by Sandra Brown
So he had gone to the hospital as a substitute emissary. God, what if he hadn't gone? What if the corporal named Gene Cox had been asleep? What if he had been the unfortunate one to die during the night?
He shivered even as sweat rolled down his torso. His coat flapped against his legs and he hefted his bag into a sturdier grip. His feet thudded on the carpeted concourse. He could see the gate. It was still crowded. Good, the plane hadn't taken off yet. Thank God the government hadn't made an exception and done something on time.
He ignored the curious stares directed at him. He ignored Congressman Parker's signal for Dax to join him. His eager gaze swept the waiting room until it found the woman sitting all alone on the far side of the room looking out at the black night where only the blue runway lights relieved the stygian darkness. He could see her reflection in the glass, her desolate expression.
He dropped his bag where he stood and elbowed his way toward her. She saw his image in the glass as he loomed up behind her. His heart was rent in two at her immediate and visible distress.
"I've got to talk to you," he said urgently.
"No," she said, not turning around. "It's all been said."
He knelt down beside her chair and spoke softly. "If you want the whole world to hear this, witness this, then fine, But I believe I've got something to tell you that you'd rather hear in private. So what's it going to be?"
She turned to look at him then. He met her rebellious gaze levelly. He saw her belligerence waver, then fade. "Very well," she said and stood up, waiting for his lead.
He indicated with his head that she was to follow him. Obediently she did so. Most of the other waiting passengers were too tired or apathetic to notice their departure. When they reached the wide central aisle of the airport, Dax looked around until he saw a deserted alcove that housed pay telephones. He took her elbow and steered her toward it.
She turned to him as soon as they had reached the alcove that offered them only a modicum of privacy. "What do you want?"
He could forgive the cold haughtiness with which she faced him. He could forgive it because he knew that within a matter of moments her feelings would be quite different. Best to get the worst of it out of the way and proceed from there.
"Keely," he began gently, "Mark is dead. He's been dead since the day his chopper went down almost twelve years ago."
There were no manifestations of the emotional tumult she must surely be experiencing. There were no tears, no audible gasps, no hysterics, no gladness, no sorrow, nothing but a stoic mask and impenetrable green eyes that gave away nothing.
"Did you hear me, Keely?" he asked at last.
She nodded before she spoke. "Y-yes." She swallowed and cleared her throat. "How did you … how do you know?"
He told her then about his going to the hospital in lieu of Congressman Parker. "After my official duties were over, the four MIAs and I began talking as one vet to another. Just out of curiosity's sake, I asked each of them the circumstances behind his disappearance. One of them, an army corporal named Gene Cox, mentioned the date of a helicopter crash. Keely, it was the same day Mark's chopper went down.
"I asked Cox what had happened and he said the helicopter had been hit and was already burning when it crashed. He and the pilot were able to get out before it exploded. They crawled into the jungle, which he said was 'creeping' with Viet Cong. Both of the pilot's legs were broken and he must have had internal injuries. He died within an hour of the crash. Cox covered him with some thick foliage, hoping that the Cong wouldn't find the body and – well, wouldn't find it.
"Then Cox was captured and taken prisoner the next day." He took her hands in his and squeezed them tightly. "Keely, the helicopter pilot's name was Mark Williams. He was a tall blond guy who spoke with a Southern accent."
He had expected her to possibly slump against the wall or perhaps to lean into him for support as she tried to assimilate what he had told her. He had planned to hold her close, not as a lover but as a friend, until she was ready to talk about what this meant to them. He had expected tears perhaps over the wasted life of a young man, maybe even a little bitterness over the war to which he had been sacrificed.
In all his imaginings he hadn't anticipated the reaction he got.
She jerked her hands free of his as though flinging off something hideous. The only sound she made was a laugh, harsh and without mirth, but rife with contempt. "How could you, Dax?" she asked, loathing dripping off every word. "Whose conscience are you trying to salve – mine or yours?"
He stared at her in mute astonishment. "Wh—"
She laughed that horrible laugh again. "I've no doubt that this soldier Cox told you his story. But I find it a shade too coincidental that the pilot's name was Williams and that he spoke with a Southern accent. Did you think I was so gullible that I'd believe that?"
His jaw, which had been hanging slack in puzzlement, was now hardening as he tried to get control of his quickly slipping temper. In deference to the situation he managed to contain it. "I'm telling you the truth, dammit." He pushed the words through his teeth. "Why would I lie about something this important?"
"Because I told you this morning that I couldn't belong to you, that we couldn't have a life together until I knew about Mark's fate. I think you conveniently worked his name into the story this soldier told you. That would make a neat, tidy little package, wouldn't it?" She shook back her hair with an angry toss of her head. "You have a reputation for getting what you want, Congressman Devereaux, by fair means or foul. I think you've just lived up to that reputation."
His proud ancestors could tolerate just about anything except a slur on their family name. So could Dax. But any intimation that his integrity wasn't sound was the one thing he would never forgive.
He straightened to his full height and looked down at her with violence smoldering in his eyes. "All right, Keely. Believe what you will. Sacrifice your life too. Hoard your love like a damn miser. I think you actually thrive on your self-imposed martyrdom. It sets you apart, doesn't it, from the rest of us animals? But be forewarned, the human race finds saints immeasurably tedious."
She whirled away from him and crossed the concourse to the boarding area. Though his heart was being chiseled away piece by piece, his pride wouldn't allow him to call her back. How could she believe him capable of something so despicable after last night? Last night… He covered his face with his hands, trying to wipe out the memories of shared joy, ecstasy. It was impossible that she could think—
"Your woman run out on you?"
Al Van Dorf's drawling voice thrust Dax abruptly back into the present. He dropped his hands and jerked his head around to see the smirking grin he detested. Van Dorf was leaning negligently against the wall just inside the alcove. His mocking arrogance was the last straw for Dax's tenuous composure.
He lunged at the reporter and his Marine-trained instincts took over. Before the man realized what had happened to him, he had been uprooted, yanked farther into the shadows, and pinned against the wall. Both hands had been clamped behind him by an iron fist. His eyeglasses had been knocked askew. Dax's knee was rammed up into his crotch, causing him to squeal a high, pitiable screech. A hard forearm was pressed like a crowbar across his throat.
"You've opened your wise mouth once too often, Van Dorf."
"I saw—"
"You saw nothing. You heard nothing. Nothing you can prove, anyway. If you ever make one of your sly innuendos to me again, I'm going to sue you for so much money that even if I lose, your reputation as a credible journalist will be so shot to hell that no news service or two-bit rag will touch you with a ten-foot pole. Not only that, but I'll beat the bloody hell out of you. Do I make myself clear, Van Dorf?"
For emphasis, he pushed his knee higher and the man whimpered, confirming what Dax had always suspected – he was a coward. "I asked you a question, Van Dorf. Do I make myself clear?"
The man bobbed his head up and down as far as Dax's stranglehold would allow. The devil eyes th
at glared at him threatened that the congressman might yet change his mind and go ahead and kill him. It was with vast relief that he felt Dax's hands gradually relax.
"What I said goes double for Mrs. Williams. If I read one word of insinuating copy with your byline on it, I'll kill you."
Then, in a gesture of disdain, he turned his back on Van Dorf, who was still struggling for air. He strode back to the boarding gate, picked up his bag where he had left it, and went to stand in formidable solitude against the wall, waiting for the long overdue airplane back to the United States.
* * *
Chapter 15
«^»
The moon was on the right side of the aircraft. Keely was staring out a window on the left side, so only a diffuse silver glow alleviated the black night. The stars seemed far away. The clouds below the aircraft were a thick, seemingly impenetrable blanket.
"Are you sleeping?" The question roused her from her stupor and she turned her head to see Betty Allway leaning across the aisle seat. Since the reporter who had been sitting beside Keely originally had taken her rude silence as a hint that she didn't want to talk and moved to another seat, she had been sitting alone.
"No," she answered the older woman's question.
"Do you mind if I sit beside you for a while?"
Keely shook her head and picked up her raincoat, which had been lying in the seat to discourage anyone else from sitting there. "What's Bill doing? Sleeping?"
"Yes," Betty said. "He gets frustrated because he tires so easily. I'll have to keep an eye on him so he doesn't do too much when he first gets home. I'm sure his inclination, and the army's, will be to try to make up for the past fourteen years in a few weeks. I'm going to fight them both to see that that doesn't happen."
Keely responded with a warm smile. "You're entitled to a little possessiveness, I think."
They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Keely couldn't forget Betty's surprised expression when she had seen her and Dax getting out of the taxi that morning at dawn. It was a wonder the woman would speak to her at all. After all the heartache they had suffered together, she hated to lose the friendship of a woman she had long admired.
"Keely," Betty said hesitantly. "I don't want to butt in where I'm not wanted or needed, but you do look like you might need someone to talk to. Is that the case?"
Keely's head fell back onto the seat cushion and she closed her eyes for a moment before responding. "I guess I'm just feeling the letdown. The past three days have seemed like a lifetime and I'm exhausted. I never did carry fatigue well." She tried to smile, but it turned out to be a travesty of that expression.
"No, Keely. It's more than that. And I think it has a lot to do with Dax Devereaux." She leaned over the vacant seat between them and took Keely's hand between her own. "Are you in love with him?"
She was tempted to lie, to answer vehemently in the negative. But what good would it do? Betty had seen them together on so many occasions she was bound to have put the pieces together to form a complete picture. She had heard Van Dorf's leading, provocative questions. The woman could think no less of her than she already did. She rolled her head toward the other woman, though she didn't raise it off the cushion.
Meeting Betty's eyes openly, she said, "Yes, I'm in love with him."
"Ah," she said thoughtfully. "I thought so. May I overstep the bounds of curiosity and ask since when?"
"Since the night I arrived in Washington for the subcommittee hearing. We met that night on the airplane. I didn't know then that he was on the committee and he didn't know that Keely Preston and Mrs. Mark Williams were one and the same."
"I see."
"I don't think you do. I – we – never intended it to happen. We both fought it. Particularly me. But—"
"You don't have to justify love, Keely." She continued to hold Keely's hand, stroking it absently as she said, "Does he know how you feel about him?"
"I don't know. I'm sure he must, but I … we had an argument of sorts. He did something—" She rubbed her forehead with her hand. "Never mind. A relationship between us is impossible for so many reasons."
"Mainly being?" Betty asked leadingly.
Keely looked at her in surprise. "Mainly because I'm still married and I don't know if my husband is alive or dead. Your situation has changed, Betty, but mine hasn't, remember?" She instantly hated the sarcastic tone she had used. "I'm sorry," she said contritely. "Please, Betty, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying."
"Don't apologize, Keely. I think I can understand the emotional conflict you're suffering. Perhaps you've suffered long enough. Maybe you should consider having Mark declared dead and marry your congressman." Had the woman said she was going to jump out of the airplane, Keely couldn't have been more stunned. After all the years they had campaigned on behalf of the MIAs, after their avowals that they would never give up hope on their men being accounted for eventually, she couldn't believe her ears had heard Betty right. "You can't mean that."
"Yes, I do," Betty said firmly.
"But—"
"Let me confess something to you, Keely. For these past years I've taken advantage of you. No, let me finish," she said when Keely was about to object. "You did our cause a world of good. You were a perfect representative for us. You are bright, beautiful, and successful. You added a credibility to us that I played to the hilt. Somehow, with you as our spokesperson, we didn't seem so much like a group of hysterical females.
"Ever since our last trip to Washington, I've felt ashamed of myself for encouraging you, albeit subtly and without malice, to waste your youth and vibrance and love on Mark's memory. I even remember cautioning you about jeopardizing your reputation with a man like Dax."
"I never did anything I didn't want to do, Betty. I felt, and do still feel, as strongly as I ever did."
"But now you've got another cause, one equally important, to rally behind. If you love this man, and I think you do or you wouldn't be wallowing in so much guilt, you should be with him, Keely. If his behavior is any indication, I think your feelings for him are reciprocated. He needs you. He is alive and he's here in the present and in the flesh. Mark is not and may never be."
Keely faced her friend angrily. "How can you say that? Less than a week ago you had no idea that Bill was ever coming home. Now he's here. You waited all those years, you were – were faithful." To her chagrin tears were rolling down her cheeks.
"Yes. And I had three children to consider. I'd also had ten beautiful years with Bill, which weren't as easy to forget as a few weeks. We had a life together. You and Mark didn't. I can't tell you what to do, Keely. I can only say that if you want to be with Dax, you should be. Don't sacrifice your happiness and his forever."
Keely was shaking her head, unaware of the tears that continued to flow. "It's too late, Betty. I don't agree with what you've said about deserting the cause I've fought for so long. I can't just drop PROOF. Others are still depending on me. Especially now that these MIAS have returned, we have new hope, perhaps channels of investigation we didn't know existed will open up. But all of that aside, Dax and I were doomed before we were begun. If ever there was a spark of love between us, it's gone now."
She looked at Betty and the older woman thought she had never seen such naked sadness and disillusionment on a face so young. "I'll get over this depression once I get home to New Orleans and back to work."
* * *
She didn't know how wrong that prediction would prove to be. She was so exhausted by all that had happened in Paris and by the ceaseless interviews she had granted during her brief layover in Washington, that when she arrived home she took her telephone off the hook and barricaded herself in her apartment, sleeping around the clock for almost twenty-four hours.
When she finally woke up, she realized that Mardi Gras week was in full swing. Finding a parking space was unheard of. Waiting for a table in a restaurant took hours. To walk down a sidewalk one had to detour around the bleachers set up along the parade routes and
dodge revelers, who were generally inebriated and noisy. In her current state of mind the merrymaking was repugnant.
She called her producer, begging for several days vacation she had accumulated. After receiving his grumbling consent, she packed her car and drove to Mississippi to visit with her parents.
They were sensitive to her dark mood and trod lightly around her. She ate well, slept as well as dreams would allow, and took long, solitary walks along the Gulf shore. A short visit to the nursing home where Mrs. Williams stayed almost negated what strength she had built up, and she came away from the institution feeling that nothing would ever be right in the world again.
When she returned to work, everyone treated her with effusive, deferential kindness. She felt like a mental patient who had just been released. She despised the patronizing tones everyone used when talking to her and the pitying looks and the false jocularity.
Nicole, who couldn't bear depression of any kind, steered clear of Keely, except for a few commiserating telephone calls. She didn't bring up the subject of Dax Devereaux. Once she mentioned that she had read of his rapidly growing popularity because of his activities concerning the returned MIAs. Keely made no comment, so Nicole took the hint and dropped the subject. Just by looking at her, anyone could tell that Keely's self-possession was eggshell thin. Nicole, like everyone else, didn't want to be the one responsible for cracking it.
After three weeks of avoidance Nicole invited herself over for dinner. "Can you believe it? I've got a Saturday night without a date. I'm coming for dinner. Make that spaghetti casserole with all the gloriously fattening cheese in it."
Keely laughed. "If there's anything I hate it's a shy guest. What else would you like?"
"That layered chocolate thing with the cream cheese and pecans."
"Anything else?" Keely inquired dryly.
"Loaves of French bread."
"Anything else?"
"No," Nicole said flippantly. "I'll bring the wine." She did. At seven o'clock that evening Keely, jean and sweatshirt clad, answered the door to Nicole, equally sloppy, carrying a jug of red wine under each arm.
