She watched him now from the bedroom window. He was in the garden, just sitting and watching the wind move through the trees.
After sixty years of marriage, she’d learned that sometimes he sat and watched the leaves move in the wind because he had something on his mind. But sometimes he just liked to sit and watch the wind and the sky.
His silence, however, was a little bit harder to explain away.
But she’d learned as well that he’d talk to her when he was good and ready.
And if he couldn’t bring himself to speak, he’d eventually write to her.
For a man who swore he was a walking disaster when it came to writing letters, Vince had written her quite a few doozies down through the years.
And he’d started with one heck of a letter back just weeks after they’d first met. He wrote to her the day he boarded the train for Fort Pierce, Florida. He left it for her to find, on the pillow of her bed.
Dear Charlotte,
I love you. I’ve never said those words to anyone before, let alone written them down on paper, but it’s true.
I love you and I continue to hope that someday you will marry me. In fact, I’ll ask you again. Will you be my wife?
Charlotte had gone with him to the train. It seemed impolite not to, especially after having slept with him the night before.
She was still a mess—angry with him for leaving, angry at herself for her vast list of sins. And there were so many. Or so she’d believed.
He was silent in the taxi, silent as they walked into the station.
She wanted to tell him to be careful, to stay safe, but really, what was the point? He was going off to war and she probably wasn’t going to see him alive again.
Somehow she managed not to cry.
And then there they were. Standing by the train. Moments from parting, perhaps forever.
Vince was in his uniform. It made him look even younger than he was—as if twenty-one wasn’t young enough to die—because it hung on him a little too loosely. He still hadn’t regained all the weight he’d lost from being injured and ill.
I don’t need an answer right away. I hope you’ll take a good long time to think about it—all the way to the end of the war. And this war will end, my sweet Charlie, and we will win. I can promise you that.
“Well,” he said, setting his duffel bag down on the platform next to him.
“I just want you to know that I don’t regret last night,” she told him, all in a burst.
Vince nodded, looking searchingly into her eyes. If he wanted answers, he wasn’t going to find them there. She didn’t know anything right now. She could barely remember to keep breathing.
“I don’t, either,” he said, and smiled. “And there’s the understatement of the century. Charlotte, last night—”
“Don’t,” she said. “I don’t regret it, but it didn’t…It wasn’t real.”
“It was very real to me. I’m going to come back, and we are going to make love again. Believe it.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I wish I could, but…”
I know I’ve promised you that I’ll return, and you’re right. That is a promise I cannot truly make. I will try my best though, and God willing, you will see me again.
But I’ve been to war before, and I know—as you know—all too well what it’s like. I’ve made arrangements with my sister to send a letter to you and Mrs. Fletcher if I should be killed, so that you aren’t left wondering.
“I’m not waiting for you,” she told him. As the words left her lips she couldn’t believe she could be that cruel.
But he just laughed. “I know,” he said. “I’m waiting for you. Just let me know when you’re ready, okay?”
She refused to cry. She’d cried when James had left for the last time. He’d gotten on a train, too. Heading out to California, heading to a ship that was to be deployed from San Diego. She could have gone with him for that train ride, but they’d decided to save the money for the future—a future that never happened, because, halfway around the world from her, he’d died.
But I need you to know, my dearest, that if I am to die, I will not die alone. You are part of me now. You are in my heart. I know that you love me. I know this is true—whether you know it yourself or not. And that knowledge will be with me always. Your love for me will be my constant companion, along with my memories of the beautiful night we shared. It will keep me warm from now until the day I die—whether that day is tomorrow or a hundred years from tomorrow.
“All aboard!”
Vince glanced over his shoulder at the train, his mouth tightening and his eyes dark with worry. He was leaving to fight in a war, and he was worried about her. “If you need me, I’ll be in Fort Pierce for a few months at least. The training is—”
She didn’t want to hear about the training he was going to undertake. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to mark her calendar and think of him. She couldn’t bear it. “You better go.”
He nodded and put his arms around her, but she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. He kissed her, but she turned her face and he only kissed her cheek.
He picked up his bag and, touching her cheek one last time, he turned and climbed up the steps. She turned, too, and hurried away.
“Hey!” he shouted after her. “Charlie!”
She stopped but she didn’t turn back. She couldn’t bear to look at him again.
“I love you!” he shouted over the din as the train began to move. “And I know you love me, too!”
She ran for the stairs as she started to cry, wishing with all her heart that she hadn’t been such a coward, wishing that she had kissed him, too.
Out in the grinder, Sam stretched his legs, waiting for the rest of Team Sixteen to gather for a late-afternoon run.
In just a few hours, the team’s officers and chiefs would be locked inside in a meeting, putting the final details on this demo they were supposed to be doing during the presidential dog and pony show.
Final details—that was pretty funny, considering they didn’t even have much more than preliminary details. Previous meetings about this event usually started with someone—usually Sam—saying, “Why the fuck can’t the Leap Frogs put on this PR show so we can get our asses back to Afghanistan and do something worthwhile?” and then deteriorated into a discussion of security measures on base.
Muldoon was the next officer to arrive, looking grim. Whatever had gone down with Joan in his office earlier hadn’t been good. Of that, Sam was certain.
“Everything okay?” Sam asked.
“Everything’s great.” Muldoon turned his attention to his knee brace.
“Hey, Lieutenant Muldoon. You’re my new hero. I used to think you were too polite, but not anymore.” Izzy joined them, with Gilligan and Cosmo trailing along behind him. “You had a rough assignment night before last—doing it Navy SEAL style! Hoo-yah! I laughed my ass off when I heard that. And man, that newsclip of that dress coming off! What a pair of h—”
“She was drunk,” Muldoon said shortly. “The only thing I did that night was get Ms. Bryant away from the news camera. After we went inside she passed out. Didn’t you see the press conference she gave yesterday? She’s going into rehab. The woman is not well. Show a little respect.”
“I must’ve missed that,” Izzy said. “But rewind a sec. She passed out after you went inside, you said. Would that be right after?” The petty officer was determined to keep his big mouth flapping for as long as he possibly could. Sam suspected that he’d picked up on Muldoon’s tension and was determined to get a rise out of the usually easygoing lieutenant. “Because I read somewhere—in Penthouse, I think—that Brooke Bryant is a real hummer. Kind of hard to turn that down, huh, sir? I mean, there’s that face and that smile you’ve seen in a lot of magazines and newspapers, and she’s going to work—”
“Don’t you know what respect means, Zanella?” Muldoon asked, his voice a little too soft, a little too dangerous.
“Oh, I do, sir.” Izzy was a son of a bitch. “And were it me, sir, I would have respected her fully.”
“At that press conference today,” Cosmo told Izzy, “she apologized and called Lieutenant Muldoon ‘an officer and a gentleman.’”
“Okay.” Sam straightened up. “Gossip hour is over.” Izzy opened his mouth to comment, but they were all spared his further pearls of wisdom by WildCard, who had hit the yard already at a dead run, dragging Jenk behind him.
“You guys hear this latest shit?” the Card asked, skidding to the kind of stop that would have made a cartoon character proud. Except the look on his face was almost as grim as Muldoon’s. He was gazing directly at Sam, and when he got no response other than a headshake no, he pushed Mark Jenkins forward. “Tell ’em what you told me.”
“I wasn’t supposed to tell even you, Chief,” Jenk protested.
“An FBI team went head-to-head in a firefight with an al-Qaeda cell right here in San Diego today,” WildCard announced.
“Shit,” Izzy said, Brooke Bryant finally forgotten. “Where?”
“Apartment complex on the edge of town. The TV news has released some kind of story about gang violence—someone wants to keep the real story hushed.” WildCard turned to Sam and dropped an even bigger bomb. “There’s a body count, Sam, and rumor has it the casualties are not all terrorists.”
Alyssa.
Jesus, he’d know—somehow—if she were dead. Wouldn’t he?
“Who was involved?” Sam asked, looking from WildCard to Jenk.
The look on his face must’ve been fucking fierce, because Jenkins stopped hesitating.
“I don’t know for sure, sir,” he told Sam, “but Max Bhagat’s entire unit has been in this area for a while, working on something. It’s hard to believe they wouldn’t be in the middle of this.”
And Max’s best agents—including Alyssa and, shit, even Jules, too—would have been front and center when those bullets had started flying.
Sam grabbed on to the fact that part of being the best also meant that they had both the skill and the guts to survive.
Of course, being the best didn’t help when you were in the dead wrong place at the dead wrong time. Chief Frank O’Leary, may he rest in peace, was proof of that. He’d had the bad luck of being in a hotel lobby when an AK-47-wielding terrorist had opened fire.
O’Leary’s death had come as a complete surprise to Sam, too.
Fear tightened its grip on him. Please, God, let Alyssa be safe. And Jules. And, Christ, even Max, too, the mother-fucker. Whatever animosity Sam felt toward Max Bhagat, he didn’t want the man to die.
“It’s only a rumor—about the body count, right?” Muldoon had come to stand right next to Sam, a solid tower of support. “So how do we get verified information?”
“We don’t,” Jenk said. “I’m sorry, sir—”
“How did you hear about this?” Gilligan asked.
“We almost got sent out as support,” Jenkins reported. “I was in Admiral Crowley’s office when the call came in. The situation never even reached Commander Paoletti’s desk, though, because apparently the firefight happened quickly, and then it was over. There was a second call, almost right away, ordering us to stand down. The good news is that everyone in this particular cell was apprehended or killed.”
Muldoon took out his cell phone. “You’re friends with Alyssa’s partner,” he said to Sam. “Right? What’s his name?”
“Jules Cassidy,” WildCard volunteered.
“Let’s call him,” Muldoon said to Sam. “Do you have his number?”
“It’s in my office,” Sam said.
“Come on,” Muldoon said. “Let’s take care of this. We’ll make a phone call and then you’ll know for sure what the situation is.”
“I’ll find Commander Paoletti,” WildCard decided. “He’ll be able to get in touch with Max Bhagat.”
“I’m going back to Admiral Crowley’s office,” Jenk said. “See if I can dig up where Bhagat’s team is being billeted. Sometimes phone isn’t the best way to get in touch with people after something like this goes down. Sometimes it’s easier just to go and camp out where they’re staying and wait for them to return.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Izzy asked.
“Go find the senior chief,” Muldoon ordered. “He always knows everything that’s going on. See what he can tell us about this.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Come on,” Muldoon said again to Sam as they all went in different directions.
They walked toward the Team Sixteen building in silence. This was unreal. This was…
“She’s not dead,” Sam said, but as he said the words aloud, he knew he could be wrong. People died fighting terrorism, and these days they didn’t have to be sent over to Afghanistan to do it. Alyssa’s job here in the States was no less dangerous than his.
“What do I do if she is?” he asked, knowing that Muldoon couldn’t possibly answer that. No one could.
But Muldoon glanced at him. “Maybe the question you really should consider, sir, is what are you going to do if she’s alive?”
TWENTY-TWO
JOAN KNEW THE very instant Mike Muldoon came out onto the deck.
She was wearing about three sweaters, just sitting out there with Dave and Angela and Liz, having a drink, looking up at the night sky, listening to the crash of the surf, and arguing about who made the better starship captain—Kirk, Picard, Janeway, or Archer.
They were all still recuperating from Brooke’s latest “event.” Even though the President’s daughter had been safely locked down in rehab for more than twenty-four hours now, they’d spent most of the day scrambling to handle the increased news coverage, trying to steer the focus of all the attention toward the hope of recovery, rather than the dirt of past mistakes.
Joan had spent her day recuperating from Mike Muldoon, as well.
But here he was. Coming back for round two, apparently. God help her, she didn’t have the emotional energy for this now. She was terrified that if she so much as met his gaze, she would start to cry.
The things he’d said to her…And the things she’d said in return…Joan felt sick just thinking about it. Obviously she’d really hurt him by not calling last night. And the stupid thing was that she’d wanted to call. She’d forced herself not to call him. And when she finally went to bed, she had lain awake for hours, dying to call, wondering what he’d say if she woke him up, if he’d come right over, if he’d…
And the next morning, she’d faced the terrifying fact that she was impatient and eager to see him again. Only, he didn’t show.
Her first thought had been panic—he’d been sent to Afghanistan, where he’d instantly be killed.
“Excuse me,” he said now. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting, but…” He’d dressed for the occasion in a uniform that wasn’t quite as formal as his white choker suit, but he still looked extremely sharp. And he’d shaved recently, too. Not that the man had to go to much effort to look good. He looked directly at Joan, his handsome face somber. “May I speak to you privately, please?”
Protocol demanded that she make introductions, or at least make sure everyone knew everyone else. But tonight protocol could go to hell.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lieutenant,” she told him, and dismissed him—or at least tried to—by turning back to Liz. “I think the best answer to the question of who do you want on your team in a pinch has to be Spock. And since Spock comes with Kirk…”
But Muldoon didn’t go away. In fact, he did the opposite. He pulled a chair over next to hers and sat down in it. When she looked at him, he said, “I’m sorry. It’s important.”
Liz and Angela and Dave were looking at one another sideways, and Muldoon reached across her to hold out his hand to them. “Lt. Mike Muldoon. I think we all met the other night.”
They shook hands and introduced themselves, Liz looking at Muldoon with quite a bit of curiosity and interest in her eyes, b
ut then Dave stood up. “Sorry to greet and run, but Liz and Angie and I really have to—”
Joan grabbed the edge of his jacket and pulled him back down into his chair. “No, you don’t.”
“No, we don’t,” Liz echoed.
Muldoon was embarrassed. Even though the light out on the hotel’s deck was shadowy, she could see the heightened color in his cheeks.
“I don’t want to chase you away,” he told her coworkers. “But I do have to apologize to Joan. If she’s not going to let me do it privately, then I’m going to have to do it in front of you because it needs to be said.” He looked at her. “I’m really sorry that I got upset this afternoon. I’m…” He glanced at Dave, Liz, and Angie, but then focused his attention on her. “I’m scared, too, because I thought I was playing it safe. I thought I’d learned how to do that, how to protect myself, and I still got hurt—way worse than I anticipated.”
God in heaven, the man was serious. He was going to have this entire conversation in front of Dave and Angela and Liz. Dave was squirming, but Angie and Liz looked like they’d settled in for the show, all but ready to order popcorn from the waitress.
And Liz was a bitch and a half. Everything Muldoon said was going to be public knowledge by tomorrow morning, and he’d already said quite enough.
Joan stood up. “Excuse us,” she said to them, smiling extra sweetly at Liz. “Let’s take a walk,” she told Muldoon.
He was blessedly silent, thank you, Jesus God, as they went down the stairs to the beach.
“Well, that was nifty,” she said as they hit the soft sand. The wind was stronger down here, and she wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt not to freeze. “But I guess you couldn’t have hired a skywriter and made it even more public, huh? That doesn’t work too well at night.”
“You’re not going to get me to apologize for that,” he told her. He was wearing far fewer layers than she was, but it was as if he didn’t even notice the cold as they headed down the beach. “I am sorry about everything else, though.” He shook his head, laughing softly. “I’m even sorry we slept together. I knew that would be a mistake from the first moment I saw you.”
Into the Night Page 38
