Into the Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He turned to find Cosmo staring up at the TV that was tucked in the corner of the sandwich shop.

  Instead of eating more MREs—meals, ready-to-eat—they were here, having a real lunch of real food because Commander Paoletti loved them. This sleepy little California town was accustomed to the SEALs fast-roping down from helos to grab some grub. Most of the SEALs were over at the Mexican restaurant across Main Street, but Muldoon—forever and always watching his weight—wanted a turkey on whole wheat.

  Besides, he had plans for tonight that didn’t include the aftereffects of eating beans for lunch.

  “You’re on the news, sir,” Cosmo said. He smacked the counter with the palm of his hand. “Hey, Frank, give us some volume here!”

  But Frank was in the back room. “Be out in a sec!”

  Muldoon took a step toward the TV and then another. Jesus, was that really a picture of WildCard and…? It was. It was him. A photograph of Muldoon in action, his arm looped around the chief’s neck, right there on the cable news.

  But then the video cut to a slender young woman with closely cropped bleached blond hair and heavy black eye makeup.

  “Shit, it’s Camile.” Unwilling to wait a second longer, Cosmo dragged a table up to the TV, climbed up, and cranked the volume himself.

  “Who’s Camile?” Sam Starrett asked, leaning back against the counter.

  But whatever Camile—who looked vaguely familiar—had to say was done.

  “…in Afghanistan” was all they heard in her heavily accented English.

  “Camile is that French reporter, wanted to interview that scumbag Zeeshan when we were taking out that cave last year,” Cosmo said, and everything fell into place.

  Her hair had been black back then, but it was definitely her. “How the hell did she get that photo?” Muldoon asked Cosmo. “I thought she was searched.”

  “She was. Shit, sir, I searched her myself. Confiscated her camera and four rolls of film.”

  “You should have called for a cavity search,” Sam said. Easy for him to say. He hadn’t been there—hadn’t met the woman.

  “Guess so,” Cosmo said grimly. The muscle jumped in his jaw as he took off his sunglasses and faced Muldoon. “I’m really sorry about this, sir.”

  “Who knew?” Muldoon said. “Don’t sweat it, Cos. It’s not so bad. It’s been months since that picture was taken. It’s not like the info that we were there on the ground during the air strikes hasn’t already been leaked.”

  The news anchor, perky and bright-eyed, was talking about the important role of SEALs and other “special forces” in the war on terrorism, and getting just about all of it completely wrong. Which was probably just as well. The less secrets given away, the better.

  But then the anchor said, “As the war continues and stories of heroism and courage are reported, more and more people are clamoring to find out more about the men who wear the uniforms.

  “Apparently Brooke Bryant, the President’s wild child, was among the curious. Sources at the White House say she’s been corresponding through email with Navy SEAL lieutenant Michael Muldoon for quite some time.”

  What?

  “Whoa,” Cosmo said again. “Have you really?”

  Even Sam was now standing up straight.

  And the photo of Muldoon and WildCard was back on the TV screen.

  “No,” Muldoon said. Sources at the White House…He felt sick. “I mean, yes, but—”

  “Shh!” Sam said sharply. “I want to hear this.”

  “Ms. Bryant arrives in San Diego this afternoon,” the bubbly anchor said in a voice-over, “where she’ll attend a black-tie banquet, escorted by Lieutenant Muldoon. Lieutenant Muldoon is the SEAL officer on the left in this now famous photo.”

  Someone—a source from the White House—gave CNN his name and released that photograph…

  The anchor was all dimples. “A well-recognized aide to the First Daughter was reportedly overheard investigating the preparations needed for a full fanfare military wedding. Sources have neither confirmed nor denied any rumors of impending nuptials, but there definitely appears to be romance in the air today at the White House.

  “Coming up, we’ll take a look at the latest in the automotive industry’s—”

  Cosmo was back on the table, turning the volume down.

  Sam looked at Muldoon. “What the fuck is that about?”

  He shook his spinning head. “It was Joan,” he said. “I emailed Brooke Bryant, yes, but…I’m supposed to take her to this thing tonight. But I’m just her escort—I’ve never even met the woman. So I emailed her, mostly to try to get a rise out of Joan, because I was sending it to Brooke through Joan’s email address and I knew she’d read it…But it was Joan who wrote back. I’m sure of it. It was definitely Joan. I mean, she was trying not to sound like herself, and she was using Brooke’s screen name, but…I know that it was Joan.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Sam said, laughing in amazement. “You know, for a smart guy, you are dumb as a stone. Were you really trying to make Joan jealous?”

  “No,” Muldoon said. “Yes. God, I don’t know.” He didn’t know anything anymore.

  Sam laughed. “Well, shit, Muldoon, that worked really well. Congratulations on your impending engagement to the President’s daughter.”

  “This isn’t funny, sir,” Muldoon said stiffly.

  “Sorry.” Sam stopped laughing. “You’re right. It’s not funny. It really sucks to be used, doesn’t it?”

  Muldoon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Joan had to be one of those White House sources mentioned on the news. She’d probably set him up for this, right from the start. He just couldn’t believe she’d leak his name. And yet, there it had been. Lt. Michael Muldoon. All over the news. And his picture, too.

  So much for thinking she was his friend. Or more…

  “Well, screw her stupid party,” Sam said. “Who needs that kind of hassle, right? When we get back to Coronado, what do you say we head over to the Ladybug and spend the night playing pool and doing shots? How about you, Cos? You in?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Muldoon shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “Thanks, Sam, really, but I promised I’d be there, and I keep my promises.” Unlike some people who worked in the White House and promised not to turn him into a news story. He looked from Sam to Cosmo and back. “But save me a seat at the bar. I’ll definitely be there as soon as I possibly can.”

  Donny DaCosta actually answered his door when Mary Lou brought him his mail.

  He was moving slowly and his eyes looked a little bit as if he’d just spent twelve straight hours on Bourbon Street in New Orleans—the result of his medication, no doubt—but the door opened and he even reached his hand out.

  “Thanks,” he said as he took the pile—now quite large—from her.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” she said, knowing it was too soon to ask if she could come in. “I didn’t mean what I said, Don. I was just…wigging out.”

  He nodded, apparently extremely able to relate to the phenomenon. Or maybe he was nodding merely because it was the easiest and quickest way to get rid of her.

  “Let me know if you need anything, hon,” she said, as he closed the door.

  Mary Lou heard him throw all the locks and bolts as she bent to pick up the baby monitor she’d set down on the steps in order to have both hands free to hand him his mail.

  And so life in this neighborhood was returning to normal.

  Or at least it would if she’d let it.

  Sam would be home tonight. He’d left a message on the answering machine while she was at work this morning, telling her he’d be getting in late. Don’t wait up.

  She’d still be awake, though, when he did get home. She always was.

  Although, wouldn’t he be surprised as hell if he got home and she wasn’t there?

  Yeah, sure. Chances are, he wouldn’t miss her for a moment.

  Back to normal. Right.

/>   All she’d ever wanted was normal, but normal constantly eluded her. It was always just out of reach, always being disrupted by some pain in the ass problem or situation or stupid phone call, like the one she’d gotten just a few months ago from her sister, Janine, saying she and Clyde were moving all the way across the fucking country to Sarasota, Florida.

  First Janine left town, and now Rene was moving, too. Lord, did Mary Lou wear a sign around her neck saying, ABANDON ME?

  How could she achieve normal when ugly surprises just kept popping up?

  Surprises like waking up in the night to hear Sam call out for another woman while he was fast asleep.

  Like finding out that that woman was gorgeous and brilliant—college educated—a former naval officer herself, and some kind of crack FBI sharpshooter to boot.

  Mary Lou would bet big money that if she died in a tragic car accident at noon, Sam would be on the phone to that woman—Alyssa Locke—by 2:30 that same afternoon.

  But until she did get hit by a bus, Sam would just keep on coming home to pay the bills, to fling Haley around a little bit if she wasn’t already asleep, to fall into bed exhausted, and then get up and out of the house, usually before dawn, to do it all again.

  Was that really the normal she wanted to live with?

  Mary Lou wanted to cry.

  Ihbraham’s truck was parked down the street, and she walked toward it, suddenly desperately wanting to see his smile. She made sure she could still hear the gurgle of the white-noise machine in Haley’s room through the baby monitor’s little speaker as she moved farther from her house.

  He saw her and came to meet her, wiping his face and hands with a ragged towel he took from the back of his truck.

  “I’m glad to see you today, Mary Lou,” he said, his lilting accent making her name sound like the lyrics to a pop song. “Is everything all right?”

  She forced a smile. “What, can you read my mind now, too?”

  He laughed. “It would be a handy skill to have, but no. You’re usually home in the afternoons, but you weren’t yesterday, and then you weren’t at your usual meeting last night. I must admit I was a little worried.”

  Ihbraham came to her usual meeting last night, looking for her. That was so sweet.

  “Afraid I went on a binge?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “No, no. I knew you would call me before you did something like that. I was afraid someone was sick, or that there’d been a death in your family. You told me your mother’s health is failing. I thought…”

  “That I rushed to Georgia to sit at her deathbed and hold her hand?” Would she go if her mother was dying? Maybe she would. Definitely, if asked. But her mother wouldn’t ask. She’d be far more interested in holding hands with a bottle of gin. “No, I spent the morning picking up my car from the body shop with…a friend.”

  She knew he’d noticed her hesitation. He noticed everything.

  “He took me and Haley to lunch after that,” she told him, wanting to tell him all of it. “It’s this guy, Bob, I met at the library. He’s really nice. He’s…” She shook her head, rolled her eyes. “Who am I kidding? He’s definitely hitting on me. He asked me to have dinner with him tonight. Lunch is one thing. I mean, Haley was with us. But dinner…? Don’t you think he’s hitting on me?”

  “It sounds as if he is.” Ihbraham sat down on the curb. “He knows you’re married, this Bob?”

  “Yeah, he does.” Mary Lou sat next to him.

  “Then maybe he’s not so nice, after all.”

  “Maybe he’s just really lonely.” She knew what that was like.

  He nodded. “Maybe. Still. A good, honest man knows that he shouldn’t have dinner with another man’s wife.”

  “Part of me really wanted to say yes,” Mary Lou admitted. “Sam’s not going to be home until late tonight and…Do you think I’m awful?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “I used to be really pretty,” she told him, wanting him to understand. “Men used to ask me to dinner all the time.”

  Ihbraham looked at her. “Motherhood has taken away mere pretty. It has made you truly beautiful. It has revealed your generous nature.”

  Mary Lou had to look away from him. Lord, she was actually blushing. It was the weirdest thing. There was nothing even remotely—what was that word he’d used with her before?—salacious in his eyes, and yet she’d never felt so completely overwhelmed before just from gazing back at a man. It was as if he could see inside of her, clear through to her soul.

  She wondered what it would feel like to kiss a man with a beard like Ihbraham’s. What would it be like to make love to a man with such warm, all-seeing, yet gentle eyes?

  Not that that would ever happen.

  “Maybe you should go to a meeting tonight instead,” he suggested. “Especially if you didn’t get to one last night.”

  “I did,” she said. “After lunch, I called Rene. My AA sponsor.” Desperate to talk to someone after spending all that time with Bob, she’d actually called Ihbraham first, but he wasn’t at home. “Haley and I went over to her place—she asked us to come out, so we did. We had dinner with her, and then went to a meeting together.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “No, actually it’s bad. She wanted me to come over so that she could tell me she’s moving to San Francisco next month,” Mary Lou told him. “It’s too far away for her to be my sponsor anymore. I mean, maybe we could do it with long-distance phone calls, but…that would be pretty expensive. And Rene thinks I need to find someone right here in San Diego. She thinks I’m not ready yet for a long-distance sponsor.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Well, I guess I think she’s right,” Mary Lou said. “I’m just…I’m real sad to see her go. I don’t have a whole lot of friends. Not since I stopped drinking.” She looked at him. “In fact, it’s down to you and crazy Don, now. And slimy ol’ Bob, who probably has his radar set for pathetic, sex-starved married women who just want someone to want to be with them. I’m not having dinner with him. Not ever. He’s no kind of real friend. Unless he seriously wants to be with me. In that case, he’s looking pretty good.”

  Ihbraham just looked at her.

  “I’m pathetic,” she said. “I’m just completely pathetic. Someone should just kill me now.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Yeah,” Mary Lou said. “I know. I didn’t mean it. If I wasn’t here, who would take care of Haley? Not Sam, that’s for damn sure.” She stood up, brushing off the seat of her jeans. “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ve got to wake up Haley—we’ve got an errand to run. They put a new trunk lid on my car, and it actually locks now, but there was only one key. I figure I better get it copied before I do something stupid and lose it.” She paused. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s any place around here that copies keys?”

  Ihbraham stood up, too. “There’s a gardening center with a hardware section about four miles from here. Near my apartment. I have to go there this afternoon to pick up some grass seed. If you wish, I can take your key—copy it for you.”

  “Would you really?” Hope flared, but then quickly died. No, that wouldn’t work. “But then you’d have to come all the way back.”

  “Are you going to a meeting tonight?” he asked. “We could plan to meet there.”

  “I guess I am,” she said. “Over at the Catholic church.”

  “Good then,” he said. “This way you don’t have to wake Haley.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.

  “It will be no trouble, I assure you. In fact, I’ll look forward to seeing you and Haley later.”

  Mary Lou nodded as she took her set of keys from her pocket and pulled the trunk key off the chain. She would look forward to seeing him, too. Way more than she would’ve looked forward to dinner with Bob Schwegel.

  As he took the key from her, his fingers were warm against her hand. Warm, and very dark brown.

>   “Oh,” she said. “I should give you the money to pay for it. Let me run inside.”

  He waved her off as he pocketed the key. “You can give it to me later. I’ll bring you the receipt. One key won’t cost very much.”

  “Thank you,” she told him. “You’re a good friend.”

  Who would have ever thought in a million years that she would become such good friends with a nearly black-skinned Arab man?

  Who, for that matter, would have guessed that she could marry the man of her dreams—a real-life hero—and get exactly what she’d always wanted in terms of a home and financial security, and still be dissatisfied?

  Life could be pretty damn weird.

  SIXTEEN

  IT WAS 1748 that night before Muldoon found Joan.

  Upon his arrival at the Hotel del Coronado, he was escorted up to a spacious suite that was, he was told, his room. He was told to please wait here.

  Despite the fact that he didn’t particularly want or need a room at the hotel since he lived only a few minutes away, it was nice enough. It had a third-story view of the ocean through sliders that led to a balcony.

  But with the windows closed, the sound of the crashing surf was muted.

  Ten minutes of waiting in that hushed, thickly carpeted, don’t-put-your-feet-on-the-furniture silence was all he could stand, and after calling Joan’s cell phone and repeatedly getting pushed over to her voice mail, he opened the door, intending to wander out into the corridor.

  A man about his own height and build and dressed in a dark business suit was standing right outside the door. He had an earphone in one ear, the cord disappearing under his jacket collar, and a bulge under his left arm from a shoulder holster. “May I help you, sir?” he asked Muldoon.

  He was Secret Service—no doubt about it. But was he there to keep the unwanted, potentially dangerous riffraff out?

  Or in?

  “I need to speak with Joan DaCosta,” Muldoon said. “She doesn’t seem to be coming to me, so I thought I’d go looking for her. I know she’s around here somewhere.”