Word of Honor

  But she hadn’t finished, so she would have to be there early tomorrow morning. It was hardly worth it to drive the hour back to Newpointe. As she drove the outskirts of Chalmette, she looked for a motel where she could crash.

  The song on the radio was grating on her nerves. She was reaching over to turn it off when a news bulletin cut in.

  “Newpointe police are investigating an explosion that took place at the post office on Bonaparte Boulevard at 4:00 this afternoon…”

  She caught her breath and turned it up.

  “The source of the explosion is under investigation. Three people are dead, and one survivor—a child—is in critical condition.”

  Jill raked a hand through her short brown hair and tried to think. Three people dead at the post office? Sue Ellen Hanover and Cliff Bertrand had to be two of them, she realized as her heart sank. An explosion? How could it have happened?

  She was distracted as she pulled into the parking lot of the Flagstaff Motel, and sat there a moment, punching different stations on the radio, trying to get more news. But all she heard was crying-in-your-beer tunes, knee-slapping zydeco, heavy metal…

  Quickly, she got out and went to the office, checked in, then hurried to her room. She dropped her few things onto the bed and grabbed the telephone. By rote, she dialed the number of the fire department, tapping her foot as she waited for someone there to answer the phone.

  “Midtown.” It was Dan Nichols. She knew his voice immediately, and wondered if she had been wise to call. It had been eight months since their relationship had ended, yet every time they passed or saw each other, she still got that little pang in her heart.

  “Dan?”

  “Jill?” He recognized her voice, too, and she wondered why that warmed her.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Dan,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve been in Chalmette, and I just heard about the explosion.”

  “Yeah, it was bad. Sue Ellen Hanover is dead, and so is Cliff Bertrand. And Mary Hampton was killed.”

  “So the child…”

  “Mary’s little boy. He’s in a coma.”

  She sank onto the bed with her hand over her mouth. “Dan, what happened?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Looks like a bomb. A couple of witnesses saw a pickup truck there just before the blast. Apparently, they’ve identified a suspect.”

  “Any guess why he did it? Was it terrorism?”

  “In Newpointe? Doubtful.”

  “Was he trying to get revenge for something? Has Cliff fired anybody lately?”

  “I don’t know, Jill. The cops are playing this one close to the vest. Looks like the FBI’s getting involved, too, since it was a government building. We’ll just have to see how it plays out.”

  That was it, she thought. That was as much as she was going to get. She took a deep breath as her head reeled with the information. She was about to thank him, when he spoke again, his baritone timber softening. “So how are you doing?”

  She tried to line her thoughts back up. “Uh…fine. Just fine. And you?”

  “I’m okay. It’s been a long day. So you’re in Chalmette, huh?”

  “Yeah. I decided to stay in a motel since I have to be back at the courthouse at seven in the morning. I’m at the Flagstaff.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Jill, it’s good to talk to you. Real good.”

  She smiled and looked into the mirror above the bureau. Her tawny hair was tousled from a long day of raking tense hands through it, and her blue eyes looked tired and red. As she stared at her reflection, she was painfully aware that Dan’s tastes ran blonder and more petite. Pageant material, Jill was not. “It’s good to talk to you, too, Dan. You sound a little raspy.”

  “Yeah, there was a lot of smoke at the post office. We fought the fire for hours. It was the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  She sat back on the bed. “Who found the bodies?”

  Again, seconds of silence ticked by.

  “Dan? Was it you?”

  “I made a few discoveries,” he said.

  She sighed. People thought Dan was self-centered and egocentric. He was, in some cases, but he also had a gentle, sensitive side that she cherished. “What did that cost you, Dan?”

  “A lot.” The words seemed to take a lot out of him.

  “I’ll bet. Wanna talk about it?”

  “Maybe when you get back.”

  She tried not to let that statement give her hope. He was just feeling lonely and vulnerable. Death did that to you. It didn’t mean anything.

  A rap on the door made her jump, and she dropped the telephone. It clanged and she picked it back up, put the phone back to her ear. “Dan…hold on a second. Somebody’s here.”

  She went to the door, looked out through the peephole, and saw blue lights flashing. Startled, she pulled back the curtain and peered out. The parking lot was full of police cars, with lights flashing in a broad array of blue and red. The knocking sounded again, and she realized they were not at her door, but at the room next to hers. When there was no answer, one of them shouted for the occupant to open it.

  Shaken, she went back to the telephone. “Uh…Dan, this is really weird. The parking lot’s full of cops, and they’re banging on the door next door—”

  A gunshot ripped through her words as it tore through the adjoining door, and she screamed and hit the floor. The phone crashed to the ground. Another shot whizzed past her head, and she rolled out of the way. The door crashed open, and a man with a rifle burst in, his eyes panicked. He got one look at her and bolted toward her, knocking over a chair to get to her. He grabbed her up and thrust the nose of his rifle at her throat.

  She heard the police breaking down the door to his room, yelling at fever pitch as they filled it. One mistake, and it would all be over, she thought. One overzealous police officer, one overactive twitch of this guy’s finger on that trigger…

  Two cops came to the door, their guns aimed at the man. “Drop the rifle!” one of them shouted.

  “I’ll kill her!” the man holding her yelled. “One more step and I’ll kill her!”

  She screamed again as he jabbed the barrel of the gun harder into her throat. He twisted her arm behind her to hold her still. She felt him shaking as he held her.

  “Back up!” he bellowed. “Back up and close the door. Now!”

  Slowly, the police backed away. “Just drop the gun and nobody’ll get hurt.”

  “Shut the door! Now!” the man shouted. “I’m telling you, I’m gonna pull this trigger.”

  Jill’s muffled scream frightened the cops back, and the door closed between them. Dragging her with him, the man kicked the door on their side shut. Jill screamed again.

  Chapter Six

  The sound of the gunshot shattered through Dan’s brain with as much impact as if the bullet had traveled the phone line. He clutched the phone and shouted, “Jill! Jill!” She was no longer holding the phone, and he could hear screaming in the background, things crashing, people yelling.

  Then the phone went dead.

  “You okay?” Mark Branning had just come in from the truck bay, and stood there staring at Dan.

  “No!” Dan slammed the phone down.

  “What is it?”

  “Jill! I’ve gotta run next door.” He dashed out of the station and crossed the yard to the police station adjacent to the fire department, bolted up the steps, and pushed through the glass doors. Stan was heading out, and Dan almost ran into him.

  “Stan, I was just talking to Jill at a motel in Chalmette, and something happened. There were police cars there, and I heard a gunshot, then we got cut off.”

  “The Flagstaff?” Stan asked, shooting him a look. “That’s where I’m going.”

  “What’s going on there?”

  “We’ve got the suspect for the post office bombing cornered there,” Stan said, trotting down the steps. “We had an APB on the pickup someone identified at the post office just before the bombing, and they spotted it at the
Flagstaff. Apparently they’ve got the right guy if he’s shooting back.”

  “He’s not just shooting back!” Dan shouted, as if Stan had orchestrated the whole thing. “Stan, he’s got Jill!”

  “What?” Stan had reached his car and was unlocking it. “What do you mean?”

  “I was talking to her and I heard a gunshot and he came into her room!”

  “No way.” He got into the car.

  “I heard her screaming, Stan!” Dan opened Stan’s passenger door and slid in. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not!” Stan said.

  “He’s taken Jill hostage!” Dan cried. “Call them and ask. You’ll see.”

  Stan picked up his radio mike to check out the claim. In moments, he had someone from the St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Department confirming that a hostage had been taken. “Okay, Dan. You’re right. He has a hostage. But are you sure it’s Jill?”

  “Yes! Now, drive! I’m coming with you.”

  “All right.” Stan turned on the flashing grill lights of his unmarked car and pulled out into the street.

  Chapter Seven

  The tortured dreams of napalm and Molotov cocktails, machine gun fire and mines, haunted Frank Harper, and in his sleep, he tried to cry out. But his screams were smothered by the sound of war, muted by the terror of death, or worse. He dreamed of comrades falling around him, of his captain’s orders being bellowed over the fray. He dreamed of the pain that rent through him as a mine exploded, and the fingers tearing from his hands. He told himself it was a dream and tried to wake up, but the darkness was so profound, so dense, that he began to scream again, loud, agonized screams that went unheard and unheeded.

  He tried to breathe, tried to remember where he was, tried to grope around for some sign. He was flat on his back, and he reached up and touched a wall above him, on each side of him, below him. A coffin, he thought, gulping in the air. He had been buried for his country.

  Something crept across his leg, and he yelled again, then rolled onto his stomach and began to crawl away. The coffin wasn’t closed on the ends. It was too long, and the farther he crawled, the more fresh air he felt. He crawled faster, faster.

  It wasn’t until he reached the end that he realized he wasn’t in a coffin, but a culvert. He had hidden here.

  He reached the end and pulled out, stretching to his full height, and looked up at the star-sprinkled sky.

  It all came back to him, and he remembered stealing the Civic from the Delchamps parking lot after Jerry let him out, hearing the sirens as he hid under the bridge, hiding in the culvert to escape…

  He looked around him in the darkness and wondered what he’d done with the detonation devices, the explosives, the wires…He was standing on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain, he realized. Maybe he’d thrown the explosives in.

  But no…he’d needed them. He would not have gotten rid of them…not yet.

  Had he left them in the culvert? He realized that he had, but couldn’t—wouldn’t—go back in to get them. What was he going to do now?

  Jerry, he thought. He was supposed to meet Jerry…at some motel on the way to Chalmette. Would Jerry still be waiting? Had he slept too long?

  He looked around, trying to orient himself. The bridge was too long, too far, to cross on foot. By now, they’d be looking for the stolen car. He’d have to find another one somewhere. He hoped that Jerry would wait.

  Chapter Eight

  The man let Jill go, and she reeled back into the wall, putting as much distance between herself and him as possible. He was breathing hard and beginning to sweat. The hum of the air conditioner gave a surreal feeling to the room, as if there wasn’t a team of cops outside waiting to gun him down.

  He pulled the chest of drawers in front of the adjoining door to make sure no one could come through, then satisfied, turned back to her. For the first time, he met her eyes, and she told herself not to shrink away.

  There were certain things she’d learned in her years of dealing with clients who were both victims and criminals. Talk to them, she’d heard victims say. It was harder for them to kill people who seemed human to them. She’d also learned in dealing with criminals who occasionally wanted her to defend them that it didn’t pay to let them know you were afraid. She lifted her chin and desperately tried to appear calm as she watched him get the phone off the floor and hang it up. But she knew her shallow, rapid breathing belied that calm.

  Talk to him, she told herself. Remind him you’re a person. “Why are they after you?” she managed to ask.

  He turned to look at her with a surprised look on his face. Had he expected her not to speak? Or was it the question itself that stumped him? “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  “You don’t know?” she repeated. “Your motel room is surrounded by police, you’ve taken a hostage, and you don’t know why?”

  The phone began to ring, and he stared down at it as if it were some kind of live thing that threatened him. He made no move to answer it, and it kept ringing. Jill wondered if it was Dan calling back. She must have frightened him to death—the screaming and crashing. “Do you…want me to answer it?” she asked.

  He seemed to think it over for a minute, then shook his head. “No. Let it ring.”

  “But…maybe it’s them. The police, I mean. You could…I don’t know…talk to them and…straighten this out.”

  He rubbed his perspiring face with one hand as he clutched the rifle with the other. The expression on his face and his defensive body language gave Jill courage.

  The phone kept ringing…ringing…ringing…

  “You must have some idea why they’re out there. I mean, you’re armed and holed up in here with me.”

  He aimed the rifle at her. “Get on the bed.”

  She eyed the bed where she had dropped her things. Dread overwhelmed her, and she struggled to find a weapon. The lamp, a ballpoint pen…

  He seemed to reconsider. “Wait.”

  The phone continued to ring…ring…ring…

  He ignored it and, still holding the gun to her, grabbed her briefcase and opened it. He pulled out the files, the documents, the day planner, the computer organizer, the pens. Satisfied, he put it all back, closed it, and put it on top of the chest of drawers blocking the adjoining door.

  Surprised that he hadn’t carelessly dumped it, she met his eyes. They were intelligent, not crazed, and she wasn’t sure whether that comforted or disturbed her. Intelligence could be more deadly…more calculated…

  The phone kept ringing…

  “Jerry!” The bullhorn voice buzzed over the hum of the air conditioner, startling them both. “Jerry, pick up the phone,” the police voice said. “We need to talk to you, so we can bring a resolution to this. Just pick up the phone.”

  He walked closer to Jill, the barrel of the rifle against her temple, as if they could see him and infer that he was serious. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself. “Go to the bed,” he said again through his teeth. She moved toward the bed with the gun at her back. Why did he want her there? Was he going to hurt her? She got on the mattress and leaned back against the headboard, hugging her knees. As he got on the bed next to her, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her heart rampaged, making her dizzy. She had never been so afraid.

  The phone kept ringing…

  Suddenly, he snatched it up. “What?”

  She opened her eyes and saw the gun still aimed at her temple, but he wasn’t looking at her. “Jerry, this is Mills Bryan, FBI.” She could hear the telephone voice from where she sat. “You should know that you’re making the situation worse for yourself. Keeping a hostage is going to hurt you more than anyone else. There are already three people dead. You don’t want to add one more to that list.”

  Three people, she thought. He had killed three people.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t have anything to do with that post office bombing.”

  She caught her breath as she r
ealized that the man holding a rifle aimed at her head might very well be the terrorist that had killed three friends today.

  “We can talk about that when you come out,” the caller said. “Just let your hostage go and come to the door. Jerry, it would be so much better for you if you stop this now.”

  “How?” he shouted. “So you can gun me down and go on TV telling everybody that you caught the guy? I didn’t do it!” He slammed down the phone and turned his raging eyes to her.

  She balled herself tighter, and realized she was trembling. “Look…you don’t have to keep that gun on me,” she said. “Just…just put it down. I won’t try to get away. I’ll just sit here…”

  “Shut up!” he said. “I have to think.” He kept the gun aimed at her, but thankfully got off the bed and began pacing back and forth, back and forth. She was able to breathe again. Occasionally, he looked at her, started to speak, then stopped. She didn’t move.

  Talk, she told herself. She had to keep talking. “I believe you didn’t do it,” she lied.

  He stopped cold and turned around, that gun still aimed at her. He looked almost amused as he stared down at her. “You couldn’t possibly.”

  “I do. I’m a good judge of character. You’re not the kind of man who would kill anybody.”

  His scowl returned, and he shook his head hard. “You don’t know what kind of man I am. You’ll say anything to keep me from hurting you.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I know because…the briefcase. You didn’t throw it or dump it. You were almost…respectful. I believe you wouldn’t hurt anyone. Even me.” She prayed it would be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  He looked at her for a moment as if trying to decide whether to gun her down or befriend her. She had to keep talking. “Why do they think you did it, Jerry?”