Authors: Marliss Melton
Toby mumbled his condolences. For a while, they painted in silence.
“After that, I could see the writing on the wall.” Morrison picked up right where he’d left off. “I applied for disability and couldn’t get it. I was gonna lose everything to Gulf War Syndrome, and the VA didn’t give a rat’s ass. To hell with it, I thought. Next time I went to the hospital I told them, ‘Give me a new doc who’ll fix me, or I’ll take my complaints to the media.’ That’s the day I met Cap’n Connelly and, if I say so myself, she’s a sight for sore eyes.” He waggled bushy eyebrows at Toby. “She takes one look at my records and turns white as a sheet. I’ll never forget that look on her face.”
“
Why? What was in your records?” Toby prompted.
Morrison paused for dramatic effect, dragging his roller through the pan of fresh paint.
“It was all those pills I was on—experimental drugs. She said I was lucky they hadn’t killed me. She put me through a detox program, and in a week or two I felt like myself again. Except, by then, the bank had taken back my house. When I found myself evicted and jobless, she gave me work and a place to live. Damn fine woman, Cap’n Connelly.” Morrison spat on the bush a second time.
Toby ground the bristles of his paintbrush into the grooves of the frame. Was it possible to be both a saint
and
a terrorist? He glanced over at Morrison, who’d lapsed into thoughtful quiet.
“
I take it you were the first one here?” The FBI had neglected to ask these kinds of questions when they interrogated Dylan last month.
“
Oh, no.” Morrison shook his round head. “Cap’n Connelly brought the XO home from the war with her. He was the first man here.”
“
You mean they served together?” How was that possible? Records showed Ashby was a helicopter pilot.
“
Well, yes and no. The XO was an aviator. Used to fly the Cap’n from the Mortuary Affairs Collection Point and back. That was her job—collect the dead from the field, identify ‘em, clean ‘em up as best she could, and ship ‘em home. Used to be called Graves Registration back in my day.”
“
Why do you think she did it?” Toby probed, eager to have his questions answered.
“
Penance,” the former gunny sergeant answered.
“
What?”
“
It’s like this: The only way Cap’n Connelly could afford med school was if Uncle Sam footed the bill. For the cap’n, that was like making a pact with Satan himself. But, hell, it was either that or be stuck with a lifetime of student loans. Still, it bothered her conscience. So to keep from feeling like she’d compromised her beliefs, she volunteered for the worst assignment a physician could get—to command a MACP. In other words, penance.”
“
Sergeant Morrison!” The deep voice bellowing up from ground level nearly startled Toby off his ladder. “Less talk and more work will get the job behind you.”
Lt. Ashby had caught them gossiping again.
Gil Morrison rolled his eyes and kept right on layering the same wood he’d been painting for the past half hour. Toby, meanwhile, had finished his last window frame on this side of the house.
The XO shaded his eyes against the sun and inspected Toby
’s work. “Nice job there, Burke. Once you’ve cleaned your brush, march to the head of the driveway and fetch the mail from the box.”
“
Yes, sir.”
“
Then you’re free to relax until the briefing. Morrison, you have one hour to go. Work faster.”
Toby dabbed his last touch of paint on the window frame, climbed down the ladder, and doused his brush in turpentine. Calling Milly, who sat in the yard watching the cat, he headed up the driveway toward the mailbox, glad for an excuse to breathe fresh air instead of paint fumes.
The gravel crunched under his feet, and the farmhouse fell further behind him. Milly loped along next to him, her mouth wide open, tongue lolling in an unmistakable doggy grin.
“
You like it here, huh?” Toby’s gaze swept the rolling terrain. The gnarled apple trees growing in rows for acres in either direction had just dropped their yield for the season. Rotting apples pebbled the ground for as far as the eye could see. It’s a shame, he thought, to let the harvest go uncollected. But the birds and squirrels sure as hell enjoyed it.
It was hard enough to envision Dylan training a militia here on this untarnished landscape
bathed in autumn hues. He couldn’t wrap his head around her plotting the demise of the Defense Secretary. But given Nolan’s passionate support of Syrian military intervention and Dylan Connelly’s equally virulent articles opposing involvement, she certainly had a motive for wanting him dead.
An American flag fluttered on the picket fence at the head of the driveway. Toby
’s stride broke as he regarded it. Was she a patriot or a terrorist? Her ancestor, John Brown had killed five pro-slavery southerners before raiding Harpers Ferry armory in the hopes of sparking an antislavery insurrection. By modern standards, that would have made him a terrorist. And yet, he was still upheld by many to be a hero for civil rights.
With a shrug, Toby popped the mailbox open and pulled out a handful of mail. Signaling for Milly to retrace her steps with him, he turned back toward the house, sifting through it as he went.
There were two envelopes, one containing a bill for the landline phone that NSA had already tapped into and the other containing a letter from the Director of the Martinsburg VA Medical Center. Curiosity tempted him to slit the latter open, read it, and seal it shut again, but postal mail, unopened by the recipient, was inadmissible in court, and Dylan was due home at any moment.
He strolled back to the house, laid the mail in the command room and dashed up to the attic to swap his paint-splattered T-shirt for a fresh one. Hearing the sounds of Dylan
’s return, he headed to the first floor to claim a decent seat in advance of the briefing.
He had just shut the attic door when Dylan
’s voice, carrying from the command room, made him stop in his tracks. Her odd tone and Ashby’s soothing answer prompted him to halt Milly and eavesdrop on the landing.
“
I can’t lead the briefing today.” Dylan’s words, uttered in a shaken voice, reached his ears clearly. “This letter’s giving me a headache.”
“
I’ll take care of the briefing.” By contrast, Lt. Ashby sounded as steady as a rock.
“
I told you the director was too spineless to reprimand Hendrix,” she said bitterly.
So she
’d read the letter from the director, Toby surmised. It sounded like a response to her complaints about her colleague, the one taking bribes from pharmaceutical companies.
“
You were right,” Lt. Ashby agreed.
“
I just can’t accept this!” Fury colored her voice, shortening her syllables. “I refuse to turn a blind eye to his malpractice.”
“
Just calm down,” the XO soothed. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“
Of course there is. I can stand up to the both of them.” Her footsteps grew louder on the oak flooring as she stalked toward the stairs. “Tell the men I’ve got a migraine,” she pleaded.
Wiping all expression from his face, Toby released Milly and started down the steps just as Dylan rounded the banister. Her eyes flew wide as she caught sight of him.
He pretended not to notice. “Afternoon, ma’am.” He stepped to one side, throwing up a salute, which she did not reciprocate. Biting her lower lip, she fled past him without a word. Consumed with curiosity, he watched her disappear into her room.
Lt. Ashby
’s unmistakable tread galvanized Toby into motion. He continued down the stairs, intercepting the XO’s harried look as that man passed him en route to the door. “Have a seat in the command room, Burke,” Ashby muttered. “I’ll be in with the others in a minute.”
“
Is she going to be okay?” He tossed out the question on a whim.
Ashby froze and swiveled around to face him.
“Of course,” he answered with a forced smile. “This happens from time to time.”
It was just as Toby thought. She was as unstable as a one-legged pirate walking a tightrope. Good thing she had a reliable XO to keep her militia up and running whenever she lost her balance and fell.
***
Dylan rolled onto her back and stared unseeing at the dark ceiling.
Both her alarm clock and the inky darkness in all three of her windows informed her that she had hours to go before Ackerman blew his horn for reveille. This was what she got for drinking coffee so late in the day. The caffeine kept her brain humming, preventing her from catching up on lost sleep. She inevitably woke up still tired, in need of more coffee. And so the cycle continued.
Her eyes burned, and she closed them, remembering the dream that had wakened her minutes before. A shiver traced her spine. Was the dream born out of helplessness or was it an omen? She
’d been stuck in a hospital room, her arms trapped against her body, wearing a straightjacket. Doctors and nurses streamed in and out, whispering in hushed tones as they examined her, but none of them would answer her questions or speak to her directly.
There
’s been a mistake
, she’d tried to tell them.
I’m a doctor, not a patient.
They’d returned her words with looks of disdain or pity. But no one would acknowledge her statements.
Then one of the nurses whispered to another,
She’s crazy
.
I
’m not! Unstrap me and I’ll prove it!
She’d struggled to free herself until the one who’d maligned her jabbed a syringe deep into her arm, and Dylan had gasped awake, her heart pounding, her body drenched in sweat.
It was just a dream, she assured herself, but then the words of the letter from the director flashed into her thoughts, and humiliation boiled in her.
The letter was real; the dream just a figment of her imagination. A single tear slid from Dylan’s left eye and trickled into her hairline.
Maybe I am crazy.
That was certainly the gist of the director
’s message. His words, which she had memorized, spilled over like a toilet backing up.
I have found no evidence to substantiate your claim of prescription abuse by your colleague. In fact, I am concerned that the spreadsheets and copies you forwarded to my office are, in fact, forgeries. The production of such forgeries is a violation of West Virginia
’s Code of Law, Section 46-5-109. In light of your uniformed service to this country, I will abstain from taking legal action against you, provided your allegations desist. I ask with utmost respect that you consider whether your diagnosis of PTSD has left you with unfounded paranoia.
In one violent move, Dylan vaulted out of the bed.
Peeling off her sticky nightshirt, she threw it down onto her quilt. She shivered in her underwear, pawing through her dresser drawers until she found a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie from the University of Virginia, where she’d earned her medical degree. Sliding socks over her cold toes, she jammed her feet into her sneakers and laced them tightly.
Then she stepped into the hall, taking great pains not to disturb those sleeping in the rooms next to her. Except for the snores of sleeping men, the hall was silent. Avoiding the floorboards that squeaked, she made her way down the steps, crossed to the front door, and slipped outside.
The need to run—to cast off the weight crushing her chest—fueled her heartbeat as she leaped off the porch into the cold, dark yard. The instant her shoes touched the grass, she broke into a sprint, galvanized by humiliation and oppression and righteous indignation.
Biting cold nipped at her ears and stung her eyes, as she chased the running course down the frost-covered slope toward the trees. If she could run forever, she would never stop.
Veering off the path, a mile from the house, she slowed to a walk to enter the sanctity of the forest. As she caught her breath, a belated sob convulsed her lungs. She let it out, desperate for relief from the pressure that pounded in her head. A rash of sobs followed, shaking her so violently that she fell to her knees on a brittle bed of sticks and leaves.
Why am I still here, Lord?
How many times over the past twelve months had she asked that question?
You should have taken me, and left my boys alive.
Chapter
Four
Lying flat on his back in his sleeping bag, Toby raised an arm to check his watch. Ackerman wouldn’t blow the bugle for another two hours, but Dylan had been up and stirring in the room below his. For a while, he’d ignored the restless noises, determined to sleep. But then he’d thought he’d heard the screen door at the front of the house squeak shut and a flurry of footsteps cross the yard.
Why would Dylan leave the house at this ungodly hour?
He sat up slowly so as not to disturb Milly sleeping next to him. Levering himself to peer out of the window over his head, he spied a shadow streaking down the moonlit hill like an apparition in flight. Christ, what was Dylan thinking?
As she disappeared from view, he sat a moment, thinking. Perhaps she made a habit of running alone at night. All the same, he felt he ought to let Lt. Ashby know.
Toby slithered out of bed, and Milly raised a sleepy head.
Stay,
he signaled before tiptoeing down the stairs with stealth that belied his broad build.
As he stepped into the hall, his gaze slid toward Dylan
’s open door. Darkness lay beyond, a chamber of sleeplessness and nightmares bad enough to make her flee. The other doors remained shut, muffling the snores of three sleeping men.
A golden opportunity—one too good to pass up—presented itself, unexpectedly.
Toby slipped into her room and closed the door. He stood a moment to study the layout. Faint moonlight gilded the ornate headboard of an old bed, a walnut bureau, and a matching vanity. The open book by her bed drew him nearer. He picked it up, turned it over, and by the light of his watch, read the title:
John Brown Still Lives!: America’s Long Reckoning with Violence, Equality, & Change
. The pages had been earmarked and passages heavily marked.
Struck by her complexity, he laid the book back down, next to the Bible and a rosary, along with a framed photograph of her elderly parents.
As he turned to the bureau, a pale rectangle drew him straight to the letter that had thrown Dylan into a funk yesterday. Finding the envelope open, he drew out the letter with a steady hand and once more used his watch to scan the contents. The message confirmed his assumptions regarding the subject. But the director’s closing comment made him wince on Dylan’s behalf.
We ask with utmost respect that you consider whether your diagnosis of PTSD has left you with unfounded paranoia.
Ouch. That had to have hurt.
And now she was outside in the dark and cold, trying to run from the director
’s humiliating—though possibly accurate—remark.
He put the letter back and turned to the door. The sight of Dylan
’s purse hanging from a hat rack elevated his pulse. Eager to discover what weapon she carried, he lifted the flap. The gleaming butt of a .357 Magnum caused his eyebrows to shoot up.
Jesus.
No micro-sized pistol for this woman. The revolver was large and lethal looking. Not only that, but she carried a full box of Speer, Gold Dot .38 special, 135 grain ammo in the same pocket. He closed the flap and looked around.
Anything else?
A ghostly object lay across her quilt. Curious, he crossed to the bed to pick it up and realized he was holding Dylan
’s nightshirt. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled a blend of woman, coffee, and sundried cotton.
Nice.
The pleasing scent strummed a protective chord inside him.
He couldn
’t just leave her out there, distraught and alone.
On the other hand, wouldn
’t he appear too astute going after her?
Play your cards close to the vest
, he reminded himself. Hell, he even owned a T-shirt with that message on it.
Dylan Connelly was a grown woman, not a child. If she wanted to run around at night on her own property, who was he to stop her?
Ignoring the seed of doubt rooted in his mind, he returned to the door, where a peek and a listen assured him he could slip upstairs unnoticed. Reveille would sound in less than two hours, anyway. How much trouble could she get into on her own before then?
Back in the attic, he squirmed into his bedroll for a little more shuteye. It felt like he had just lapsed into slumber when the bugle squawked.
Fuck
. Did Ackerman really play the horn that badly or did he do it on purpose?
Rising a second time, Toby slipped on his shoes, grabbed his jacket, and made his way downstairs, this time with his dog.
Dylan’s still-open door filled him with concern. The thump of Lt. Ashby’s crutch heralded that man’s trek to the bathroom, on which he had first dibs. Seeing Toby at Dylan’s door, the XO stopped in his tracks.
“
Captain Connelly’s not here,” Toby announced.
A crease appeared on Ashby
’s forehead. He edged Toby aside to peer into Dylan’s room himself.
“
I think I heard her leave a couple of hours ago,” Toby admitted.
Ashby
’s eyes flashed with apprehension. “That’s none of your concern,” he growled, but he thrust his way into the bathroom with haste, betraying his desire to discover where Dylan had gone. Toby was several steps ahead of him.
Remembering her nightshirt, he darted into her bedroom to retrieve it. Then he headed for the stairs with Milly on his heels.
Ear-aching cold socked him in the face as they slipped outside. That hadn’t been just moonlight silvering the lawn earlier; it was frost. She’d picked a hell of a night to go out running.
Kneeling on the porch, he held Dylan
’s nightshirt up to Milly’s nose. The dog had never been trained as a scent dog, but the concept was similar to sniffing out explosives. Who knew? It might just work. “Seek,” he urged, giving her the signal he’d seen rescue workers give their canines.
Milly stared blankly back at him.
He put the nightshirt to her nose again.
Seek,
he signaled. She sniffed it for the longest moment then looked up at him. There seemed to be a flash of recognition in her eyes before she turned and hopped off the porch—only to squat beside the nearest azalea bush.
Toby groaned. He stuffed the nightshirt into the pocket of his jacket and eyed the path down which Dylan had disappeared hours ago. With a sigh, he started toward it. But then he stopped when he realized Milly was just standing there watching him walk away.
He gestured for her to join him. Icy dew seeped through his sneakers, numbing his toes as Milly turned her back on him, ambling toward the rear of the house and waving her tail like a flag.
What the hell?
Chasing after the Lab, Toby caught up with her at the door of the playhouse he had noticed on his first day. Either the militia stored weapons in the little building, or Milly had located Dylan. Hope vied with skepticism as he tugged on the rusty door latch. As it swung outward, Milly tried to dart inside. He edged her aside and stuck his head and shoulders in.
Just enough light pierced the gaps between the planks to illumine Dylan’s red hair. He crawled into the musty space and saw that she was curled up in the corner, her forehead resting on her knees, motionless.
Please be alive
. Stretching out a hand, he lightly touched her arm and felt her shivering.
Thank God
. “Ma’am?” If she wasn’t hypothermic, it’d be a miracle. “Captain, wake up.” He gave her a light shake.
Dylan roused to consciousness reluctantly. As she cracked her eyes, brittle pain gripped her body, keeping her immobile. Her thoughts returned to the dream where she’d been bound in a straightjacket.
What if it wasn’t a dream?
The silhouette of a man loomed over her, and she flinched away from him. Her head struck a wall, and the familiar feel and smell of the enclosure in which she sat delivered her to reality.
She had stopped by her playhouse on her way back from the woods. In search of happy memories, she had crawled inside and fallen asleep.
“
You okay, ma’am?”
Sleep beckoned her back into its numb embrace, but pain kept her conscious. Sergeant Burke
’s concerned words focused her attention on the uncontrollable shuddering of her body. Every muscle quivered in a locked position. The cold had seeped into the marrow of her bones. “Hy-hypoth-thermic,” she stammered, recognizing the symptoms and fighting her lethargy.
Beneath her heavy eyelids, she watched him struggle out of his jacket. In the next instant, he slung it over her, and heat enveloped her like sunshine.
“We’ve got to get you out of here.”
She tried to cooperate, but she couldn
’t seem to move.
That was no deterrent to Tobias. Planting a foot under his hunkered body, he wedged an arm behind her back, another under her bent knees, and scooped her out of the corner and through the narrow door. In the next instant, he swung her high above the ground, lifting her against the wall of his chest. With her head lolling on his shoulder, she saw that the sky was shot with silver. The rooster on the neighboring farm crowed.
“I should w-walk,” she protested, her speech as slurred as a drunkard’s. He started for the back of the farmhouse, where all of the lights were on. She couldn’t let the others see her like this! “I have to walk,” she repeated.
But Tobias ignored her, heading doggedly for the screened-in porch.
“You’re the doctor, ma’am. You know the best thing you can do is stay curled up. Let my heat warm you.”
It was impossible not to. His thermal energy burned through the cotton of his T-shirt like flames from a bonfire. With a compulsive need to huddle closer, she looped both arms around his neck and hugged him hard.
“I can’t be seen,” she said through clenched teeth.
The edges of his eyes crinkled as he sent her a smile.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. The XO’s the only one who knows you’re missing. We’ll sneak you in past the others. Do you know if the back door’s locked?”
He made her feel like a naughty teen, sneaking into the house after curfew.
“There’s a k-k-key hidden behind a loose brick.”
“
Show me,” he said, shouldering his way onto the back porch.
Her hand shook like a leaf as she pointed to the brick in question.
“I gotta put you down,” he said regretfully. “Think you can stand?”
“
Yes.” Except that she couldn’t even feel her legs.
He released her carefully, letting her slide down the front of his thighs. The journey over his hard contours revived every nerve in her body. All too soon, her feet touched the concrete floor. Her legs now burned with a numb fire, but her knees buckled, leaving her no choice but to hang on tight.
He anchored her against him with a powerful arm. “You good?”
His resonant voice seemed to resonate inside her. How long had it been since a man had pressed her to him like this? It felt so wonderful. Desire, as unexpected as it was unwanted, had her clinging to him shamelessly.
“Yes.”
Her attention slid to his chiseled lips, then to the cleft on his square chin, and then the message on his broad chest.
“Contrary to popular belief,” she read aloud, drawing back and pulling it taut over his pecs, so she could read it better in the dim light, “no one owes you anything.”
“
That’s right.” He tugged the loose brick from the wall, transferred it to his left hand, and retrieved the key hidden in the space behind it. All without letting her go.
Dylan felt like she
’d been hit over the head. How true. Her thoughts expanded. No one owed her a damn thing. She would have to right this wrong herself.
The lock gave a click, snapping her out of her trance.
“Think you can walk?”
She shivered convulsively.
“I think so.”
“
Wait.” He caught her arm as she started to push the door open. “I hear men on the stairs. Wait until they go out front.”
Inside the house, at least two pairs of shoes tramped down the stairs. The front door thumped shut.
“Now.” Tobias opened the door for her.
She tried to walk but her legs felt like Jell-O.
“Guess not,” she admitted with a helpless grimace.
He roped her to him with an eager smile and half-carried, half-escorted her through the command room toward the lit foyer, and to the stairs. Terrence Ashby
’s halting descent had Dylan squirming free. She reached for the newel post to keep her balance.
“
There you are.” Terrence was moving down the steps as fast as his prosthetic allowed. His gaze went from Dylan’s pale face to the oversized jacket she wore. He shot Sergeant Burke a probing look.
“
She’s fine,” Tobias assured him before Dylan could explain. “She’d fallen asleep in the little house out back.”
Terrence placed a large hand over her ice-cold one and squeezed it with palpable concern.
“You could have frozen to death.” He hobbled closer, forcing Tobias to give up his ground as he cupped a hand under her elbow. “I’ll help you upstairs. Then you can call in sick today, which you probably will be, anyway.”