‘‘Bart Torbush is damned unusual,’’ her father offered.
Annabelle grinned at her father’s mention of the local Methodist preacher, while her mother scoffed, ‘‘Oh, Frank.’’
It was good to see that his sense of humor was still intact. ‘‘I meant any visitors you didn’t already know. Any strangers.’’
Her parents looked at each other. Frank said, ‘‘The photographer.’’
‘‘A woman?’’ Mark asked.
‘‘No. A man.’’ Annabelle’s mother frowned. ‘‘I considered him myself, but he was such a nice man, at the farm two full days before the accident.’’
It wasn’t a freaking accident,
Annabelle thought.
‘‘It’s not difficult to delay a detonation, Mrs. Monroe,’’ Mark said. ‘‘With a thorough investigation, the authorities should be able to pinpoint a trigger. If they can’t, we have access to people who can.’’
Annabelle asked, ‘‘Who was he? Why was he there?’’
‘‘His name was something plain. . . . Hmm.’’ Lynn Monroe thought a minute. ‘‘Johnson. Bob Johnson. He said he was doing a coffee-table book about farm-houses. It’s supposed to be published next year by a New York publisher. He spent the better part of two days around the place taking pictures both inside and out.’’
Mark asked, ‘‘Did he carry a camera bag around with him?’’
‘‘Yes, two of them, in fact.’’
‘‘Were you with him all the time?’’
‘‘Oh, heavens no. We showed him around, then went about our business.’’
‘‘Can you describe him for us, Mama?’’
‘‘I can try.’’ She thought a moment, then said, ‘‘He’s about your age, Annabelle. About your height, Mr. Callahan. He wore cargo pants and a T-shirt and a photographer’s vest. Sneakers on his feet.’’
Frank Monroe added, ‘‘He wore an earring. A gold stud. I thought that meant he’s gay, but he talked about his wife and children, and your sister says that earrings aren’t a gay thing anymore.’’ Shooting a sharp look at Mark, he added, ‘‘What about you? You got an earring, boy?’’
‘‘No, sir,’’ he said with a smile, before meeting Lynn’s gaze. ‘‘Do you recall complexion type? Hair color? Eye color?’’
‘‘He had fair skin and his hair was cut very short—a flattop, we called them back in my day. His eyes were brown. I remember because I noticed his eyelashes. The man had the thickest, longest lashes.’’
‘‘What are you doing noticing another fella’s eyelashes?’’
Lynn lifted her gaze to the ceiling and sighed. ‘‘Adam met him, too. You might see if he remembers more.’’
Annabelle asked, ‘‘And you never saw a woman with him?’’
‘‘No.’’
At that point the nurse lost her patience and stepped into the room. ‘‘I’ve allowed this to go on long enough. One of you must leave now.’’
‘‘My cue.’’ Mark spoke up, shifting toward the door. ‘‘We can finish this later, ma’am.’’
Annabelle’s mother studied her husband and gently brushed his hair away from his brow. ‘‘Actually, I think it’s time we all leave. You are tired, honey. I am, too. We both can use some rest.’’
‘‘You’ll go home like you promised?’’ he asked, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. ‘‘You won’t try to spend the night up here again? You need a good night’s sleep.’’
‘‘I’m going home. Adam has offered to stay the night here, and I’ll be back here first thing in the morning.’’
Frank scowled. ‘‘Adam doesn’t need to stay. I’ll be fine. Tell him to go home to his family.’’
Lynn pursed her mouth. ‘‘Are you sure?’’
‘‘I’m going to take that sleeping pill the doctor ordered and saw logs. Y’all go on now.’’
Both women kissed Frank Monroe good night, then joined Mark, who waited in the hallway. ‘‘He looks good, don’t you think?’’ Lynn asked her daughter. ‘‘His color is better. I think he’s better. I think he’ll be fine.’’
‘‘I know he will,’’ Annabelle replied in a reassuring tone. She believed it, too. Seeing him had made all the difference. ‘‘I’m not worried at all, Mama. Not anymore.’’
Not about this attack, anyway
, she thought as she turned her attention to preventing another. The photographer was the key. He had to have been the one to set the explosives.
They’d walked halfway back toward the waiting room when Annabelle slowed. Something was bugging her. Something her mom had said. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
She put that issue away as they returned to the hospital waiting room, and she was forced to run interference between Mark and Aunt Polly by falling on the proverbial sword and asking her aunt about her bunions. She watched her siblings’ jaws drop because they all knew that the question had invited a twenty-minute harangue.
At least they wouldn’t ask her about her sex life in front of Mom. She couldn’t say the same if it were just Aunt Polly.
Aunt Polly moved on to gallstones when the family doctor sauntered through the doors, his relaxed air easing the tension still humming inside Annabelle. He discussed the results of the latest tests and agreed that no family member needed to stay overnight. Annabelle thought her mother might burst into tears when he predicted that, barring any unforeseen complications, he would discharge Frank Monroe in two days.
Relieved, her family scheduled hospital visits for the following day, after which Mark and Tag discussed security arrangements. Though it took creative maneuvering, Annabelle managed to escape the hospital without confrontation about her sex life from any of her oh-so-nosy relatives.
Her thoughts returned to the photographer during the hour-long drive out to the farm in the rental car Tag had arranged. What was bothering her? What clue had her mother provided that she couldn’t quite put her finger on?
‘‘I need to clear my mind,’’ she said as she turned off the highway onto the road that led to the Monroe family farm. ‘‘Wish I had real running shoes instead of these Keds. I’d go for a run.’’
Mark glanced at her. ‘‘You do have athletic shoes. Running clothes, too. I asked the Telluride police chief’s wife to buy us a little of everything to replace what we left at Stanhope’s place. I made sure you had workout clothes, since I know you prefer exercise to popping Xanax to deal with stress. They’re in suitcases in the back.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ Annabelle wasn’t surprised. The man knew her too well. As soon as she got home she’d . . .
‘‘Why wait?’’ she murmured before steering the car off the road and onto the narrow shoulder. She pushed the button to release the trunk. ‘‘The house is about six miles straight up this road. Yellow paint with white shutters. You can’t miss it.’’
Tag’s brows winged up. ‘‘You’re going running? Now?’’
‘‘You know, that is an excellent idea.’’ Mark opened his car door. ‘‘I’ll go with you.’’
‘‘I’ll be fine by myself.’’
‘‘I know, Annabelle. It’s my drug of choice, too.’’
She shrugged, then spoke to Tag. ‘‘The first house on the left is my brother’s place. Keep going past it for another half mile. Do yourself a favor and say yes when my mom offers you chocolate cake.’’
‘‘Isn’t her kitchen blown to hell?’’
‘‘Won’t matter. She’ll have it. It’s my grandmother’s recipe and my sisters sell it in their bakery in town. One of them will have sent some home.’’
She climbed out of the car and walked back to the trunk. Guessing that the pink suitcase was hers, she unzipped it, then removed running shoes, socks, a sports bra, and wind shorts. When she whipped her shirt over her head and reached to unfasten her bra, Mark muttered, ‘‘Good Lord.’’ Then he reached for his own suitcase and called out, ‘‘Eyes forward, Harrington.’’
Five minutes later, the car’s taillights were pinpoints in the distance and Annabelle and her ex-husband ran side by side on the asphalt road. It was the first time they’d been alone since the shower sex, but she didn’t expect him to bring the subject up. She and Mark had been running partners for years, and they each knew what the other wanted while they ran—silence. Lovely, peace-bringing silence.
Annabelle picked up her pace as the endorphins kicked in. The moon had yet to rise, and as the evening darkness deepened, stars flickered into sight in the sky above like freckles on a face. She filled her lungs with fresh country air. With the scent of home. And she ran a little faster. Her muscles strained, and her breathing labored. Her mind went blessedly blank.
And suddenly she remembered.
Chapter Ten
Mark was thinking about fire ant hills and wondering if the pesky insect that terrorized Texas had made it as far north as Kansas when Annabelle pulled up short. ‘‘Eyelashes!’’
He halted forward progress but continued to run in place as he asked, ‘‘You have something in your eye?’’
‘‘No, in my brain. Eyelashes!’’
He wished the moon would rise. He could barely see her. ‘‘Honey, I think you’ve cracked.’’
‘‘Think back, Callahan. Remember when Colonel Warren was assembling the team? He brought on a guy that lasted two months, maybe three? He and Noah despised one another. Remember? He had the most beautiful eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man.’’
Mark rubbed the back of his neck as he thought for a moment. Kincannon had despised a lot of people. Finally, he shook his head. ‘‘Eyelashes on a man aren’t something I tend to notice, Annabelle.’’
She snapped her fingers repeatedly, searching for the memory. ‘‘What was his name? C’mon, Callahan. You remember him. You didn’t like him any more than Noah did. One of the first things you did after the colonel named you as team leader was to give the guy the boot.’’
Since it was obvious she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, Mark stopped jogging in place. ‘‘Why did I kick him off? What did he do wrong?’’
He watched the shadow that was Annabelle brace her hands on her hips and stare at the ground. ‘‘I’m not sure. Oh, man. It was so long ago.’’
‘‘Almost ten years,’’ Mark said. ‘‘I’ve met a lot of people in that amount of time.’’
‘‘Me, too.’’
‘‘Which makes me wonder if your eyelash guy is the same guy as your mother’s eyelash guy. Maybe you two just have a thing for eyelashes. Ten years is a long time for someone to nurse a grudge without doing something about it.’’
‘‘So, something had to trigger it. I wonder what.’’ Without warning, Annabelle started running again. ‘‘We need to get to a phone and you need to call Colonel Warren. Ask him to get us a list of everyone who washed out of the program. Dad has a fax at home or the colonel could e-mail it. Whichever is easier. If I see the name, I’ll remember it.’’
Hidden by the darkness, Mark gave her a smart-ass salute.
An hour later, showered and dressed in a fresh T-shirt and jeans, Mark checked the fax machine and then his e-mail in her father’s office. Nothing on the fax, but his in-box had a message from the colonel. He opened the e-mail and read the list of names. He could recall some of the men; others he blanked on entirely. As he printed the list, the fax number rang and the first of the photographs came through.
Those would take a while, Mark knew, so he carried the list of names toward the dining room, where he heard Annabelle speaking with her sister.
‘‘Mmm . . . ,’’ she moaned ecstatically. ‘‘Nothing on earth is better than Nana’s chocolate cake.’’
‘‘Are you sure about that?’’ Amy asked. ‘‘And here I was thinking that you’d rate sex with Sergeant Steamy as number one.’’
Just out of sight beyond the doorway, Mark halted. He peered through the crack between the door and its frame to see his ex-wife seated at her mother’s dining room table sharing a double-sized slab of chocolate cake with her sister.
Color flushed Annabelle’s cheeks as she closed her eyes. ‘‘What’s with this sudden fascination everyone has with my sex life?’’
Amy shrugged. ‘‘You always made such a big deal out of holding out for marriage. I’m just glad to know they won’t be asking you to star in the sequel to
The Forty-Year-Old Virgin.
’’
‘‘Look, he’s a colleague. That’s all.’’ She paused as Amy snorted in disbelief, then added, ‘‘And he never was a sergeant. He was a lieutenant.’’
‘‘Lieutenant Luscious, then. Man, oh man . . . those shoulders, those six-pack abs.’’ She waggled her brows and pretended to swoon. ‘‘Tell me he has a package to match?’’
‘‘Amy! Excuse me, but what would your husband say about your ogling another man?’’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘‘I can blame it on hormones. That gets me out of all kinds of trouble these days.’’ She glanced toward the staircase, then said, ‘‘Mom has gone to bed, right?’’
When Annabelle nodded, she leaned close and said in a low tone, ‘‘We haven’t told the folks yet, but I’m pregnant.’’
Mark’s stomach sank.
Shit. That’s all Annabelle needs.
Outwardly, Annabelle reacted exactly how her younger sister would have wanted. Smiling widely, she reached over and hugged Amy hard. Mark knew her well enough to see that inwardly, though, she took it as yet another blow.
Her baby sister was going to have a baby.
‘‘Ah, Amy, that’s wonderful news!’’ Annabelle bubbled. ‘‘I’m so happy for you. When are you due?’’
‘‘Christmas. If we have a girl, we’re going to name her Holly.’’
Mark decided that now was a good time to intervene. He stepped into the doorway and cleared his throat. The women looked up. Annabelle’s chin lifted high as the old resentment rushed back into her eyes. ‘‘Do you need something?’’
Mark suspected she’d like to throw her cake at him.
He crossed the room, all business, as he handed the printed e-mail list to her. ‘‘Here are the names from Colonel Warren. He’s faxing the pictures now.’’
His hair wet from his shower, Harrington entered the dining room as Annabelle studied the list. ‘‘William Ronald Kurtz,’’ she said. ‘‘Ron Kurtz. That’s him, Callahan.’’
Ron Kurtz. Didn’t ring a single bell. Mark glanced at Harrington. ‘‘Do you remember him?’’
‘‘No.’’ His old friend shrugged. ‘‘The name doesn’t ring any bells for me.’’