Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week
.—Joseph Addison, English essayist
(1672–1719)
March 3, 1993
Lying on his back in the bed he never turned down, Stanley McLain stared at the ceiling ten feet above his head. Ten feet, three-and-three-quarter inches if he wanted to be precise.
He’d made a ruler out of a strip of sheet one day and measured as far as he could, calculating the rest by the distance between the crevices where the cinder blocks met.
They were painted a soft yellow. A soothing color meant to remind him of butter and sunshine.
It reminded him instead of the curtains he and Sheryl had used in Georgia’s room when she was born, and then again in Finn’s until he got to be too much boy and protested.
Stan missed his children more than anything. He regretted that he’d ever gone to work for TotalSky when recruited by Cameron Gates. Regretted even more so requesting the transfer that had enabled him to work on the satellite contract with his friends, Arthur and Paul.
He should have thought of Georgia and Finn, and told the others what they were suggesting was impossible. But therein had lain his dilemma.
He
had
been thinking of his daughter and son, of the loss of their mother, of how his service to his country had left them with only Caroline to look after them at so many crucial times during their young lives.
One small alteration to the satellite specs was all it would take. Never again would he have to worry about his children being provided for.
After a few years, he would be able to resign his position and live for the rest of his life off the gains. Yes, they would be illegally obtained, but he’d felt it such a small crime when compared to what had been stolen from his children.
Of course he had been a fool, as most criminals were, thinking the plan infallible, not counting on the avarice of the outside party from whom he’d arranged to buy the parts.
Parts that had been the downfall of the TotalSky project, the satellites, and the lives of four men old enough and smart enough to know better than to try and pull the wool over Uncle Sam’s eyes.
1:30
A.M.
There was something weird going on with the trucker still broken down across the road. Finn knew it, and he was pretty damn sure Charlie knew it, too.
They were the only ones awake, the only ones who hadn’t slept at all since the shutdown of the diner on Friday. Finn couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone…how many hours
had
it been since he’d grabbed those six after arriving in Waco? Forty-two? Forty-four?
The worst part was that he didn’t see himself catching any Z’s for at least another thirty-six. And that was assuming Georgia made it back in one piece with the dossier, and Castro released them all to live happily ever after.
Somehow Finn didn’t see that happening. Georgia might be familiar with Charlie, but Finn was familiar with Charlie’s kind—the kind that did not walk away and leave evidence and witnesses behind.
The more likely scenario was that they’d all be tied to the grill and left to burn to a crisp when the diner “accidentally” caught fire.
As a private investigator, Finn was also familiar with stakeouts. And he’d be damned if that wasn’t what was going on with the trucker across the road.
Sure, it was a holiday weekend, and they were all parked on a road less traveled. And yeah. There had been both state and county authorities who’d stopped. A couple of wrecker drivers, as well.
But the rig was still there, the driver in and out of the cab, tinkering with the engine, talking on his cell, gesturing and pacing like one pissed-off motherfucker. It was a hell of an act; he must have told some story to convince the cops not to tow him out of there.
Slumped down again in the booth where he’d started this really long weekend, his feet propped on the seat across from the one in which he now sat, Finn braced his elbow on the window ledge and pretended to sleep. Instead, he peered through the slit in the blinds.
The moon was up and full, the parking lot lamp shining down. If he could find a way to reflect a signal toward the truck’s window, send an SOS to the driver…He watched the overhead light in the truck’s cab come on. The man was up and awake while the thugs slept.
The timing couldn’t have been better. Maybe Phil had a flashlight in the kitchen, though a penlight would work even better. A lighter or a match would do in a pinch. One of those small squeezable pocket lights would be perfect.
Unfortunately, he didn’t see any way to get a full-sized light past Charlie and the thugs to actually use, and thinking further, anything involving fire would draw attention he didn’t want. A smaller light he could probably manage.
He sat there for several more minutes, his gaze shifting between the big rig and the tabletop as he thought. He pulled a napkin from the holder and spread it open, then reached for a packet of sweetener, dumping the contents before folding the pink paper into an origami duck.
It was when the lamp in the lot flickered that he realized exactly how shiny the top of the aluminum napkin case was. His heart thudded, skipping a beat.
The silver square would work as a mirror if he could pry it loose from the body and slip it between the blinds. And if he could keep Charlie from catching on while he did.
He lifted it from the table and set it next to his hip, continuing to dump sweetener packets and fold them into a whole gaggle. Fifteen minutes ticked by and not a word from the black hats, so he slumped all the way onto his spine and feigned sleep.
He moved the napkin holder into his lap and ran his fingers over the corners and edges, searching for a way to take it apart. It wasn’t going to happen, not without a hacksaw and a whole lot of noise.
If he walked through the kitchen to the rest room, he might be able to pick up a spoon or a spatula. Except Charlie wouldn’t let him make the trip alone.
He had to come up with something he could use here at the table, something on his person, or something in the rest room small enough to carry out in his pocket.
Eyes closed, he set the holder back beside him on the seat and began testing the flashing along the table’s edge. The side facing out was corrugated and dull, but he held out hope the other side had the shine of a new penny.
Hell, at this point he was ready to try a fucking coin. Waco Phil’s might be a hole in the wall but it was held together with a lot more than baling wire and spit.
As tired as he was, as bored as he was, Finn was pretty damn sure it was frustration topping his list of conditions. Tired could be solved with sleep, boredom with his origami barnyard. But frustration…
He scrubbed both hands down his weary face. Phil was probably a lot more aware than Tracy of the reality of the situation they were dealing with here. There was a damn good chance his earlier prediction of an accidental kitchen fire would come true.
Getting out of here under their own steam had never seemed as much a necessity as it did now that he sat here alone in the dark. He thought about Georgia, hoped like hell she was all right, that she wasn’t getting into one of her famous binds, which she’d need his help to get out of.
He hoped—hell, he even prayed—that the guy she’d gone off with was one of the good ones, that he’d stick with her, bring her back in one piece, watch over her until it was time…
Watch over her. Watch. Watch. Just like the big rig driver was watching over the diner. Someone knew they were there and was making sure they were safe. It was a long shot, yeah, but he was ready to lay down hard cash that’s what the driver was doing.
There was no other reason that made a lick of sense for the cops to stop, then go on their merry way, for the tow truck drivers to do the same. The man had a story, one keeping him parked right where he was.
Then again, could be a case of delirium setting in. Cold cereal and no shut-eye was a recipe for mental disaster. And Finn could feel himself heading down that road.
He rested his head against the back of the booth and stared out the window through the slits between the blinds, tapping out the rhythm to the song running through his head on the tabletop with his thumbs.
He sang under his breath about trucking, about typical cities, about daydreams, rewriting the lyrics to sing about Houston being too close to Waco Phil’s instead of New Orleans.
And then he saw it. The next line about New York flashed by the red lights on the rear of the rig. Same rhythm, never missing a beat.
He sang a bit louder, the line about lights shining down. And the damn truck came back with the staccato follow-up of “things lately occurring to me.” He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He was not losing his ever-fucking mind.
He kept singing. So did the truck. The driver was there and he was listening. Finn felt as if he’d just been rescued from a desert island by his long lost best friend.
Knowing someone had his back, that someone was listening to everything going on inside the diner, made the idea of falling asleep a whole lot easier to swallow.
Still, he ran one more test. “I’m going to take a nap. Blink once if you understand.” The lights blinked, and Finn’s chest expanded. “Blink twice if you’ll be here in the morning.” And the goddamned lights blinked twice.
Smiling, Finn closed his eyes, swearing he’d bend over, pull down his pants, and sell his soul to the devil if that’s what it took to show his appreciation to the long-haired trucker for the save.
11:00
A.M.
They met Paul Valoren for brunch at an outdoor café, four hours before the auction. Georgia had made the arrangements yesterday while she’d been out of the room doing research, working out, and shopping. The weather was perfect, the sky clear, the breeze slight and cool.
Georgia was sweating like a pig. This was why she never bought nice clothes. She ruined them long before getting her money’s worth. Though in this case it was Harry’s money’s worth he wouldn’t be getting.
And, of course, he looked like a million trillion bucks. He also kissed like a million trillion bucks. Made love like a million trillion bucks. She could not believe all the things they had done.
In fact, when she woke up this morning, when she opened her eyes to find herself facing the drapes on the far side of her bed, she was certain it had all been a dream. That the time they’d spent in the shower had happened only in the privacy of her prurient imagination while she’d slept.
But then she’d stretched, feeling the ache of unused muscles in her lower back and her thighs, the burn of raw skin between her legs, and she’d cringed, rolling from one side to the other and encountering Harry’s very large, very warm form.
He’d been snoring—but only lightly—and hadn’t so much as budged at the contact of her shoulder to his. She hadn’t asked him, even after he’d climbed out of bed an hour later, but she’d come away from those few minutes with the sense that it had been a long time since he’d let down his guard and given in to his body’s need for sleep.
Real sleep. Deep sleep. Not the catnaps he’d taken since they’d checked into the room.
She didn’t know what to think about the fact that he’d trusted her enough to show her that vulnerability. She’d thought about that a lot while doing her hair and makeup in the bathroom. The night before, first in bed, then in the shower, they’d both opened up; how could either of them not, in the face of such intimacy?
But this was different. Sleeping together. Baring that weakness, that basic human need rather than baring bodies. Funny how being naked together, making love together had been easier on her psyche than the time they’d spent silent in one another’s company while getting dressed.
Neither had the drive from the hotel to the café been the piece of cake she was thinking of eating for brunch. Harry hadn’t spoken a word. And hidden as his eyes were behind his sunglasses, she couldn’t divine from them what he was thinking.
She’d stayed on her side of the massive bench seat and stared out her side of the car as they’d driven through town, getting more and more antsy as she thought of the meeting ahead and the afternoon’s auction to follow.
Once they reached the café, Harry valeted Morganna, and they walked to the hostess stand with his hand in the small of Georgia’s back. Where before such a gentlemanly gesture had felt like a show of good manners more than anything else, now the weight was heavy with a sense of possession, of ownership.
Her independent streak battled the idea fiercely, as did the wide swath of feminism cut into the fabric of the life she’d led. But her heart, the core of the woman she was, loved the idea of being Harry’s. It made no sense. She barely knew him.
What she did know meant it was easy to go with her gut. He had her best interests at heart. He was working above and beyond to see that she didn’t get hurt. He was sexy. He made her laugh. She’d been with him almost constantly for forty-eight hours and had missed him like crazy the few they’d been apart.
And now, as they approached the table where Professor Valoren had been seated, Georgia found herself slowing until Harry was at her side and she could take hold of his arm, squeezing his biceps, looking for strength. He patted her hand as they came to a stop and Valoren rose.
“Georgia. Harry. It’s wonderful to see you again.” He shook both of their hands, his jolly face beaming.
“Professor,” Harry said, pulling out Georgia’s chair and settling her in before he sat. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
The older man returned to his chair, shaking his head as Georgia spread her napkin over her lap. “Only long enough to order a cup of hot tea. It’s a quirk of mine, preferring hot to cold no matter the climate or temperature.”
The server arrived then with his cup and saucer, along with a plate of lemon slices and a pitcher of cream. She took Harry’s order for coffee and Georgia’s for a Coke.
“My quirk,” she confessed. “Sugar, caffeine, and carbonation with every meal.”
Harry chuckled, reached for his own napkin, and the professor laughed. “You take after your father then. I can’t remember him drinking anything except when he had a Coca-Cola can in his hand.”
“I hadn’t thought of that in years,” Georgia said, feeling awash in wistfulness. “But you’re probably right. I picked up his habit without even realizing it.”
“I’d say that’s not unusual, that we emulate those we love and respect.” The professor stirred both sugar and cream into his tea. He placed the silver spoon on the saucer and lifted the cup to drink.
Georgia watched his lips purse, finding them thin, dry, expressionless, such a contrast to her father, who’d always been a boisterous clown. She remembered him drinking straight from a soda can, no glass, no straw, just gulping, often finishing off with a huge burp that resulted in rollicking laughter from both her and Finn.
She hadn’t thought of that in so long, and missing that one little thing brought new tears to her eyes. Thankfully, Harry leaned forward, one forearm on the table, and filled the silence so she didn’t have to try and find her voice.
“The symposium went well for you yesterday then,” he said to the older man.
The professor nodded, sipped again. “Probably more than anyone else, I enjoy hearing myself speak. And the subject generated some excellent discussion.”
“Then I’m doubly sorry we weren’t there.” Harry added a “thank you” to the server, who set his coffee and her glass of soda on the table.
“Are you a military man, Harry?”
“Three tours, the last spent in the Rangers.” He drank his coffee black. “But I got an offer from the private sector that I couldn’t refuse, so have been doing that for about a year and a half now.”
“Oh?” Valoren’s interest perked. “In what field?”
“Engineering.”
As Georgia closed her menu and reached for her glass, the clog in her throat having cleared, the professor sat back and let his gaze drift from her to Harry. “Not that it’s any of my business, but how long have you two been an item?”
“We’re not,” Georgia was quick to say before she even thought about the vibes they might be giving off today after last night. She could have kicked herself when Harry frowned. “We’re just very close friends.”
The professor nodded. “Good, good. One can never have too many.”
Georgia wondered if he was thinking of her father, and could have kissed Harry for picking up the thread.
“You said you knew Georgia’s father while you were in the service and working at TotalSky?”
The professor returned his cup to his saucer. “Yes. That’s right. Though he was civilian and I was still in service for the duration of the contract.”
The server returned then to take their orders, omelets for the men and a club sandwich for Georgia, not that she expected to eat a bite. And she lost even more of her appetite after glancing at her watch while the server picked up the menus.
Twenty-four hours. That was all the time she had to get back to Finn. She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do once they made it to the diner tomorrow. And she couldn’t talk it over with Harry until after this afternoon’s auction. Doing so would tip her hand.
She didn’t doubt he’d be able to pull knives out of sleeves and rabbits out of hats until he found a workable solution to what was her problem, and only his by periphery. Getting started now would mean more time to do just that.
It would also mean confessing she had the dossier in her possession, and that she wasn’t ready to do. Not until she was left with no other choice.
Was it fair to Harry? God, no. But she had to look at the bigger picture. He would be in and out of her life in a matter of hours. Her promise to her father, her responsibility to her brother, both of those had to come before any hurt she might cause the man she feared she was coming to love.
The thought made her sick. She felt as if her loyalties were being ripped like limbs from her body. She reached for her drink, her fingers shaking.
The glass hadn’t even cleared the table before Harry’s hand came down on her wrist. “Georgia?”
She smiled without meeting his eyes. “I’m fine. Professor, can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly, certainly.”
She left the glass where it was, laced her hands in her lap, relishing the lingering warmth of Harry’s touch. “My father would never talk to me about the case or the trial. He even made sure our nanny kept my brother and I away from the news. Since the records were sealed, I was never able to discover anything beyond the public accounts. And I’ve always wondered about one thing.”
“What’s that, my dear?”
“Did he ever give you or General Duggin any indication as to why he didn’t fight harder to clear his name?”
The professor looked down, frowning as he removed his glasses and cleaned them with the napkin in his lap. “I believe the case against him was fairly compelling.”
His response left Georgia taken aback. She’d expected an impassioned defense of her father, a heated condemnation of the injustice he’d suffered. And she got…acquiescence? “What I saw was circumstantial. As if the prosecution picked the best candidate to take the fall and didn’t bother digging for the truth.”
He shook his head as he returned his glasses to his face. “I hate to admit that I didn’t keep up with all of the proceedings. I’d resigned my commission by then, and only flew into Washington when my testimony was required. Arthur was there through it all. Cameron came as he could—”
“Cameron?” Harry interrupted to ask.
“Cameron Gates. He worked with Stanley at TotalSky, and was assigned along with Georgia’s father to the satellite project.”
“If I remember my history, the parts that failed were ones obtained from a Taiwanese manufacturer in violation of trade sanctions,” Harry said.
Georgia nodded, but Valoren was the one who responded to Harry’s remarks. “Those were the charges that sent Stanley to prison, yes. And he was responsible for procurement. But the testimony is not a matter of public record, and I’m afraid I cannot say more.”
“Even now? All this time later?” Harry asked.
“I’m sorry. But yes. Even now,” the professor said, growing quiet as their server delivered their food.
“What happened to Cameron Gates?” Georgia asked when they were once again alone, wondering why her father had never mentioned the fourth man either.
“I honestly have no idea.” Valoren cut into his spinach and eggs with a vengeance. “It’s been at least fifteen years since I’ve spoken to him. He left TotalSky and was going into business for himself, but I don’t know if the endeavor succeeded or if he’s back in the corporate sector.”
Georgia let Harry and the professor carry the rest of the meal’s conversation and concentrated instead on all the things that weren’t making sense. Surely this man, one who had worked closely with her father on the TotalSky project, knew he was innocent.
So why hadn’t he fought harder to help prove it? And why was he so accepting of her father’s fate?
Even though he’d denied knowing about the dossier Friday night, his reaction had her wondering if he shared the general’s opinion that nothing in the file would change the public’s opinion about the man her father had been.
Sandwich in hand, she started to ask if he shared the general’s assessment, but stopped when she looked up and caught his gaze briefly before he returned his attention to his food. He’d left his expression open and unshielded only for a moment, but it was enough.
The hatred there, the fear, even the loathing…She suppressed a shudder as her queasy stomach turned. The emotion that had flashed so quickly might have been cause for a time-out, a second guess.
Except she had been the victim of retribution too many times to discount her instinct’s insistence that he found her a threat.
She nibbled on her lunch and said nothing, let the conversation drift into the sort of small talk no one did better than virtual strangers.
No matter the connection Valoren may have had to her father in the past, he was nothing but a stranger, and one she was quite sure she didn’t want to know.
What she did know was that at the first opportunity she needed to read the documents in the dossier and find out the part Paul Valoren had played in her father’s downfall.
Because she didn’t believe for a minute he was the innocent bystander he was claiming to be.