, sir.” Ah, proper humility. She hoped to make her job permanent, of course. No chance of it, but that wasn’t entirely her fault.
She pushed two business cards forward with her fingernails, as if the bits of paper were dead cockroaches. “Miss Murphy and Mr. Fisher of the FBI would like to talk to you, sir.”
Annoyed, Carter glanced up from a headline detailing new rules for judicial foreclosure—not, thank God, much of a Virginia issue—then looked down at her cheap desk.
A round, dark blue seal surrounded by gold flames leaped out at him.
He blanched, colder than he’d ever been in Aspen during the glory days.
Shit, not them. He only needed a couple more days to be free and rich again.
Somehow his fingers were steady when he picked up the loathsome pasteboard. But he was a Carter, born to the finest blood in the Old Dominion. He would face down the enemy and buy himself some time, just as his ancestors had on the great battlefields.
“Good morning, ma’am. Sir.” He extended his hand and granted the interlopers the necessary good, firm shakes. He’d scrub thoroughly later to remove their underbred dirt. “What can we do for you here at Carter and Carter?”
Once the other Carter had stood for sons, the proud second and third generations. Now it stood for ex-wives and lost chances, damn them.
“We’d like to talk to you about your work with Miss Melinda Williams of GSA.” The female agent studied him like a suburban bitch eyeing fresh meat in a grocery store locker, unsure whether to pounce or walk by.
The worst topic, of course.
“Certainly. Why don’t you come into my office, where we can talk?” Thank God, his voice didn’t shake. He waved toward his soon-to-be-violated inner sanctum.
“Sorry to drop in on you like this, without warning,” the man said, his words more contrite than his tone. “We had a hard time making an appointment to see you, for either ourselves or our auditors.”
Auditors?
“We’re very busy here at Carter and Carter these days, now that there’s only one partner to carry the burden of a long and well-established practice,” Carter gave his excuses smoothly, glad for all the occasions they’d previously rolled off his tongue.
Money. How much did they want to know?
He hoped, his unwelcome guests wouldn’t notice how few antiques graced his office. If they mentioned anything, he could always say that it allowed more space to admire each individual item’s finer points. They’d never stoop to personal inquiries about his living arrangements, no matter how much less the humiliating condominium’s rental cost than his previous fifty-acre estate outside Middleburg.
And surely it would take even the FBI time to find those bank accounts in the Cayman Islands.
Now that thought was so comforting it allowed him to face them with the same relaxed bonhomie he’d used to charm decades of property owners and their heirs.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to see me, Hammond.” Curtis hurried out from behind his overflowing desk to pump Jake’s hand. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine.”
“We’re good, Emma.” Curtis nodded to his secretary, who smiled at them and withdrew, closing the door to a remarkably ugly reception area.
“My table’s pretty clear so let’s sit down there.” Curtis waved at a small round table wedged into the corner between two rows of steel file cabinets, topped by stacks of paper. A battered wooden credenza behind his desk was topped by more files, while ranks of framed certificates beamed from the wall.
“Damned ugly, isn’t it?” Curtis said proudly.
Jake blinked, then finished putting his notebook on the table. “Sir?”
“This used to be a warehouse. It’s famous as the ugliest federal office building in the District of Columbia.”
“I wouldn’t think there are many other contestants, sir.” He’d worn a good suit to come here, but the linoleum-clad hallways made him feel overdressed.
“But it’s clean and it does the job.” Curtis smiled proudly at his sturdy desk, which was probably last in fashion before Jake had been born.
“It certainly does.”
“GSA does a better job for our customers, of course.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Melinda Williams was one of our best.” Curtis folded his arms across his chest, his eyes looking somewhere beyond the pale green walls. A West Point ring gleamed on his right hand. “She came to us as an intern, fresh out of high school, and worked her way up. I could count on her for anything.”
Jake made a sympathetic noise. His pen was eager to start writing volumes.
“Hell, I used to call her at two a.m. whenever a water main burst or we had an electrical fire. I remember one time a cafeteria crew had a grease fire the morning a general was due to inspect the entire building.”
“And?”
“She always answered the phone no matter what the hour. No problem, not my girl. Showed up on-site, no matter where, and got the job done. I don’t know how we’ll manage without her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She slowed down a bit over the past year, which is why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sir?” All of Jake’s cop instincts quivered like a bloodhound who’d just caught a new trail’s first whiff of scent.
“She received a promotion last year—not surprising really, considering everything she’d pulled off. But it came with a big price tag: She had to put together a brand-new test facility for the Pentagon.”
“Where?” She’d been roaming around Virginia and North Carolina, not the wilds of Utah or even Mississippi, where those places were usually located. The Defense Department needed privacy to play with its toys.
“They want someplace close enough that Congress can run down to see it during their lunch hour.”
Jake gaped at him, stunned by a vision which his property tax bill said was impossible. “That’d take acres. There’s nothing like that to buy near here, even if you’ve got their kind of money.”
“No, there isn’t, which is why we needed a full-time project manager to pull it together.”
“Lots of travel, but all of it local.”
“Yes, and all during normal work hours. Sh
e started working forty hour weeks.”
“No e-mails late at night?”
“None—and no signs of trouble with her fiancé. I introduced them, since we attend the same church.”
Biased in their favor, of course, but also plenty of observations to back his opinion up. Damn.
“Positive?” Jake slid extra doubt into his voice.
“Absolutely.” Curtis leaned forward, his hands pressing into the table as if he wanted to lock the ideas into Jake’s mind. “Those two saw each other and bam! Nobody else mattered. They were both grownups and had seen enough of the world to know what they wanted.”
“Really?”
“Ask anybody. First chance she had, Melinda became a nine-to-fiver. Went from eighty hours a week to forty.” He sat back, his eyes glistening. “She told me she planned to have a baby the moment the wedding ring went on her finger.”
“It’s a big loss.”
“The Pentagon has agreed to name at least one of the new buildings at their facility for her. It’s not the same as having her around, but it’ll keep her name going forward.”
Curtis shook his head slowly and shuffled some folders.
An idea nibbled at Jake.
“Where was she looking for land? The original missing persons report went out in North Carolina.”
“The Pentagon wants at least a hundred acres. Plus, water access makes zoning and terrorist-proofing much easier.”
“Ouch. Sends the cost way up, too.”
“Oh yeah. Hence, North Carolina.” He shrugged and his rueful gaze met Jake’s. “I mentioned this to the FBI, of course.”
“Of course,” Jake murmured and kept writing.
“They seemed bored, since the Washington Post has already reported on it.”
“Nothing new there.”
“Not hardly. Anyway, Melinda also looked at a spot south of here, on the Northern Neck.”
“Close to the Potomac?”
“Mmhmm.” He dug through one of the folders and unearthed a scrap of paper. “It’s next to a World War I military installation, someplace that should have been scrapped years ago.”
“Amazing how many spots like that there are.” Jake noted the address without ever picking the scrap up.
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