The Enforcer (27 page)

To her surprise, he answered on the third ring.
“Hello.”

All it took was the sound of his voice for Dylan
’s throat to close up. Averting her face from the still-open door, she clasped the receiver harder and choked out a single word. “Father—”

“
Dylan, is that you?”

She dragged a breath into her convulsing lungs, struggling for composure.
“Yes.”

“
Oh, my child. You must be beside yourself. The whole town is talking about it.”

“
Wh-what are they saying? Do they think I’ve gone crazy?”

“
Of course not, my child. Everyone’s on your side, even the local paper.”

“
I’m in the paper?” She’d been so caught up in Terrence’s struggle that she hadn’t given much thought at all to what was going on.

“
The story broke on Fox 5 WTTG at dawn. You know, nothing escapes the media these days.”

Dylan envisioned new journalists camped outside of her property along with the FBI agents.
The story of the crazed militia leader and her loyal followers would sweep the country. She pushed the situation firmly out of her mind. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered but taking care of Terrence’s needs.

“
That’s not why I called,” she said, pushing her request through an aching throat. “I’d like you to visit me as soon as possible.” She struggled to articulate her next words. “Terrence is losing his battle, and I want you to give him last rites.”

“
Poor man.” The priest clicked his tongue consolingly. “And my poor, sweet child having to go through all this now. I would come this very afternoon, but I have a meeting with the bishop that cannot be rescheduled as he’s headed overseas tomorrow.” The priest’s tone conveyed sincere regret. “But I can be there early Monday morning, if you think he’ll make it that long.”

She swallowed hard.
“I think so.”

“
Tomorrow, then. I trust the FBI will let me through their roadblock.”

She blinked.
“They’ve closed the roads?”

“
Since yesterday. It’s all they can do to keep the press as far away as possible. Under the circumstances, I’m sure they’ll let me through. If they don’t, I’ll call you. We’ll work something out.”

She floundered like a sinking ship.
“I need to see you.”

“
I’m with you in spirit, darling. And soon, I’ll be there in person. Have faith, Dylan.”

The phone clicked in her ear, and Dylan slowly replaced the receiver. The premonition that the stand-off between the SAM and the FBI would end tragically kept her in a cold sweat. The famous words of her ancestor, John Brown, recorded right there in the book beside her bed came to mind, giving rise to a shiver of dread.

I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land can never be purged away but with blood.

God forbid that was still as true today as it was a hundred and fifty-odd years ago.

***

Toby and Jackson knocked on room 312 at one minute to eight. Milly sniffed the crack at the bottom of the door and wagged her tail.

Not a sound preceded the door swinging open. TJ Hamilton filled the opening. His raven, shoulder-length hair appeared damp from a recent shower. Looking fit and obscenely tall, he raked his colleagues with his dark, all-seeing eyes before letting them wordlessly in the room.

Toby looked around.

Ike had checked into a two-room suite with a cushy office/living area in the middle. The team lead sat at his desk staring intently at his MacBook Pro. “Have a seat,” he invited without glancing up. With his sleeves cuffed and his collared shirt unbuttoned, Ike looked more human than Toby could ever recall seeing him.

He and Jackson sank down on the couch. Hamilton folded his towering frame into the armchair. Tearing his attention from his laptop, Ike slid his wheeled chair to the edge of his desk to address them.

“So, we have an unprecedented situation,” he began. “The FBI is engaged in a stand-off with the suspect—Dylan—” he amended, catching Toby’s eye, “who allegedly murdered both Nolan and Treyburn. Burke, who knows her better than anybody, insists that she’s innocent. And while we support the FBI, our primary mission is to promote homeland security, which—to me—means that we are obligated to find the real killer. Are you with me so far?”

The Taskforce team members murmured their agreement. 

“Clearly whoever is framing Dylan Connelly works in close connection with her,” Ike continued. “Close enough to upload documents at the hospital where she works, to plant evidence in her barn, to drive her car into Washington, D.C., the day before Nolan’s murder. One possibility is Ivan Ackerman, her supply sergeant. I located his military file this morning.” 

Ike dragged his laptop closer, and consulted the screen.
“Ackerman was a food service specialist in the U.S. Army. He was medically discharged after the mess hall in Camp Liberty was struck by a mortar attack last year. He returned to his home in Martinsburg, West Virginia, where he was treated for PTSD at the VA medical center. He would have met Dylan there.”

Toby asked,
“What’s it say about his wife and daughter?”

Ike skimmed the document and found an answer.
“Married in 1999 and divorced in 2002. No record of any dependents.”

“
What the hell?” Toby’s outburst earned him startled looks. “The SOB told Dylan that his wife and daughter were gunned down by a shooter at the mall.”

Jackson steepled his fingers.
“A story guaranteed to elicit sympathy,”

he pointed out. 

Ike pressed on. “According to Ackerman’s file, he was expelled from high school for bringing a weapon onto school grounds. He took the GED and graduated early and the Army took him in. He may look fishy, but I don’t see any motive on his part to target heads of state.”

Toby had to agree. Ackerman didn
’t seem bright enough to know what was going on in the political arena.

“
On the other hand, he might have been working at someone else’s behest,” the team lead suggested. “So we’ll keep him on our radar.”

Toby thought of something.
“He gets counseling at the medical center every Tuesday. Maybe his doctor could give us some insight.”

Ike crossed his arms and sat back.
“About that,” he said, “we don’t have any legal right to solicit medical information, but we can canvas the staff and have a good look around. Palmer’s going to realize what we’re up to if we’re not discreet.” He nodded at Toby. “You and Jackson head over to the VA hospital tomorrow morning while Hamilton and I dig deeper on these suspects.” His green gaze focused on Toby’s smart aleck T-shirt. “Is that all you have to wear?”

Toby plucked at his casual garb.
“I didn’t know I’d be masquerading as an FBI agent,” he apologized.

“
There’s a mall in Martinsburg,” Ike informed him. “Opens at ten. Go buy yourself a suit. And hurry back in time for Palmer’s briefing at the training center.”

Minutes later, Toby, Jackson, and Milly squealed out of the hotel parking lot in Jackson
’s black Chrysler. Possibilities circuited Toby’s brain. Had Ackerman done more than lie about his past? Had he planted the pipe and the copper wires on Dylan’s property where the Feds were sure to find it? If he’d been working in cahoots with someone—then who? And why hadn’t Sheriff Fallon exposed Ackerman as a liar earlier?

Something had to shake out tomorrow when he and Jackson panned the hospital staff. The FBI was tightening their noose around Dylan, and there was only so much time before they kicked the stool out from under her and strung her up for good. If the Taskforce was going to prove her innocence, then they needed to do it fast. 

***

Dylan gripped the phone tighter. Her blood simmered at the way the FBI negotiators sought to manipulate her. When the first negotiator had called an hour ago, he
’d played hardball. Unless her soldiers peacefully surrendered, he’d threatened, she was looking at life in jail, possibly the death penalty. Her PTSD had flared like dry tinder at his incendiary language. She’d lashed out at him and hung up the phone.

This second call came from a different negotiator, the one playing Good Cop. He apologized for his colleague
’s coarse manners and, on a more conciliatory note, asked if there was anything the FBI could do to assist her. Dylan rolled her eyes. “Listen,” she commanded, “I don’t have time to play childish games. Here’s how the situation works: You stay off my property, giving me time to nurse my terminally ill executive officer, and my soldiers won’t shoot anyone. Try trespassing on my land to arrest me, and you’ll have a war on your hands. I give you my word that when my XO passes, I’ll surrender.”

Professing dismay and concern, the Good Cop negotiator promptly offered her medical assistance.

Dylan pictured an ambulance with a SWAT team hiding inside it. “I’m a physician,” she reminded him. “Another doctor isn’t going to make a difference in his case.”

“
How long do you think…?”

She cut him off.
“Until he dies, you mean?” PTSD reared its grizzly head, causing her to counter attack. “Don’t…don’t talk about him like he’s a temporary inconvenience!” she railed. “He’s my friend, damn you!”

“
I’m sorry, Dylan. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

“
Then address me as Captain Connelly. And tomorrow, when my priest comes to administer last rites, kindly see that he’s allowed through the road  block.”

“
Of course. No problem.”

“
Thank you,” she bit out, slamming down the receiver a second time. In a vain attempt to ease the tension gripping her shoulders, she massaged the knots near the base of her neck. The phone jangled again, and her tension doubled. With a pulse of irritation tapping at her temple, she decided to ignore it.

***

“Come on, Dylan,” Toby muttered. The rural highway conveying him and Jackson to the mall in Martinsburg took them through rolling pastures. “She’s not answering,” he groused, counting the rings over the sound of Milly panting in the back seat.

Jackson shot him a sympathetic glance.
“Leave her a message,” he suggested.

Dylan
’s voice barked suddenly in his ear. “What now?” she demanded.

The defensive question threw Toby off balance for a second. Had she been expecting someone else?
“Hey, babe. It’s me.” He winced, regretting the endearment immediately.

She kept silent so long that he checked the bars on his cell to see if he
’d lost reception.

“
What do you want?”

Her belligerent tone offered no hope for forgiveness.
“Um…I’m calling to apologize.”

His words met with a bitter-sounding laugh. He forged ahead before he lost all courage.
“I never meant to hurt you, Dylan. I’m so sorry.”

“
Do you really think an apology is all you owe me?” He’d heard that raised pitch before, signaling grave distress. “Every word you ever said to me was a lie.”

If only he was there to soothe her with his touch.
“That’s not true—”

“
It’s not? You said you wanted to join my militia so you could serve your country.”

“
That’s what I thought I was doing, but—”

“
You said I could lean on you.”

“
Dylan, you can. I’m still here. I’ll always be here for you.”

“
You’ve never been diagnosed with PTSD, have you?” she demanded, throwing him a left hook.

Toby cringed.
“No, I haven’t,” he admitted. “Milly’s a bomb-sniffing dog, not a therapy dog.” Two black and white heifers grazing peacefully alongside the highway stared at him, as if dumbstruck.

Dylan
’s bitter laugh raked over his conscience like claws. “Then everything you ever told me was a lie.
Everything
.”

He bristled.
“Not everything. And I didn’t lie to you to hurt you, Dylan. I had a job to do. What I said about my feelings for you—” he flicked an uncomfortable glance at his colleague and pitched his voice lower. “—that was absolutely true.”

Cynical silence followed his humbling confession.

“Please believe me. Whatever it takes to—”

The line went suddenly dead. Toby
’s hand fell like a lead weight to his lap, and a vice clamped down around his chest. She’d hung up on him.

Milly, sensing his sudden upset, snuffled at his ear and delicately licked it.

Jackson cast him a sidelong grimace. “She just needs more time,” he said encouragingly.

Toby stared straight ahead, seeing nothing but flashing white and yellow lines. Time was the one thing Dylan didn
’t have. He’d seen the signs of her emotional distress before. Without him there to reassure her, she’d start to fall apart, lashing out in ways that would make her seem as crazy as the FBI alleged she was. She was tumbling in a downward spiral, and there was little he could do about it—not on a Sunday, anyway.