Deliver Us from Evil (25 page)

Not only was it exploitation of these poor children, but there were enough instances to justify the passing of the Trafficking Victims Protection Act of 2000. Statistics reported approximately 17,500 children were trafficked into the United States every year—to be victimized. And the number continued to grow.

How could she be unaware of such nightmarish statistics? Was she truly so wrapped up in her life that she'd ignored the abuse of these children?

Oh, Lord, I'm so sorry I haven't paid attention to the dreadful plight of Your children. Please grant me wisdom on how to help. How to reach out and do something.

Her heart lodged in her throat as she lifted the phone. She punched numbers.

“Who are you calling?” Lincoln asked.

“Roark.” She caught his censored expression from across the room. “I want to see if there's any information they aren't releasing.” She waited for the call to connect. One ring. Two.

“Holland.”

She questioned the wisdom of calling. “Hi, Roark. It's Brannon.” His voice did strange things to her. His image had haunted her dreams the past couple of nights, leaving her restless and anxious.

And wondering why she couldn't ban him from her mind.

Tuesday, 8:35 a.m.

US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse

Knoxville, Tennessee

JUST HER VOICE. THAT'S all it took to tie his stomach in knots. “Hi, Brannon.”

“I saw the news. Are there no other leads?”

Nothing definite. They hadn't found any connections of Milton's yet, even though they'd located where he'd been living. The FBI scoured the place, as well as tried to track down Wilks's stepson to see what he knew. And Roark wanted to tell her all this, but he couldn't. Not yet. Not without proper clearance. “They're still working on deciphering the paper trail but haven't come up with anything yet.”

“It's horrible. What can I do to help?”

Come up and see him? Whoa! He couldn't just blurt that out. “Um, nothing. There's nothing any of us can do right now.” But his conversation with Demott replayed through his mind. “Except pray.”

Her intake of breath was enough. “O-Of course. Lincoln and I will be praying.” He'd shocked her.

Shocked himself, too. Since when did he ask people to pray? “I'll let you know if I hear anything.”

“And if I can do anything else to help, just let me know.”

He wanted nothing more than to keep talking to her. How long had it been since someone offered
him
help? Too long. But Demott had already motioned at his watch twice. “I will. Thanks.” He shut his cell phone and headed toward the courthouse exit.

Since his debriefing, the powers that be determined he needed to visit Dr. Martin again. More torture. Demott had let him know it wasn't a suggestion—it was a condition of his staying on the case. He couldn't let the case go. Not this one. He had to bring those responsible for the irreparable harm to children to justice.

Maybe then he'd be free of the nightmares about Mindy.

The drive to Dr. Martin's office took twenty minutes on a good day. Today it took him almost forty, and he was already late. But talking to Brannon, hearing her voice, made being late worth it. What did that say about him?

The receptionist ushered him into Dr. Martin's office as soon as he arrived. A twinge of guilt that he'd messed up the lady's schedule hit him, but he shoved it away. It wasn't like he chose to come here. No, he'd been forced. Just as he had from the beginning.

“Good morning, Roark.”

He settled onto the leather couch as Dr. Martin took her seat in the wingback chair facing him. “Dr. Martin.” He gave a curt nod.

“I've read your report. A helicopter crash and being fired upon multiple times. How'd you handle that stress?”

Why did shrinks ask about feelings and handling stress? If he had it under control, why did Demott make him continue to come? “Okay, I suppose. I survived.”

“Heard you got stuck in a cave. How was that for you?”

Was she kidding? How did anyone feel about being stuck in a cave? “Wasn't fun, if that's what you're asking.” He brushed imaginary lint from his slacks.

“I suppose not. Did you experience bouts of claustrophobia?”

He ignored his pounding heart as he recalled crawling through the small tunnel. “A little. But I had a job to do and knew I couldn't fall apart.”

“Good. At least now you're admitting small spaces make you very uncomfortable.”

“Look, I had a little girl in an elevator shaft who died. Someone I was supposed to protect. Wouldn't small spaces make you uncomfortable if you were me?”

“I'd feel very uncomfortable. But I'm not you. We're talking about how you're dealing with the incident. How you cope.”

“I coped, didn't I? Got out of the cave and completed my assignment.” He laced his fingers together and rested his hands in his lap.

“You did. And you did it successfully.”

He let out a harrumph.

“What?”

“I don't know if I'd say it was a success.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, Roark, but your assignment was to escort an organ to a hospital in Knoxville, right?”

“That was the assignment, and we did that. But the end result wasn't what we hoped.” He speared his fingers through his hair. “Innocent children are still being exploited, and we can't do anything to help them.”

“And I can understand. Natural responsive feeling.”

He swallowed. “Dr. Martin, do you believe in God?”

Her eyes widened as she looked up from her notepad. “God?”

“Yeah, Creator of the universe and all that.”

“Why do you ask?”

Just like a shrink—answering a question with a question. “I only wanted to know your beliefs.”

She poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table. She took a sip, then set down the glass. “I thought you didn't believe in God anymore. Had come to the conclusion that religion was a crutch weak people clung to instead of facing reality.”

“I did, but . . .”

A long moment followed. When he didn't add anything more, she put aside her pen and notebook. “But what? Has something happened to change your mind?”

“Lately I've noticed how some people really believe all the God-stuff. They aren't weak, aren't using it as a crutch. These are strong people, good people.”

“And that's made you question your stand on Christianity?”

He lifted a casual shoulder. “Some. I'm wondering if maybe I was wrong.”

“You're admitting you could be wrong?” Dr. Martin sounded shocked.

“I don't always have to be right.” He crossed his arms across his chest.

A smile teased the doctor's lips. “What's her name?”

Busted! “Her name? How do you know it's a woman I'm talking about? Demott is a Christian and talks about it a lot.”

The smile broke into a full grin. “Roark, I'm a psychiatrist. Don't try to fool me. You've worked with Gerald Demott for years, so you're accustomed to hearing about his faith. Only someone new, a woman, could've gotten under your skin to make you question your core beliefs.”

He hated that she was right.

“Her name?”

“Brannon. The National Park Service ranger-pilot who rescued us.”

Dr. Martin pressed her lips together to form a tight line.

“What?”

“And this Brannon . . . she believes in God?”

“Strongly.” But he'd get back to that in a minute. “What's got you biting your tongue, Doc?”

“Well, you have to admit, it's a bit ironic, wouldn't you say?” She was having way too much fun at his expense.

“What?”

“That you'd question your beliefs because of a woman who's a rescue pilot.”

“I don't see the irony.”

“Someone who is strong, in a position of helping others, a pilot, which is still a male-dominated career. . . . See my point?”

Not really. “So, what're you getting at?”

Dr. Martin smiled once again and took another sip of her water. “That you no longer have to be the most aggressive and dominant person.” She jotted in her blasted notebook. “You've made great progress and are on course for continuing to enhance your own life. I'm proud of you.” She set the book on the little table. “So much so that I'm going to recommend we reduce the number of mandatory sessions we have each month.”

Just when he needed to talk more.

TWENTY-TWO

Wednesday, 3:15 p.m.

Abrams Creek Ranger Station

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

“HELLO.”

“Brannon?”

Her heart raced, and she gripped her cell phone tighter. “Roark?” She lowered herself to the couch, ignoring Steve's inquiring glance.

“Hi there.”

“Uh, hi.” Great. She sounded like a bumbling idiot. She hadn't had any trouble talking to him in person. Why was she now tongue-tied talking to him on the phone?

Maybe because he'd consumed her every waking thought since she left him at the hospital.

“Listen, we need Lincoln and you to come in. My boss needs to close the report but can't until you two review and sign your statements.”

He needed her signature, nothing more. “Oh. Okay.” Disappointment stung worse than any insect bite she'd ever incurred.

“Do you think you could come this afternoon?”

If it weren't for her blasted ankle, she'd hop in her Dolphin and head right over. But her ankle and damaged Dolphin kept her from hopping to do his bidding. Although . . . there was Jefferson and the loaner helicopter. “Sure. I think we can swing it. What time?”

“Whatever is best for you.”

Did he really want to see her? Or was he just trying to close out his report? She glanced at the clock. “We'll be there sometime in the next couple of hours then.”

“Thanks. Looking forward to seeing you.” The connection clicked off.

Had he meant that in a personal way?

Lincoln and Jefferson stomped into the station on the waves of male laughter. Brannon's heart did a little side step. No, she wouldn't be like that. Lincoln was only being nice to the newcomer because that's who Lincoln was. She needed to stop reading more into everything. What was it with her emotional roller coaster lately?

“Hey, Brannon. Beautiful afternoon out today.” Lincoln plopped down beside her. “Want to go up and give Jefferson more of the pilot's tour?”

“Roark called. They need us to come in and review and sign our statements.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.” She glanced at Jefferson standing behind Lincoln and swallowed back her distaste of feeling helpless. “Can you fly us? I don't think my ankle's strong enough just yet.”

“Sure. Sure.” Jefferson crossed the room to stand in front of the fireplace. “Just let me know when.”

Brannon glanced over at her supervisor. “Okay with you, Steve? That we're all out?”

“Sure. I can radio if I need y'all.”

“Shouldn't take too long.” But she kinda hoped it would—it'd be more time she could spend with Roark.

She gave herself a mental shake. She shouldn't be so obsessed with a man she'd only known for days. Had she taken total leave of her senses?

And it hit her—Wade had slipped into her heart just as fast.

Her insides flipped. She wasn't supposed to fall for a man again. It was too painful. Being left behind . . . She couldn't take it again. Roark? Seriously? He wasn't even her type. Most important, he didn't live for Christ.

And that meant she could never, ever become involved with him.

Then again, he'd asked her to pray for the situation. Did that mean he'd come back around to God? Hope surged through her heart.

“It's after three already. What time do you want to leave?” Jefferson interrupted her private argument.

She didn't even have makeup on, much less have her hair looking decent. “Give me a few minutes to change and get ready, okay?” Brannon stood, not nearly as wobbly as the day before.

“You look fine.” Lincoln grinned, as if knowing what'd been running through her mind.

“Not to a bunch of suits.” She slapped him playfully on the shoulder as she passed him on the way to her living quarters.

Lincoln reached for the phone. “I'll call Roark to see where we can land and give him an ETA.”

Brannon entered her bedroom with a nod.

Fifteen minutes and makeup later, Brannon hobbled back into the station's main room.

Steve let out a low whistle. “You clean up nice.”

Heat climbed the back of her neck. “Oh, stop it. It's just a little mascara and lip gloss.”

“Well, you look really nice.” Lincoln stood and reached for the coatrack.

The heat spread to her face. “Are you implying I don't normally look nice?”

“Never said that, hon.” He helped her into her jacket.

She spun and studied his expression. “Go ahead, spit it out.”

“What?” He feigned innocence.

“Lincoln,” she all but growled.

“‘The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.'”

She so didn't want to quarrel with her friend over this. “Too easy. First Samuel 16:7.” Brannon flashed a weak smile. “And my heart is fine, thank you very much.” And she prayed Lincoln would let the matter drop.

He hesitated a moment, then gave her a smile and nod before turning to Jefferson. “You ready?”

“Let's do this.”

She climbed into the copilot's seat of the loaner and waited for Jefferson to finish his preflight duties. He climbed into the cockpit and settled his headset. He radioed in to ATC, checked with Brannon and Lincoln to ensure they were ready, then lifted into the air. As they climbed above the tree line and began to turn, Brannon stared over the landscape.