B00NRQWAJI (12 page)

He shook his head, smiled wistfully. “I’m the wrong guy to ask. Char and her friends used that trail all the time to cut between Eric’s house and Adam’s. They were seniors. The last thing Char wanted was her little brother shadowing her. I was just a lowly freshman.”

“Then you were in the same class as Pamela.”

“Yes, I was.” He took a sip of his coffee, ended up staring into the cup as if he could see the past in the bottom. “Kids around here always talked big about graduating and getting out of this tiny town. Her death only made it worse.”

“But many of you stayed. Rittenhaus is still here. Eric Wentz, Vance McCabe, your sister…”

“Eric watched his family implode after Pamela’s death. I don’t think he wanted to leave. But Vance? He never grew up. He kept sponging off his parents until his mom died last spring. His brothers have made it clear they aren’t going to support him anymore, but I don’t think he has anywhere else to go. He’s stuck.”

“Well, he left Fallowfield at least once. I understand he was in the National Guard and served in the Middle East.”

“That’s true. I think he was shocked when he got called up. After a tour in Iraq, he went to Afghanistan twice. Eric did a tour there as well.”

“And you decided to stay in town, too.”

Cal snorted. “Not for lack of trying. I wanted to get out of this pothole as much as anyone. I got into Cornell, got my PhD. I taught at the university level for a while.”

“Impressive.”

“Thanks. My girlfriend’s parents thought so, too. They weren’t happy when I decided to come back here.”

“Why did you come back?”

Cal’s eyes drifted to Charlotte. She laughed and gossiped with the little family as she tucked their plates into a bin she balanced on her curvy hip.

He said, “Our mom isn’t getting any younger. And she’s got some problems.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She…well, she wasn’t the best mom. Our dad bailed when Char and I were little kids. Mom drank. Char basically raised me. Now, after years of marinating her liver, Mom’s pretty sick. She’s still our mom, though, so Char helps her out. I didn’t want her to shoulder that on her own.”

“There’s nothing wrong with coming back to your hometown for that.”

“I guess not.” He snatched up a menu wedged between a paper-napkin dispenser and a rack of condiments and handed it to me. “You know, you should eat something besides cake. Char’s got great corn chowder tonight. My treat.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t feel very hungry.”

“Well, if it helps, let me say Adam’s an idiot for breaking up with you.”

It didn’t help a bit.

But it was still good to hear.

Honesty, however, made me say, “I’m no prize. Maybe he’s smarter than you think.”

“He was smart enough to figure out how to have a life outside of Fallowfield, I’ll give him that. What is he now? Like a major or something?”

“Lieutenant colonel.”

“There you go. Local kid makes good. He’s a patriot and everything. He even comes home to help his granny a couple times a year. Everybody in this town loves him for it.”

But I remembered the letter to the newspaper editor published all those years ago. It had condemned Barrett in no uncertain terms. “You’re sure everybody loves him?”

“Well, maybe not everybody.” Cal Mead smiled at me kindly. “It was good to meet you, Jamie Sinclair. Safe travels.”

And with that, he rose from his stool, waved farewell to his sister, and left me all alone with my heartache in her diner.

Chapter 12

I managed to catch some solid sleep that night.

But not at first.

The apartment over Miranda Barrett’s garage was dark when I pulled into the drive. Her grandson could’ve been anywhere, but apparently, he’d spoken to his grandmother before going about his business. She was waiting for me in her kitchen when I walked into the house. In the end, I didn’t have to explain a thing to her. As if she could sense my heartbreak, she patted my hand and wrote me a check and told me it was all right that I was going home.

I had no intention of banking her money, but to preserve her pride, I took the slip of paper with me when I excused myself and headed to bed. I went through the motions of washing my face and brushing my teeth. And I’ll admit that once I was tucked beneath Elise’s rosebud comforter, I silently cried myself to sleep.

When dawn came creeping into the orchard the next morning, however, I was dead to the world.

And then my cellphone began to buzz. I groped in the darkness, found it dancing a jig on the nightstand. With bleary eyes, I snatched it up, scowled at the caller ID.
GOVERNMENT NUMBER
, it read. The info was hardly helpful, but I answered the call in spite of it.

“Jamie Sinclair. What’s your hurry?”

“Ms. Sinclair? Good morning. This is Master Sergeant Jenna Shelby. We met briefly last spring when you, uh, visited Fort Leeds.”

I’d done more than visit that military installation. I’d tracked down a kidnapper and uncovered a sick plot to sell out American soldiers. I’d also met Barrett—and ended up unable to say goodbye to him when I said goodbye to the post.

But Barrett wasn’t the only soldier I’d met while working there. I considered the name Shelby, dug deep, and dredged up an image to go with it. She was, I recalled, an MP—or military police officer—with cropped blond curls and sergeant’s stripes on her uniform sleeve.

She was also Barrett’s right-hand man, so to speak. A respected woman who’d earned rank and responsibilities. Barrett commanded her company, but it was her job to make sure his orders were carried out right down the line.

From what I’d seen, she was good at it.

“I’m trying to reach Lieutenant Colonel Barrett,” she said. “He didn’t make his medical appointment last week. He hasn’t returned to his duty station, either.”

Clutching the phone to my ear, I shoved the covers aside, sat up on the edge of the bed.

“We understood him to be staying with you, ma’am.”

“He was. But I left town. For a case.”

“Well, that explains why the Alexandria Police received no answer when they knocked on your door. Do you have any knowledge of where the lieutenant colonel might have gone?”

I snatched my brainiac glasses from the nightstand, slipped them on to peer past the filmy curtains at the window. In the dim light just before daybreak, I could make out Barrett’s apartment over the garage. The windows were still dark. He could’ve been asleep inside. Or he could’ve been up and out.

“Sorry,” I told Shelby, “I can’t say I know Barrett’s whereabouts.”

“I see. If you hear from him, I’d appreciate your call.” She rattled off her phone number.

“Is he in trouble?” I asked, knowing full well Shelby wasn’t calling to invite him to make a fourth at her bridge party.

“Let me put it this way,” she said. “Lieutenant Colonel Barrett is currently considered absent without leave.”

“AWOL?”

The acronym threatened to stick to the back of my throat and gag me.

Going AWOL—or leaving your assigned location without permission—is a serious offense. It can result in court-martial, loss of pay, or a demotion to lower rank. And it can even be punishable by jail time.

But even though it’s serious, the hunt for AWOL military personnel doesn’t play out like a primetime TV drama. When our servicemen and women don’t show up when they’re supposed to, they’re given the benefit of the doubt because things like flat tires and dead cellphones happen. But if what Shelby had said was correct, Barrett had gone off the army’s radar last Wednesday—so now a whole other protocol was in motion.

No doubt Shelby had tried to reach Barrett directly. She’d probably gone to his house near Fort Leeds, New Jersey, when he hadn’t answered his phone. Since my place in Virginia was his last known location, she’d asked local police to check for him there. Now, no doubt with the post commander himself breathing down her neck, she was calling me. And as I’d been less than useful, she’d probably check out Barrett’s home of record next.

The home of record is the permanent address listed in every military member’s file. Usually, it belongs to a parent or other relative. It’s an address that isn’t likely to change, even as a soldier, sailor, marine, or airman is deployed or assigned to another post, ship, or base.

I was willing to bet Barrett’s home of record was his grandparents’ farmhouse. So as soon as she hung up with me, Shelby would phone Miranda Barrett. And depending on what the little lady told her, Luke Rittenhaus’s deputies might drop by for a visit.

“Keep my number handy,” Shelby said as I grabbed my trousers and hauled them on. “And, ma’am, if you see him, remind him it would be better if he catches up with me before I have to officially catch up with him.”

She hung up. I struggled into my sweater, shoved my hair into a ponytail. Grabbing my gun and overcoat, I went to find Barrett’s grandmother.

Instead, in the kitchen, I found the pretty girl with the ponytail I’d seen at a distance propping pumpkins in front of the gift shop.

Only, this time, she was filling the kettle at the sink.

“Hi,” she said, flashing a dimpled smile. “I’m Kayley. Are you really a private eye?”

“Yes,” I said, getting a kick out of her inquisitiveness. “More specifically, I’m a security specialist.”

That sparked her interest and she opened her mouth to ask more questions, but just then, Mrs. Barrett bustled into the room.

“Good morning, Jamie. I see you’ve met my favorite shopgirl.”

“Mrs. Barrett!” Kayley rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m your
only
shopgirl.”

“Too true, my dear. Why don’t you go get started? I’ll bring the tea out in a bit.”

If it was a dismissal, it was a kind one. And it gave me and Mrs. Barrett the chance I wanted to talk. I didn’t mince words as I told her about Shelby’s call. Or what it meant. I didn’t tell her what to say when the MP phoned, however. That was a decision Barrett’s grandmother would need to make for herself. Because, like Barrett, she’d have to live with the consequences of her choice.

She took in my news and dropped into a chair at her table.

“I don’t understand what that boy’s thinking,” she muttered.

“Neither do I,” I admitted. “But I’m going to find out.”

I left Barrett’s grandmother in her kitchen, sprinted across the chilly yard, and jogged up the staircase clinging to the side of the garage. Barrett must’ve seen me coming. Because when I raised my fist to pound on his door, he opened it.

“You’re AWOL,” I informed him, “but I think you already know that.”

Barrett turned his back on me, limped into the dusky apartment. I followed him as far as the edge of the rag rug in the sitting area. He headed straight for the bedstead, grabbed his jean jacket from one of the cannonball posts.

Hands on my hips, I said, “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble your grandmother’s going to be in if the U.S. Army thinks she’s harboring you?”

Barrett slid an arm into one of the sleeves. “Who called you?”

“Shelby. She’s been to your house and had the cops stop at mine.”

“I’ll call her.”

But instead of fishing his cell from some pocket, he went to the window and looked down into the driveway.

I said, “I don’t think your phone’s out there.”

“I’m looking for my ride. Vance was supposed to be here at first light.”

But I recalled Vance’s tremors after Barrett had nearly bashed in Eric’s head, and I was willing to bet he’d found a way to soothe them.

“Barrett, Vance is probably passed out somewhere.”

“He better not be. It was his turn to keep watch on Eric’s place all night.”

“Keep watch? For what?”

Barrett crossed the room to me. He grasped my hands in his. He hadn’t touched me in so long.

“Jamie, I know you can’t see it, but Eric is close to becoming another statistic for veteran suicide. Can you drive me to his place?”

I shook my head. “He was so angry at the farm yesterday—”

“You don’t have to talk to him. Just drop me off—”

“—and he was violent in his office the day before—”

“Exactly. I’ve got to get him to talk to a counselor. The Veterans Administration can put him in touch with psychologists, psychiatrists. He’ll hurt someone if he doesn’t hurt himself first.”

“Sheriff Rittenhaus will have your hide for even approaching Eric—”

“I won’t let it get that far—”

“—and Shelby—”

“That’s why I’ve got to go right now!”

“Adam—” Pushed beyond all patience, I yanked my hands from his, paced away and back again. “What on earth are you going to tell Shelby? What are you going to tell your commanding officer? That you went AWOL so you could stalk some guy you knew in high school because he’s a former soldier whose sister killed herself twenty years ago? And what if Eric pulls that shotgun on you again? Have you thought about that?”

“He won’t,” Barrett promised. “But I need to talk to him. Just one last time, I swear. Then I’ll call Shelby and get this AWOL business worked out.”

Could it be that simple?

Maybe.

Up to this point, Barrett’s record as an army officer was exemplary. His commander could choose to be lenient. But would Barrett be free of the guilt and shame that had saddled him since Pamela’s attack if he just got one more shot at convincing her brother to seek help?

I doubted it—and I told him as much.

Not that he listened.

He stormed from the apartment, thundered down the steps outside.

“Where are you going?” I demanded as I pounded down the stairs after him.

“You know where I’m going. I’m going take that old beater Gram calls a pickup truck and drive to Eric’s. Hell, I’ll walk there if I have to!”

“No,” I said, not wanting him to upset his grandmother any further. And not trusting him to contain himself when he confronted Eric. “Get in my car. I’ll drive you.”

Barrett was silent as we rode into town. And as we drove through it. But when we reached the outskirts on the far side of Fallowfield, Barrett pointed at a blinking sign that arrowed at a long, low-slung seedy motel.

It was the Starlite Motel.