Lady Justice

by Vicki Hinze

  Erickson had given Candace and Gabby something. It had saved Candace and was helping Gabby. But why the different reactions? Why hadn’t Gabby made a full recovery, too? She hadn’t been as critically affected by the infection. Candace was protecting Erickson because he had saved her life. Max understood that, and yet … “There are seventeen other people in Carnel Cove’s hospital with this now, Candace. There are more in south Florida and even more in Texas and Mexico.”

  “I heard on the news where they’d tracked some of the cases back to a flight from Paris.”

  “Yes.” He should leave it there. “But there are others, too. This isn’t a local problem. If we don’t stop it, it’s going to become a continental crisis, if not an international one.”

  “Keith told me there had been isolated cases reported in nineteen countries.”

  “Twenty-one, last I heard.” Max had her attention; guilt and fear had replaced the resolve in her eyes. He used it, and drove his point home. “If Erickson can help save them, then he must do it, Candace. How can he justify not helping them? How can you?”

  Candace slid him a level look meant to pin him to the proverbial wall. “The same way I can justify hunting down the bastards who pulled me into this mess at Logan Industries.”

  Fabulous. A rich and gutsy vigilante. Now he was certain nothing more could possibly go wrong on this mission from hell because everything already had.

  The commander would not be happy, which meant the rest of SDU would be miserable.

  Voices in the living room awakened Gabby. She crawled out of bed and headed to the door. When she put her hand on the doorknob, her instincts shouted not to interrupt. She opened the door a crack and blatantly eavesdropped, too confused and afraid to feel shame.

  Why did Candace think Max would harm Gabby? Why hadn’t he taken exception?

  She listened, trusting her instincts and lacking confidence in anything else, but the conversation was as cryptic as the one between Max and Elizabeth. Gabby felt like a player in a game where there were only secret rules. The talks were as confusing as Max’s treatment of her.

  He said the right things. He was attentive and caring but distant, almost afraid of her. And he certainly didn’t look at her the way a man normally looks at his wife. Maybe she wasn’t married to him. Elizabeth had said she wasn’t, and Max hadn’t denied it …

  No, that was absurd. Gabby might be uncertain about a lot of things, but being married to Max wasn’t one of them. Unless the marriage was a trick of her mind—and it could be. Max hadn’t denied it. Yet why would he bother? Surely he considered the comment as absurd as she did. Their wedding photo, complete with tux and bridal gown and veil, sat on the fireplace mantel, for pity’s sake, and she vividly remembered—what? The wedding ceremony? Their honeymoon? Them living together?

  Gabby paced between the window and bed. Not a single image came to mind. She glanced at her reflection in the windowpane, wishing the moon were out so it wasn’t so inky dark outside, and tried to remember something—anything.

  She failed, and tried again. And then again. Frustrated and fearful, she turned her back to the glass. Why couldn’t she remember them living together? Why could she remember all the words of the wedding ceremony, their honeymoon to Paris, but not recall a single visual image?

  A shiver rippled through her back, up her spine to her neck. It was possible, she supposed, but they had made love. That she recalled physically, emotionally, and spiritually in minute detail. Yet if they weren’t married, why pretend they were? And why was pretending so important even she was unsure of the truth?

  Okay. The infection could be responsible. She’d been really sick. But Max hadn’t. If there was a pretense, he was a party to it. She’d just ask him.

  Max’s voice carried to the bedroom from the living room. “I love my wife, Candace.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Candace said. “Now tell me that your wife is Gabby. Because word on all fronts is that you act like a lover and friend, but not like a husband.”

  Obviously she knew the truth about this, too. So why push? Testing him. Had to be. “Yes, Gabby is my wife.”

  Shaking, Gabby eased the door closed. Max had confirmed their marriage and Candace’s questions clearly had offended him—they would’ve offended Gabby, too—but she didn’t quite believe him, and she couldn’t just walk up to him now and say, “Are we really married, or for some odd reason just faking it?”

  A spouse was a pretty important thing to forget. If he posed that question to her, she’d be devastated and angry. She didn’t want Max devastated or angry.

  But Gabby did want the truth. She felt married to him; would have sworn she was married to him. And the thought of it’s being a sham caused pain that ran so deep inside her she couldn’t tell where it started or stopped.

  It couldn’t be true. She paced her bedroom, shutting out the pain, her mind racing. Pausing at her dresser, she stared at her reflection, scouring her memory, her eyes wide and haunted. She prayed for answers, failed to find them, and then for any tiny clue, but again failed.

  Her instincts strummed. It was vitally important, urgent, that she find the truth. She dug through the closet, the dresser drawers, the nightstands. She found a lot of unexpected items, and one shocking one: a gun in her purse. But she was a judge. Often threatened. She had a permit to carry it in her wallet. She didn’t recall getting the permit but obviously she had; it was there. And if she had a permit, she apparently knew how to shoot the gun, though she couldn’t remember that, either.

  Trying to be quiet, to avoid being heard by Max and Candace, she tugged at the nightstand drawer. Something jammed it. She tugged harder and finally jerked it loose, then pulled it out. Taped to its underside was a heavy brown envelope. Her heart beat fast, thumping against her ribs, and she swallowed hard. Her instincts again hummed. Once she opened the envelope, her life would never again be the same. Yet she couldn’t deliberately live a lie. Since college, Sybil had warned Gabby that she couldn’t shut out what she didn’t want to hear, though over the years, God knew Gabby had tried.

  She stilled. She remembered that conversation with Sybil—from college. How could she remember that but not her wedding?

  Frightened and vulnerable, Gabby sat on the edge of the bed and tugged her robe over her chest. She closed her eyes, took in three deep breaths to calm down, and then opened the envelope—and wished to hell she hadn’t.

  Five sets of passports, marriage licenses, and drivers’ licenses spilled across her lap.

  All five sets had her photograph and description.

  All five sets bore her signature.

  And all five sets had been issued under different names.

  Pain, sharp and swift, stabbed through her. Sadness chased it. She should call Sybil. She would know the truth. Gabby reached for the phone, dialed the first three numbers, and then hung up and jerked away as if the receiver had burned her hand.

  She couldn’t call Sybil. Not about this. In the past, they had shared everything: Sybil’s lousy marriage to and divorce from Mr. Snip-It, her falling in love with Jonathan Westford. Gabby had been scared to death Sybil had died in the swamp—she’d mourned. They’d cried together over Gabby’s brother’s losses in his battle with drugs, about Gabby being an outsider in her own family, about Sybil’s parents’ deaths. They had shared everything, but Gabby knew down to her bones she couldn’t share this. Calling Sybil would be dangerous to others, to Gabby and Max, and to Sybil. Unfortunately, that left her with only one confidant.

  Max.

  Even more unfortunate, he would be hurt. But she had no choice. She had to know the truth. For some reason not yet clear to her, the truth was vital.

  Before she could lose her nerve or her resolve, she scooped up the documents and shoved them into the envelope, then strode into the living room. Max and Candace sat on the sofa, drinking from glasses of juice.

  “Gabby?” Max jumped to his feet. “Are you well enough to be up, honey?”


  “Sit down, Max.” She turned to Candace. “I’m glad you’re better. You are better, right?”

  “Getting there. It’s good to see you up and around, too.”

  She looked like death, bedraggled, and maybe even worse. “I’m almost fine. I think. Maybe.” Exasperated, she frowned. “Go home, Candace. I need to talk with Max.”

  Candace looked surprised, but not hurt. Actually, she smiled. “Well, that’s clear enough, I’d say.”

  Max looked shocked. “Gabby, that’s a little rude, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, it is. I’ll apologize tomorrow.” Gabby hiked up her arms. “I’m not myself.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. Hazy as hell, right? Don’t worry. It gets better fast.”

  “I hope so.” Gabby just didn’t think she could deal with any more upset right now.

  Smiling, Candace set down her glass on the coffee table and stood up. “Good to see you back to normal, darling. You had me worried.” She brushed a kiss to Gabby’s cheek, then slid Max a relieved look. “Gabby is rude, Max. You of all people should know that.”

  “I do,” he admitted. “But I hoped she’d be a little more civil with her friends.”

  “Right.” Candace grunted, and then left through the front door.

  Candace wasn’t insulted. Why? “Women,” Max muttered. “Who can figure them?”

  When the door shut behind Candace, Gabby turned on Max. “I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “Okay.” He eyed her cautiously, which just made her more jumpy and made her feel even guiltier than she already felt. “Listen, Max, I don’t mean to hurt you, but I have to be sure about this. It’s important.”

  “All right.” Max had no idea what to expect, but her temper was building and she wasn’t going into her classic, meditative calm-down mode, which cautioned him to brace for the eruption. It came in short order.

  “What is this?” She waved an envelope at him. “And what exactly does it mean?” She sounded furious, and she might well be, but her chin trembled, and letting him see that weakness really ticked her off. “Are we married or not?”

  Max froze. An impossible situation just got more impossible. How did he answer her?

  “I’m waiting.” She stood, arms folded over her chest, glaring at him.

  “You haven’t eaten,” he said softly. “Let’s get some tea and toast and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Maybe by then he’d have a clue what that should include.

  “Commander Conlee?”

  Sitting inside Home Base’s secure booth reviewing Intel tapes, Conlee recognized Vice President Sybil Stone’s voice, hit pause to stop the tape, and then tilted the phone receiver away from his chin. All of the lines inside Home Base were secure, but he waited an additional twenty seconds for the satellite scrambler’s relay to kick in as an extra precaution. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned his back to the wall of screens and stared at a black spot on the wall.

  “Has Agent Grayson reported in?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Conlee couldn’t predict her reaction to the news with any degree of certainty. As a human being, she’d be thrilled Gabby was still alive. Secretly, so was he. But as the veep, she gave him no idea what to expect. Sybil Stone took her duties seriously; as well she should, even when they personally cost her more than anyone should have to pay. “Things are more complicated in Carnel Cove than originally expected, ma’am. He’s sorting them out.”

  “So Gabby is still alive?” Her tension crackled through the phone.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Grayson reported it to you?”

  “No, ma’am.” Conlee hated admitting that. It wouldn’t bode well for Grayson. “Dr. Keith Burke, Burke Pharmaceuticals, has been on the scene, treating Candace, and apparently Gabby, for the Z-4027 infection she contracted in—”

  “The broken-window incident at Logan Industries’ lab?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Gabby has the infection?” Horror filled the veep’s tone.

  “Apparently so, ma’am. Grayson reported challenges in obtaining a full out-briefing from Gabby. My guess is it’s due to the infection, though he hasn’t formally reported it.”

  “And the second team you sent down?”

  “They reported arriving, ma’am. They’ll gather intel before reporting again.”

  She hesitated a long moment. And then another. Finally, she said, “I see.” Her tone was noncommittal, giving no indication of her reaction. “Keep me posted, Commander.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He dropped the receiver into its cradle, pulled the cigar stub that never had been lighted from his pocket, and clamped down on it, snagging a fleeting thought. The veep had wanted Grayson specifically assigned and sent to Carnel Cove. Conlee had intended to assign another operative to handle the cancellation—one who hadn’t been Gabby’s partner. But the veep had insisted on Grayson, and since he never had been activated as Gabby’s partner, Conlee hadn’t seen any logical reason to object. After all, she was the head of Oversight for Home Base, and carrying out her orders, not disputing them, was his duty.

  Until now, he hadn’t had a reason to wonder why she had issued any of her orders. In this case, at the consensus briefing, she had specifically issued Grayson a cancellation order on her best friend. But a thought occurred to Conlee now that should have occurred to him then.

  Had she specifically chosen Grayson because she knew he would carry out the cancellation order?

  Or because she had somehow known that he wouldn’t?

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Gabby showered and dressed in a red silk blouse and slacks. Her stomach seemed stuck in permanent “rock and roll,” and it was only by the grace of God that she wasn’t throwing up.

  It’s nerves.

  Of course it was nerves. She jerked a brush through her hair and looked at her pasty reflection in the bathroom mirror. She was either married or she wasn’t.

  From all those sets of IDs, you could be married, all right. Six times, under six separate identities, to six different men—including Max.

  And if that wasn’t enough to make her toss her cookies, she didn’t know what was. But Max hadn’t seemed shocked by the evidence. He’d seemed resigned. Surely if they were really married and he loved her, he would have been stunned that she could be a bigamist.

  Weak in the knees and seeing stars, she clutched at the edge of the sink. Squeezed her eyes shut. Okay. So she was married or she wasn’t. She was a judge or she wasn’t. She was in love or she … She looked into the mirror. No, that was one thing she felt sure of; she did love Max. That was real.

  “Lie to me, you heartless bitch,” she muttered to herself through clenched teeth. “I’m scared enough without bringing love into it.”

  She stared angrily into her eyes, ignoring the dark circles smudging the skin under them. She loved him. She’d never allowed herself to love any man, but she loved Max. “Damn.”

  She hated and resented the truth. She feared it.

  God, did she fear it.

  She walked out of the bathroom, slammed the door, and rounded the corner into the kitchen. Max stood at the counter near the toaster, waiting for the toast to pop up. He looked good, standing there, drying his hands on a nubby dishtowel—though not actually familiar, natural and at home. Because she liked that more than she should, at least until she knew the truth, she looked away.

  “Do you want some eggs, or just toast and juice?”

  “Toast and coffee. I hate orange juice.” The venom in that remark brought her up short. She did hate orange juice, didn’t she?

  “It’s cranberry,” he said, lifting the pitcher. “You always drink cranberry.”

  Finally! Something verified real. She did hate orange juice. Mmm, if they weren’t married, would Max know that about the juice? “I definitely need coffee.”

  She reached for a cup, closed the cabinet door, and a flicker of movement outside the window caught h
er eye. She scanned and strained. Something had shifted in the long, deep shadows, but it was that odd time of day, where you could see but couldn’t define. That shift could have been anything, or nothing. All the wildlife was out of sync from the storm. She held her glance on the distance a moment longer, but saw nothing unusual. “Is it getting dark or daylight?” For the life of her, she couldn’t tell.

  “Dawn.” The toast popped up and he retrieved it, putting it on a plate.

  He already had a cup. She poured for herself and mixed in milk. “Did you sleep?”

  “Not much for a few days.”

  Who would have believed that dry toast could smell so good. Her stomach rumbled. “Because I had you worried?”

  He nodded. “Among other things.” He moved closer, stroked her cheek. “We’ll talk about them after you eat.”

  She lifted her face to his hand. “I think we’d better talk now.” She was trying to be brave about this, but not knowing truth from fiction about herself was extremely unsettling. She wanted this resolved.

  Worry flickered through his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay, Gabby?”

  Okay? She was a nervous wreck. A jumbled mass of live-wire nerves, all frayed and snapping. She was a terrified maniac. “I’m fine.”

  He searched for what that meant, as if the truth lay hidden in her face. “Don’t lie to me.”

  There was something in his eyes. Some secret gleam that promised he understood her—at the moment, better than she understood herself. She stepped closer, looked up at him. “I’m scared to death, Max. All those identities. All those names. What am I? Some kind of sextuplicate bigamist or something?”

  “Of course not.” He cupped her face in his hands. “But that you don’t know means we’ve got even more trouble than we thought.”

  She couldn’t stand the suspense another second. “Am I your wife?”

  He motioned for her to sit down at the table. When she sat, he put her toast before her. “Yes, you are my wife.”

  A sigh of pure relief escaped her. “Whew! Okay. Okay.”

  He put the butter and a jar of red-raspberry preserves in the center of the table. “And no, you aren’t my wife.”