Reckless Endangerment (7 page)

“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 loft, 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-f 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—”

“History?  You mean the history of the past five months, two weeks and five days when he’s undergone seven surgeries while everyone disregards anything he has to say?  Do you mean that history?” She walked past Becky toward Gwen.

“I thought maybe you would know where he was,” Gwen said.  “We were so happy to find out you were his girlfriend—that he had a girlfriend—and thought maybe he’d told you what he planned.”

Girlfriend. Interesting. Gum rolled on her tongue. 

“Shane.”  McGee nodded in her direction. “I’m going to look for him. Do you want to come with me?”

She squinted at all of them.  This seemed like a gross overreaction.  There must be something they were leaving out of the story. 

“Isn’t the point of this place to ease a patient back into real life?”  she asked the room in general.  “Isn’t it a good thing that he went out on his own?  Don’t we want him to be independent and accepting?”