“What do you have? Pictures? Are these from Afghanistan?” Gwen snatched them before he could react. The smile froze on her face as she studied first one and then the other. “I…am so relieved…you have no idea,” she muttered, “and you’re here so…” She faced Hope who edged toward the door with her bag crisscrossed across her chest. “We interrupted, didn’t we? Will you stay?”
He saw then how desperate his mother was for a sign of normalcy. She needed him to have a semblance of a life beyond war wounds and a bad attitude.
He met Hope’s gaze from across the room. Guilt for every word and action of his during the past five months settled onto his shoulders.
“I wish I could, but I really need to get home,” she said. “I came here right after work and need to walk my dog.” Her gaze darted back to Dalton who stared at her from the sofa. “About those pictures, Mrs. Cedars, I—”
“Thank you for bringing them,” he interrupted. “Mom, dad, Dalton this is my…my…”
“It’s complicated,” she locked her gaze with his, “and probably too hard to figure out right this minute. We were having an argument about that when you arrived.”
“Ah,” Miles studied the pictures Gwen had passed to him before winking at him, “I think a good argument is exactly what my son needs.”
“That’s what McGee said,” she said as she stepped closer to the door. “You all enjoy your dinner. I need to go.”
“Can I talk to you alone for a minute?” He nodded to the bedroom door. “Please?”
Hand on the door, she looked between all of them before looking directly into his eyes. “No, you can’t. I’m completely talked out, a reporter’s curse, I guess. You know how to get in touch with me.”
With an apology to his family, she gave him a mock salute and left him alone with his regret.
* * * *
Jogging hadn’t calmed her down. She had no idea when life had become a complete mess or how she could stop it from getting any worse. Her wounded husband sat across town wishing she would disappear and wanting a divorce before anyone knew they were married. Sweet. She had a brother in Los Angeles she hadn’t seen in a few years, a sister here who resented her very existence. Beautiful. And let’s not forget the dead best friend who haunted her dreams every night with half of his head missing. Lovely. Then there was Sally’s last voice mail pleading with her to call back, but she’d checked her messages too late. Perfect. Now she had a human trafficking story being handed to her when she could barely concentrate. Fabulous. Oh yeah, and she owned an empty loft full of unfulfilled promises. Pitiful.
Squatting down, she released her puppy from its leash and let him chew on her finger for a minute before tossing a ball for him. She grinned at the simplicity of watching a dog catch a ball. Nice.
She’d bought her loft because of the proximity to the river running through downtown Denver. Although spring had yet to arrive, people cluttered the bike trail running next to the water. The buildings of downtown were on her left, the distant mountains on her right. She laughed out loud when Dude tripped over his own feet while running back to her with the tennis ball clutched in his jaws.
“Goofy dog,” she said, relaxing for a minute and forgetting about the drama.
“Did you find anything out today?” A shadow covered her and blocked out the setting sun. A quick glance upward showed a man in a suit, tie and sunglasses. “In the diner, did you stumble upon anything suspicious?”
“You’re suspicious, let’s start with that.” Pinpricks of warning darted over the back of her neck. She slipped the leash on Dude, held the ball in her fist and slowly stood. “Do I know you?”
“Take this.” He held out a key. “Gannon Construction has a site behind Saint Mary’s Glacier. You’ll find what you need out there.”
“I know you.” She squinted at him. “Who are you?”
“A friend. Take the key, Shane.”
From the new vantage point, she recognized him as a man she’d met a few weeks ago at the Governor’s Ball. Rourke? Something like that. A state senator, she thought.
She eyed the key with suspicion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a grin he grabbed her hand and folded the key into her palm. “You know what I’m talking about. A word of warning, Shane: you’re not dealing with amateurs here. You need to be more careful. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Stop with the games. I’m really not in the mood. Why don’t you get to the point?” She stepped back from him. Dude growled but hung close to her legs.
“I can’t be seen talking to you like this again,” he said. “And I can’t get more involved.”
“Maybe I don’t like being led around like a dog. Stop handing me hints. Take a walk with me.” Mind automatically clicked into work mode. “C’mon, Rourke. Walk with me.”
He pulled at his tie and looked around the bike trails winding along the river. “That’s not a good idea. Take the key. Do what you do. Find what you need. I can’t be involved anymore than I am. I have a family.”
Family. Her thoughts flashed back to Michael, Dalton, his parents, her sister, her nephews. She walked toward her loft. Rourke fell into step with her.
“You’re implying that you’ll be killed if you ask anymore questions. Why not go to the FBI? Why me?” she asked.
“Because you get things done. You’ll get this national attention. You have the power to save these people. You can find things out that the authorities can’t. You break rules and get away with it. Like I said, your reputation precedes you.” He grabbed her arm and looked over his shoulder. He leaned closer, the lines on his face deeper than she remembered from their one meeting, hair more gray, and eyes tired. “I’ve already been threatened. I’m taking a huge risk showing up here. You need to be careful.”
She pulled free of his touch. Paranoia was contagious. Skateboarders, joggers, bikers, and couples enjoying the evening all became potential threats. The park suddenly seemed too exposed.
“Give me a name,” she said.
“I already did.” He smiled then and nodded toward the key in her hand. “Gannon Construction. They’re based out of San Diego. From what I suspect, they’re transporting Mexican illegals from San Diego to Denver, but I’m not sure how. And I can’t prove any of this.”
“But you were threatened?” Still not convinced, she stepped closer to him. “How?”
“My tires were slashed today when I left the office.”
“Could be a random act of violence.”
“Do you believe in coincidence, Shane?”
“No, Rourke, I don’t.” But she did believe in being set-up. “How did you know I would be here jogging with my dog?”
“Because you’re here every night jogging with your dog.” His smile faded. “Although you were late tonight. Someone with your celebrity shouldn’t be such a creature of habit.”
“And state senators shouldn’t be stalking reporters, makes you look suspicious.”
“Who said I did the stalking? Watch your back and good luck.” He turned on his polished heel and walked toward downtown.
So much for simplicity. She picked up her puppy, tucked him beneath her arm and jogged back to her building. A quick glance around the street showed four men walking toward her. Probably going to a bar. Or maybe they were about to stab her to death.
Cursing paranoia, she fumbled with the keys in the lock and stepped into the lobby. Skipping the elevator, she took the stairs two at a time until she stood in front of her eighth floor loft.
Rattled, she unlocked the four deadbolts on her door. Celebrity. She hated that word. It reminded her too much of Michael’s glory seeker insult. She slammed the door closed, relocked the deadbolts and let Dude off his leash.
When her cell phone rang, she ignored it.
Hands shaking, she covered her face and sank to the floor. Back pressed against the refrigerator, she fought the guilt that nagged at her constantly...guilt for loving her job in a war zone, for Peter’s death,
for not knowing how to be a wife to Michael, for wanting to disappear, for not being a good enough sister...guilt for surviving.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe she was making a fool of herself for hanging onto him, for thinking she could come to Denver and lead a simple life. Perhaps everyone had been right except her.
Dude sniffed her hair, his speckled puppy paws perched against her shoulder. She rubbed at her eyes and forced back a sob. There had been too many tears. No more.
Pushing Dude aside, she stood and wandered to the windows. Across town Michael sat in a room hating her. So close, yet untouchable.
Outside her floor to ceiling windows, the lights of downtown Denver flickered and traffic moved along the freeway. She leaned her forehead against the glass and stared at her image superimposed over the view. A ghost looked back.
Alone in the dimming light, she stared at the lights outside and wondered if any of this would ever seem normal to her again.
Chapter Four
The incessant ringing alternating between her home phone and her cell phone finally stirred her from where she’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Eyes blurry, she glanced at the caller identification. Devon.
“What’s up, Dev? It’s five in the morning.” She shoved hair from her face and wondered why she felt hung over when she hadn’t consumed any alcohol.
“Marion called. There’s breaking news that he thinks is part of our story. A car chase from Glenwood Springs just ended in a wreck outside of Golden. We need to go now. I’m on my way with the van. He wants you to do a live shot.”
Shaking off the ill feeling that shrouded her brain, she stumbled toward her bedroom. Live shot. She needed to wash her face, grab some make-up, and brush her teeth. In that order. Damn, she couldn’t think.
“Hope? You didn’t fall back to sleep did you?”
“No, no, just give a minute.” She leaned against the sink in her bathroom. “I’ll be down. I have to bring Dude with me. He won’t be trouble. I just don’t have time to walk him.”
“Marion won’t like that.”
“Marion will never know about it. See you in a few.” She clicked off the phone, filled the sink with cold water, bent over and submerged her face for as long as she could hold her breath.
After a flurry of motion, she and Dude jogged to the waiting van. In silence, she accepted the coffee from Devon while adjusting the volume on the police radio. Jason, the audio man, filled her in on the background of what was happening. Concentration came at a price this morning. Nothing clicked. An annoying whisper played on a loop through her mind saying, “you need a break, you need a vacation, you’re going to snap.”
The scene on the mountain road above Golden sickened her. A white, windowless van had flipped upside down over a steep drop off along the canyon road. Illegal immigrants—men, women, children—stumbled and slumped against boulders. Most were bleeding and crying and wandering. Some were unconscious. Some were dead.
Police and news helicopters flew low over the treetops looking for the missing driver of the unregistered van. Paramedics crawled down the narrow passage. Traffic backed up for miles winding up the mountain. Pedestrians stood outside the cars at a distance, trying to see the cause of the chaos.
“FBI just showed up,” Devon whispered from behind the camera as she shot footage of the overturned van below them.
Still silent, Hope observed the men with FBI jackets consulting with local police. She sipped her coffee and thought of the key she had left on her kitchen counter. Gannon Construction. She needed to make nice with a few feds.
She tossed the empty coffee cup into the news van, gave Dude a pat on the head, and checked her make-up in the side mirror.
“Shane.” Mark Jensen, a competing reporter from Channel 7, greeted her. “Figured you would be here. Have any inside information on this?”
She took her time wrapping her hair into a loose knot at the base of her neck before greeting him. “You’re too good to be waiting for my scraps, Jensen.”
“Your scraps are priceless, Shane.” He leaned against the van, all blonde hair, big teeth, sunglasses and charm. “Why don’t you let me take you out to dinner tonight and we’ll talk about it?”
“Why don’t you find a source and get to work? I have a live shot in ten minutes.” For the hell of it, she reached out and zipped up his jacket. “Chilly morning, feels like snow. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”
“You’ll go out with me. I’ll grow on you. You’ll see.” He pushed away from the van and walked toward his own.
She watched his six-foot plus athletic frame walk away and hated that she enjoyed the flirtation. Michael used to flirt…now he couldn’t stand the sight of her. She shrugged off the tension and moved her gaze over the scene again.
Instinct told her that everything about this was wrong. No brake marks on the pavement. Missing driver. She glanced at the cars further up the road that had crashed into one another. Three state patrol cars had been involved in the chase; one of which now lay overturned in the middle of the highway. She studied the wreckage. That wouldn’t have happened unless they were avoiding something in the road. But what? No one would say.
Van in the river. No skid marks. Police cruiser upside down in middle of the highway. None of it added up. Not unless another car had been blocking the road, an accomplice for the driver? There was a puzzle piece missing.
She caught the eye of one of the FBI agents. She needed an interview but…God, she wanted to give the key to the construction site to someone else and leave town. Maybe hand the entire story to Mark Jensen and quit. Or maybe not. She smiled as the agent walked toward her with a resigned look on his face.
“Jensen still trying to get you to go out with him?” Devon asked from over her shoulder.
“He needs to get to work. And so do I. C’mon.” She smiled at her friend before walking toward the FBI agents who had taken over the scene.
After four live spots for the morning news, they crowded into the news van for the trip back to the station. Devon talked to Jason while Hope settled into the backseat. She looked out the window at the rocky hillside dotted with pine trees and wondered where the van driver had gone. She didn’t believe for a second that he’d scrambled up the mountain. No, she believed that he’d run that van off the road on purpose and that someone had picked him up. That’s what made sense with the way the other cars had crashed up the road.
Conflicting witness reports didn’t help form a conclusion. Rush hour. Spilled coffee. People couldn’t be sure what had happened.
Her gut told her that this was orchestrated. Those people had been expendable for whatever reason. Perhaps it was a message to their families who hadn’t been able to pay, a public message to manipulate fear and establish power. The thought that she would be used to convey that message pissed her off.
No one manipulated and used her. No one.
Dude curled onto Hope’s lap, his puppy self all worn out from the big adventure. She stroked his fur as she checked her messages. One from Becky asking for an immediate call back. Always so urgent. The second was from Michael’s mother, Gwen, also asking for a call back. She frowned. The third was Becky again, irritated about her inability to answer. She rubbed the back of her head. The fourth was from a police detective asking her to come to the institute at her earliest convenience.
“Problem?” Devon peered at her from the front seat.
Michael. Something must be wrong.
“Looks like it. I’m going to record audio while we drive and let you do the editing back at the station.” She shifted Dude as she moved seats. “Drop me back at my place. Family emergency.”
She ignored the phone when it rang again. Focusing on one thing at a time, she recorded the story as it would air later that day. She did her job, made use of her time, forced what-if scenarios from her mind. Tunnel vision—that’s what Peter had called her ability to compartmentalize. Coldness—often how others summarized the same skill.
At her lo
ft, she tucked Dude into his crate, left a check for the dog walker, changed into jeans and took a handful of Advil. It wasn’t until the drive to New Horizons that the what-ifs began their whispering.
Seeing McGee jogging through the parking lot toward the entrance of the institute slammed reality in her face. Something was seriously wrong with Michael. She looped her bag across her chest, stepped from the jeep and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. Gum snapped in her mouth. With every step, she absorbed the scene. Gorgeous but chilly morning. Blue skies. Cool breeze. Two police cars parked in the circle in front of the entrance. Parking lot half-full and quiet. City traffic light.
“Did you get my messages?” Becky asked as soon as she stepped into Michael’s suite. More disheveled than usual, Becky stood with hands on hips and confusion in her eyes. “Nothing like this has happened before.”
She nodded slowly without answering, her gaze taking in the scene of police officers speaking to Michael’s parents and McGee. No sign of Michael.
“Where is Dalton?” she asked.
“Dalton? He’s in the bedroom playing XBox.”
“Good.” She shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Colonel Cedars is missing. Gabriel came to the room around 7:30 for his physical therapy, but he wasn’t here. We looked through the entire building. He’s vanished.” Becky gestured wide with her arms.
Vanished. So dramatic. “He has to be somewhere.”
“No. He’s gone.”
Mind clicked into high gear. Michael had been in a mood last night, no question, but he wouldn’t leave without a good reason. He wouldn’t make his family worry on purpose. He cared, whether he admitted it or not.
“Well, this isn’t a prison, maybe he just went out for some air,” she said when Becky continued her gesturing. “What’s with the cops? He’s free to come and go as he pleases. Isn’t that the point of this place? Transitional facility, right? Not prison.”
“We’re afraid he’s done something--or could do something--to harm himself or someone else,” Becky whispered. “He has a history of anger and depression—”