The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  Dejected that they were no closer to solving the mystery than they’d been earlier, Toby nonetheless clapped Jackson on the back as they headed through the exit closest to their car. “Thanks for your help, man. Love you. Mean it.”

  Jackson shot him a grin. “Do you have a T-shirt that says that?”

  “No doubt.”

  Milly greeted their return to the car with a happy bark. Jackson unlocked the car doors and they climbed inside, both of them lost in thought. Jackson put the air on full blast to clear the windows Milly had fogged up. “I’m sorry we didn’t find anything definitive,” he said to Toby.

  Toby grunted his acknowledgment. If anything, they had more suspects now than ever.

  As Jackson sped them toward the Customs and Border Patrol Training Center for Palmer’s noon briefing, Toby mulled over what they’d learned that morning. “What do you think of Richardson as a potential suspect?” he tossed out, more curious than serious. Was his sixth sense really talking to him, or was just annoyed with Richardson for thinking Dylan was so mentally unstable?

  “Richardson?” Jackson frowned at the road ahead of them. “What would his motive be?”

  Toby scrubbed a hand over his face. “No idea,” he admitted. “Maybe he’s tired of having to treat soldiers with PTSD. But there was something about him…I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Jackson merged onto the sparsely populated highway. “Look, I know you doubt Richardson’s diagnosis,” he said gently, “but if Dylan is convicted, then dissociative identity disorder may be her best defense.”

  “She’s not crazy,” Toby repeated. He lapsed into worried silence. “But she may be suicidal,” he finally muttered. “I don’t know how she’s going to handle Ashby’s death.”

  “Perhaps Richardson should talk to her like he offered,” Jackson suggested. “We could escort him through the roadblock and drop him off a little ways from her house. Her soldiers wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would they?”

  Toby swiped a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you should try calling her again.”

  He’d called her six times since she’d hung up on him yesterday. “She won’t answer.” And who could blame her? The press had probably been hounding her for interviews, and the FBI had doubtless been in touch with her, as well, alternately threatening her and persuading her to surrender.

  But Jackson was right. Regardless of how Dylan felt about him now, she needed to be reassured that she wasn’t in this fight alone.

  “I’ll call,” he promised, reaching for his phone. God forbid she should try ending her life without knowing how hard he was working to save her.

  ***

  Dylan knelt on the hard floor at the end of Terrence’s bed, hands clasped in prayer and pressed to her lips to keep her sobs locked inside. Her aching heart kept her oblivious to the fact that her legs had gone numb as she watched Father Nesbit administer last rites. Terrence lay against his propped pillows, too feeble to move. Watery sunlight filled the open windows making his pallor all the more apparent.

  The priest smoothed sacramental oil into the shape of a cross on Terrence’s forehead. “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,” he prayed.

  “Amen,” Dylan whispered for Terrence, who was in too much pain to speak.

  Next, Father Nesbit smoothed the oil onto the patient’s palms. “May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”

  “Amen,” she whispered again.

  Her priest then prayed for a painless death, and Dylan added her own silent petitions. He reached for the plate he had placed on Terrence’s bedside table. “I have brought provisions for your journey,” he informed him. “Is he able to eat?” He glanced at Dylan for permission.

  She swallowed the painful knot in her throat. “It’s up to him.”

  Terrence made a wheezing sound and nodded.

  Laying his hand over the bread, the priest blessed it, broke it, and fed a morsel to the patient, who obligingly chewed and swallowed. The priest did likewise with the cup of wine. Terrence choked and sputtered as it went down his throat. He immediately caught Dylan’s eye as if to reassure her, and a helpless tear coursed Dylan’s cheek. Please don’t suffer long.

  “May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life.” Nesbit sat back, squeezing the patient’s hand. Then he began to put away his belongings. “I’d like to speak with you before I leave,” he murmured to Dylan. “But stay with him a moment.”

  As Father Nesbit left the room, Dylan struggled from her knees to sit on the side of the bed. Terrence had closed his eyes. His peaceful expression alleviated some of the weight on her chest. He slit his eyes to look at her. Then his vocal chords vibrated and he spoke up unexpectedly. “Go talk to him,” he exhorted.

  “Hush. I will. In a bit.”

  “Don’t grieve.” His words slurred together. “I’m ready to go.”

  Scalding tears flooded her eyes. “Well, I’m not ready,” she retorted, blinking them back.

  “Forgive…Burke.”

  A tide of confusing emotions swept through her. “Don’t mention his name to me. Why are you talking when you should be resting?”

  “Be happy.”

  Happiness was a state of the heart so far removed from where she was at the moment that such a request seemed ludicrous. Tears of frustration rimmed her lashes. She sprang up before Terrence could see them. “I’ll be back,” she promised, fleeing his room.

  On the landing, she encountered Father Nesbit sitting at the top of the stairs. As she neared him a helicopter skimmed over the house, so low it set the tin roof humming. The press had been circling like vultures, no doubt filming the movements of her soldiers and hoping to capture something of interest to relay to the American public. Those stations sympathetic to Washington, she was sure, were portraying her as a dangerous and radical extremist.

  “Sit,” he called over the din and patted the space next to him.

  As she sank down beside him, the priest looped an arm around her. That single act of comfort broke the dam keeping Dylan’s grief contained. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed. When the flood abated, he patted her back, and she straightened self-consciously, wiping the wetness from her face.

  “When it rains, it pours,” he sympathized. “Too much is happening at once.”

  A welcoming numbness filled her. She nodded her agreement.

  “Have you spoken to Kevin Richardson, Dylan?”

  She leaned away from him, surprised.

  “I know he’s your counselor,” the priest admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “It’s one of the privileges of being a priest; we know more than we’d probably like to.”

  “Has he talked about me?” Dylan asked, thoroughly discomfited.

  “Only to say how much he admires you. I think you should give him a call.” He patted her hand and shook his head. “I’m just a priest, Dylan. I don’t know how to make this better for you other than to assure you that God will get you through it, if you lean on Him.”

  “You’ve already made it better,” she insisted. “Terrence is at peace, thanks to you.”

  He squeezed her hand and searched her gaze. “I’m not worried about Terrence. He’ll soon be in a better place. It’s you I fear for,” he admitted, letting her glimpse his deep concern. “Kevin has helped others in your situation. He’s the one you should turn to, now.”

  A bitter smile tugged at Dylan’s mouth. Her priest thought her suicidal. Maybe she was.

  “Call him,” Nesbit repeated.

  “I’ll be okay,” she insisted, telling both herself and him that.

  Looking sad, perhaps because she wouldn’t make him any promise, he added, “You know, I gave your father last rites when he was ill.”

  “I remember.”

  “I promised him I would look after you.” His chin wobbled unexpectedly. “I feel as though I’ve failed him m
iserably in that regard.”

  “No.” She vehemently shook her head. “No one could have protected me from what’s happened. And no one can fix what’s happening now.” Except possibly Tobias. The unwelcome thought skittered through her mind.

  “God can fix it,” the priest insisted, lifting wet eyes to her. “Let’s pray together.”

  Over the sounds of raised voices outside and the distant clatter of the helicopter, they prayed that Dylan would be relieved of the burden of persecution and free to live her life fully, once and for all.

  “Amen,” she murmured. Resignation weighted her shoulders.

  Nesbit sighed. “Now, there are some earthly matters that I need to attend to. Do you know where Terrence wishes to be buried?”

  Dread filled her at the prospect of having to make arrangements. “He wants to be cremated, his ashes spread across my land.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” the priest promised, patting her hand. “It’s the least I can do. We’ll have a lovely memorial for him when it’s time.”

  “Thank you.” His offer took a weight off her shoulders until she remembered the negotiator’s warning that the FBI would arrest her the instant she stepped off her property. In that case, she wouldn’t get to attend Terrence’s memorial, at all.

  “You’re not alone, Dylan,” Nesbit assured her. “In spite of all that’s happening now, there’s always hope.”

  The words reminded her of something Tobias had told her. She nodded numbly.

  “Call your counselor,” he repeated, pushing to his feet.

  Dylan trailed him down the steps toward the front door. She watched through the screen door as he slipped into his car. It came as almost a surprise to realize it was an overcast November day. The muted sun shone feebly through the clouds to illumine the dozen or more tents pitched in her front yard. Her soldiers had set up a permanent camp, while Sheriff Fallon occupied Ackerman’s old bedroom. Those who’d been relieved of their watch were either sleeping in their tents or standing about small fire pits trying to keep warm.

  Beyond the barren apple trees, other militiamen kept the federal agents from trespassing on her property.

  How do I get out of this?

  Tobias had promised he would prove her innocence. But how could he, when all the evidence pointed to her guilt? She led an anti-government militia. She suffered from clinical PTSD. Her revolver had fired the bullets that killed General Treyburn. Either she had killed him, and she couldn’t remember, or someone had methodically set her up to be their scapegoat.

  A chill spread on the top of Dylan’s head. Who did she know who could be so coldly calculating? It had to be someone close to her, someone she trusted. Yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine who would use her as his sacrificial lamb.

  Father Nesbit had said there was always hope. But what hope was there that Tobias could save her now? And what made her think, after all the lies he’d told her, that she could put any faith in him at all?

  With a heavy heart, she turned and plodded back upstairs, ignoring her phone as it began to ring. Not again. She tried to guess who was calling her. Was it the Fox News Channel or CNN this time, with a new angle to entice her to interview with them? Or perhaps the FBI negotiators had some clever new tactic up their sleeves. None of it mattered. She let her message machine take the call.

  The sound of Tobias’s voice had her halting on the landing. Her heart leapt up her throat.

  “Hey, Dylan, it’s me.”

  Just the sound of his voice filled her with a poignant longing to believe in him. If only he hadn’t lied to her.

  “Just listen to me and believe me when I tell you that I’m going to get you out of this mess. In fact, I made some headway this morning that I wanted to tell you about—”

  Cynicism overtook her weak impulse to dash to the nearest phone and pick it up. Turning a deaf ear to the rest of what he had to say, Dylan plodded up the rest of the steps and turned toward Terrence’s bedroom, shutting the door.

  Tobias couldn’t save her now. No one could.

  ***

  “Okay, I’ve done background checks on Loomis and Richardson,” Ike said to the Taskforce team, once more crammed into his hotel suite early the next morning.

  The television, broadcasting the latest situation on the “Harpers Ferry Stand-off” with the volume lowered, vied for Toby’s attention. News that seven of Dylan’s civilian soldiers had surrendered to the FBI the previous night had taken top story. One by one, the deserters were being interviewed. With a pinch of disappointment, Toby recognized Nathan, the waiter, as one of those who’d walked out on his leader.

  “Here’s the bad news,” Ike announced, reclaiming Toby’s attention. “I’ve dug up every bit of dirt I could find on Dylan’s colleagues, and they all come out squeaky clean. Director Loomis was a UDT diver back in ‘Nam. He voted for Bush in 2000, and his stance on Syria is pro-intervention, giving him no motive to kill Nolan or Treyburn. You can scratch Loomis off our list.”

  Toby glanced at the television in time to hear Nathan say, “The only reason I gave up is because my wife just had a baby, and she needs my help at home.”

  “Then you still believe in the militia leader’s innocence?” asked the reporter interviewing him.

  “Hell, yes, I believe in her innocence,” Nathan shot back, regaining a portion of Toby’s respect. “Ask anyone around here if they think she’s a murderer, and they’ll tell you you’re crazy. The Feds are framing her because they think the SAM threatens national security. Just what are they afraid of, that’s what I want to know. If you think we’re anti-government extremists, then Santa Claus must be a pedophile.”

  “Then there’s Dr. Kevin Richardson,” Ike continued, unaware of Toby’s difficulty focusing. “Listen to this quote from an article in Army Magazine, written back in ‘06, when Richardson received a bronze star.”

  Ike leaned toward his laptop to read out loud. “‘During the bloodiest months of the Iraq War, Captain Richardson worked 60 to 70 hours a week counseling soldiers who struggled with insomnia, nightmares, shock, and grief. Risking his own life, he boarded helicopters and joined convoys in order to reach the hundreds of shattered soldiers needing his help. Colleagues attribute his success to the instant rapport he established with the troops. Though planning to resign his commission, Richardson intends to continue comforting and healing veterans returning from war.’”

  The team lead leaned back in his chair and looked at Toby. “He doesn’t sound like the type to go murdering heads of state.”

  Toby had to admit that he didn’t. But he couldn’t ignore the suspicion niggling inside him. Maybe it was that bit of cellophane that had fallen out of Richardson’s pocket yesterday. Every time he thought about it, he wondered if Dylan hadn’t mistaken a wrapper off a box of cigarettes for a candy wrapper.

  What if pack-a-day Richardson habitually stuck his wrappers in the pocket of his smock and hung them in his office closet at night? What if one of those wrappers had fallen out and Dylan held felt it when he’d stuck her in there, while helping himself to her purse and her car keys? It was totally possible.

  Toby sat forward. “Bear with me for just a sec,” he enjoined the others. “Imagine what it must be like to be a man in Richardson’s shoes.”

  Ike narrowed his eyes at him. “Go ahead,” he offered, giving Toby the floor.

  He drew a deep breath. “Okay. Imagine that, for the past fifteen years, you’ve treated hundreds of soldiers whose lives have been torn apart by war. You do your best to put them back together, but they never stop coming. One war leads to another, first Iraq, then Afghanistan. You’re exhausted trying to give these vets some kind of quality of life when along comes the threat of more urban warfare, more IEDs, more trauma. You start to wonder if there’ll ever be an end to it and who will help these soldiers when you retire.”

  The room fell quiet with the exception of the chipper allergy commercial on TV.

  Hamilton spoke up in his calm,
bass voice. “But the man has an alibi.”

  “That’s right. He was chaperoning his niece’s party,” Ike reminded Toby.

  “Wearing a mask,” Toby pointed out. “How could anyone tell if it was him or his brother, who looks just like him?”

  “We ask his brother’s wife,” Jackson proposed, and they all turned to look at him.

  Ike reached for his keyboard. “Easy enough. I’ll find the brother’s address right now. With a little luck you could question her this morning.”

  “Have we tracked down Ivan Ackerman yet?” Toby asked. “Richardson treated him for PTSD. He could have used him to plant the evidence.”

  Ike started sifting through his notes. “The state police haven’t found him, but I came across his father’s address in Martinsburg. Maybe Ackerman senior knows where his son is hiding. Why don’t you drop by there after questioning Richardson’s sister-in-law?”

  Feeling encouraged for the first time in days, Toby entered the two addresses Ike gave him into his phone—Scott Richardson’s and Ivan Ackerman Sr.’s. They had three and a half hours before Palmer’s daily briefing. Wars had been won in less time, he reminded himself. With a little luck, maybe they’d find proof of Dylan’s innocence, and her persecution would be over.

  ***

  “Hey!”

  A distant shout startled Dylan out of a light slumber. She found herself in her own bed, lying on top of the covers, having sprawled there in exhaustion toward the wee hours of the morning. The brightness of the light in the windows had her turning her head to her clock with a stab of alarm. It was 8:05 in the morning, and Terrence hadn’t yet had his medicine.

  Snatching up her bathrobe, she flew barefooted down the hall toward his bedroom. She was still threading her arms through the sleeves when she barreled through his door. The absolute stillness beyond drew her to a sudden stop. The way the sunlight sparkled in the suspended dust motes had her drawing a frightened breath, and the faint but unmistakable odor of death hit her nostrils.