by Janet Dailey
The thought rocked her. She sat very still, as if she would fall to pieces if she breathed.
“Are you all right, Kenzie?”
“Right now I’m just numb. First Christine and now this.”
Linc forced himself to keep his distance, guessing that reaching out to hold her wasn’t something she wanted.
She cleared her throat. “Linc, I know you wanted to come with me, but I’m going to postpone the meeting with the lieutenant. Right now I just want to be alone.”
He hesitated. “I can make that call for you.”
“Thanks. No.”
She rose from the swivel chair she’d been sitting in and grabbed a brush she kept on the desk, using it to scrape her hair back into a tight ponytail. That, and the white T and the baggy canvas pants she wore made her look like she was headed back to boot camp.
The suck-it-up toughness she’d learned there was about to trip her up, in his opinion.
“You shouldn’t be by yourself,” he said. “Not at a time like this.”
“I have to think. And I can’t do that with you around being helpful and nice and solving problems for me.” She moved away from him, rubbing her upper arms as if she felt a chill. “I’ll be fine. What about you?” she asked absently. “Don’t you have to check in with your office or something?”
“I did already, at the motel. I got an okay to come and go from my department chief and CO. Right now, I’m officially gone.”
“Okay.” She wandered away from him and came back when he gathered up the few things he’d had with him and headed for the door. “You leaving?” she asked distractedly.
“You just asked me to.” He wanted to stay more than anything.
“Right. I can’t think straight. Linc—” She paused and he saw her eyes were shimmering with tears she would never shed in front of him. “Just so you know, I—I like knowing you’re not far away.”
Rather than letting him respond verbally, she put her hands on his shoulders and lifted herself up to press her cheek to his for a fraction of a second. Not a kiss. Better somehow.
Then she stepped back, her arms folded across her chest.
“Don’t think too much about it.” He meant Frank Branigan and she knew it. “And stay off that laptop for a while,” he said.
“No to both.” She reached around him and turned the doorknob. “But I appreciate the thought.”
He had to step over the threshold to avoid being whacked by the door. Not that the hollowcore would hurt that much. He could probably put his fist through it. Linc wished he could replace the cheap door with solid steel.
“You and doors are a dangerous combination,” he said softly. “Lock it behind me.”
She frowned. “Okay, okay. I will.”
“And make sure it’s really locked.”
She held on to the doorknob as he turned to walk down the hall. “Did I tell you yet how much I hate good advice?”
“No. But I hear you.”
“Good. Then go.”
She watched until he reached the stairwell. A moment later, Linc just heard a tiny click. At least she’d listened. But he hated the idea of her crying it out alone.
CHAPTER 3
Kenzie didn’t do much of anything after he left. Just looking out the window at the changing fall colors made her feel sadder than before. She rolled down the translucent shades to block some of the afternoon light, then went to sit on the sofa. A golden glow filled the shaded room, bouncing off walls she’d painted amber several months ago to contrast with the ivory of the upholstery material she’d chosen. The color was on the wild side, but the effect was cozy. She hugged a pillow to her chest and rested her chin on it to think.
Two friends, thousands of miles apart, both trapped by fate in the wrong place at the wrong time. One was gone; the other barely alive. And here she was, unable to do anything. Safe and sound. It seemed wrong somehow.
She even had a protector.
The way Linc had showed up and stuck around impressed her. And he wasn’t playing the hero. He was just there when you needed him, rock solid and built to last.
True, he wasn’t very communicative about what he did, but her army background and work with special ops soldiers meant she could figure it out to some degree. She was beginning to think she’d underestimated the second Bannon brother.
The oldest, RJ, had cracked the Montgomery kidnapping case and married the long-lost daughter. He’d had his moment of fame—she’d followed the story like everyone else. But Linc didn’t seem like he was in anyone’s shadow. He was very much his own man.
Right now she wasn’t up to guessing where it could go with him.
After a while she set the pillow aside and dragged over the laptop she’d moved to the end table. She’d managed to ignore it for an hour. Good enough.
She opened her Facebook page and followed the tag on Frank Branigan’s photo to his, thinking that it was probably still up. One of his friends or a family member might have set up a memorial page as well, but she could go to that later. Something about the photo was nagging at her. She was hoping to find an explanatory caption on his side of the send.
Kenzie clicked into his page, looking at many more photographs than just the one she had on hers. He had lots of friends—but besides Donna and Christine, they had none in common. Christine had dated him.
But other faces were familiar. And so was the military camaraderie.
Family—she could guess at his cousins from the look-alike grins, and that had to be his mom and dad. No brothers or sisters as far as she could tell—apparently he was their only child. Mr. and Mrs. Branigan had suffered a devastating loss.
She studied a shot of a pretty woman she was sure was his wife. His widow, Kenzie silently corrected herself. The photo tag said Sofia Branigan.
The woman was alone in the photo and looking sideways at something unseen, a coldness in her expression. Kenzie reminded herself not to judge. Character couldn’t be defined by one image. She wondered why Frank had kept the photo posted when he listed his status as single. Not a lie and not quite true, either.
Official story, according to Frank: He and Sofia were working toward a friendly settlement with a mediator. No kids—he’d mentioned once that he’d wanted to have at least two; the wife, not.
Kenzie hadn’t really wanted to know about all that. Being married—well, you were or you weren’t, that was how she saw it. Semi-divorced men weren’t worth getting hung up on.
Christine had thought differently. They’d agreed to disagree on that subject. Kenzie had left out that part of the story when Linc was looking at the photos.
It would be up to Kenzie to tell Christine about Frank’s death, once her best friend was on the road to recovery. That was going to happen. Kenzie would do everything she could to make it happen.
She had no idea if Frank had been seriously interested in Christine or not. And now he’d never get another chance to figure out what he wanted from life.
Kenzie clicked on the photo of Frank showing off his just-issued combat uniform and gear, clicking again to enlarge it before she read the caption.
The body armor he wore was different from what she remembered from her army days—that was what had bothered her. Cut higher here, lower there, and not as bulky. She clicked back to read his comment.
Here I am, folks, wearing the latest in tactical. New vest, same chest. I’m off to Kandahar. Hope this gear stops bullets.
It didn’t look that different from the older gear, except for the high collar to protect the neck. Gray multi-camo shell, Improved Outer Tactical type. Without a vest, it might only take one shot to kill a man. He’d been hit multiple times, according to Donna.
She looked at the old comments posted on his wall, rereading with a pang a few lighthearted ones from her from about a month ago. None from Sofia, she noticed. His about-to-be ex would make out all right with the army death benefit.
Kenzie moved to the searchbar and typed in memorial page and his
name.
It was already up. The large photo posted above his dates of birth and death made her heart constrict with pain. One of his army buddies had contributed a shot of Frank Branigan’s battlefield cross.
His dusty boots were placed together. His rifle, unloaded, was thrust into one boot upside down, the stock supporting his helmet at a tilt. His dogtags hung from the trigger. Someone had stuck a couple of wallet-size photos into the boot’s laces. She couldn’t make them out—they were dusty, too, and curled from the heat of that distant land. There was a bottle of beer, left there by a pal.
She knew the temporary memorial would be removed eventually. His tags and a few other things would be sent to Sofia, who would probably chuck them into a drawer and forget all about them. It didn’t seem fair to his parents at all.
Would they even receive the folded flag that had covered his coffin? Didn’t that go to the widow too?
Kenzie felt a flash of guilt that she knew was irrational. She’d never had to risk her life—her skill at training K9 handlers had simply been too valuable to the army for her to deploy to the front lines. Frank, who was older than her by at least seven years, had been one of her best students. He learned fast and he’d gone away without saying good-bye.
Donna hadn’t mentioned the dog he’d trained with, a female shepherd mix, but then Kenzie didn’t remember if she’d told Donna about Chili.
She knew that the dog would continue working, rather than get sent back stateside. Their training cost a fortune and the animals were in high demand. The army program at Lackland in San Antonio only graduated a hundred dogs a year, though private contractors like her boss added more.
Chili would go right back on bomb-sniffing patrol once she adapted to a new handler. There wasn’t time to grieve on the front.
She thought about contacting Frank’s parents. They didn’t know her. She didn’t know too much about their son.
I was so sorry to hear ... if there’s anything I can do ...
The routine words of condolence had an empty ring.
Her gaze moved to the wall of the memorial page. Slowly, Kenzie began to read the poignant comments and brief tributes to a man who’d been a brave soldier and a true friend to people she’d never met.
Then a new post appeared. With her name in it. Her eyes widened as she read the blunt words.
Hello to all. Randy Holt here. Not a friend exactly—I was one of the flight medics on the Kandahar evac for Frank.
The one Donna knew? The nurse hadn’t given a name. Kenzie would have to ask. She read the rest.
Wish he’d made it. We did our best. Am looking for Kenzie or Kenzy. He said her name.
A pause. No one replied or commented. Kenzie didn’t either. Was she the only one on the page? It was possible. The medic posted again.
Maybe I spelled it wrong.
Kenzie bit her lip. Randy Holt had been with Frank in his last hour of life. Why was the medic looking for her?
Anyone know her?
She typed a response.
Hello. I’m Kenzie. Can we e-mail later today, not on FB? Let me know.
She wasn’t going to post her schedule for all to see. She hoped Randy would say yes. The medic answered swiftly.
Here you go.
A contact e-mail address appeared on the wall and she copied it. Then it disappeared, deleted by Randy or so she assumed. She figured the medic was taking it on faith that she actually was Kenzie. Clicking out of Facebook and opening up her e-mail, she typed in the medic’s address and sent her phone number for good measure.
Somewhere else, someone else copied the e-mail address too. Then he leaned back in his swivel chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and put his feet up on his desk.
Tough luck for Branigan, whoever he was.
There’d been reports of sporadic problems with X-Ultra body armor. He’d picked up e-mail on it using a tracking worm he’d slipped into a Department of Defense server account reserved for military suppliers. No one had noticed.
It was a useful, unobtrusive worm that didn’t take down systems or make itself known in any way, unless an experienced IT person was tipped off and went after it. That hadn’t happened.
All it did was follow things. He’d programmed it to locate mentions of X-Ultra, mine data, and report what it found. So far, not much. A few conscientious procurement sergeants had filed reports on X-Ultra here and there, classified but not top secret. A few negative comments from medics had been scraped from the web. Only a few. The consensus, if there was one: The new type of armor worked well most of the time.
Just not all of the time. Failures in the field noted. No fatalities until now.
Luck of the draw, he thought idly. But not for Frank Branigan. No big deal. The guy was only a private. Expendable, basically. But he’d still been monitoring the guy’s Facebook posts and the separate memorial page. The photo of the battlefield cross was over the top.
Give it a rest, patriots, he thought, loosening the knot in his silk tie. Soldiers died every damn day of the week. Branigan was a statistic, nothing more. But he was one that didn’t make X-Ultra look good.
He’d monitored all the heartfelt posts from Branigan’s friends—boo hoo hoo. Did they think combat was a walk in the park? Not one asked questions about the soldier’s body armor.
Then that smarty-pants medic popped up. Posting daily, asking if anyone knew a girl named Kenzie—and then deleting the posts when no one answered right away. What was Randy Holt afraid of?
He swung his feet off the desk and leaned forward over his keyboard, jabbing at the keys until his favorite photo of Kenzie filled his screen. He’d tracked her down easily enough. The name wasn’t common, and the Facebook connection was easy to make. Practically no one seemed to know that a whole lot of the photos they posted had hidden geotags.
He didn’t need a worm to follow hot women without them knowing it, and Kenzie qualified as very hot.
Good thing her pal Christine hadn’t bothered with the most stringent privacy settings on Facebook—a lot of people didn’t even know how to use them since the rules had changed. Plus the new face recognition software on the site made it super hard for anyone to hide.
He’d lurked on her page, visited links to her friends’ pages to steal more photos—of both of them. He knew where they worked, had figured out where they lived.
One at a time, he told himself.
Like Christine, Kenzie was the active type. Outdoorsy. Athletic. Looked like she’d put up an exciting fight if it ever came to that.
His curiosity about her had gotten the better of him. He’d hung out in one of his cars at her building’s parking lot just for the hell of it that one time.
He’d needed some fun, needed to blow off the tension after that incident on I-95. First he’d swapped cars to get rid of the banged-up one. It hadn’t taken more than one good hit to force Christine off the road. Her fear of him had made her swerve too hard.
Coming around for a second look had been fun. He’d covered up the damage to his right front fender with a can of spray paint. He’d covered his hair with a quality rug and hidden his eyes with a pair of wraparounds.
That car had gone straight to the back of the garage belonging to a house he owned but didn’t live in. Nondescript one-story, sketchy lawn, curtains always closed. If the neighbors only knew what he kept in the living room and parlor ... His own arsenal. Disguises in the closet. But they kept to themselves. The tenants in Kenzie’s building were kind of the same.
He’d scoped the windows, figuring out which one was which. A nearly invisible mist had drifted out an opaque little window, open at the top.
He could almost smell her taking a shower. He’d gone up the back stairwell and tried a slim tool he kept in his pocket for just such occasions. The lock was easy to pick—but then that guy dressed for a wedding had run up the stairs and interrupted him.
He grinned. He planned to go back.
Maybe he could pay a call on the kennels,
schmooze with her boss, one ex-military man to another, get to know her professionally, gain her trust. Although he didn’t like dogs. And the animals she trained knew the stench of fear.
He had to wonder why Kenzie hadn’t answered the medic’s posts sooner. Apparently she hadn’t been on the memorial page before. It seemed she didn’t check her own page too often—he hadn’t noticed new posts from her while he’d been lurking here and there. She didn’t seem to waste time on other people’s pages.
Not a problem. Now he had an e-mail address for Randy Holt. He typed it in and introduced himself as a friend of Frank Branigan’s. It bounced back.
Mailer Daemon unable to deliver.
Randy Holt must have canceled the account and used another one to e-mail Kenzie. Covering tracks. As if the medic knew someone was spying.
Good guess.
He swiveled around in his chair until he was facing the window. All that plate glass and nothing to see. The nondescript office park that housed X-Ultra might as well be invisible. Worked for him.
Kenzie forced herself to call Mike Warren and postpone the meeting at the impound lot. He was nice enough about it.
First she wanted to get to Christine’s apartment and make sure Mrs. Corelli had everything she needed. She would phone SK Corp from there, give someone in charge the basic info on Christine’s accident and offer herself as a contact.
Barely seeing her surroundings, she drove to Christine’s, maneuvering the car through the narrow streets that led to the other side of town.
Life went on.
The ordinariness of that fact was small comfort. She was still numb. She happened to drive past the motel that Linc was staying in, wondering if he was there. She caught a glimpse of a red pickup. Confirmed.
She pulled up in front of Christine’s building and parked. Her friend lived in a second-floor apartment. Its curtained windows had been left closed, Kenzie saw. She got out and looked up at the semi-sheer panels. For a second, she imagined that they moved. No. The closed windows were reflecting the autumn sky. A cloud had moved across the sun, that was all.
