Broken Honor (28 page)

But she was judging him, and he knew it.

She opened the door for Bo, then walked around to where the car was parked. The car keys were in her purse and she dug them out, feeling the pistol as she did so. She tossed them over to Flaherty, and he caught them easily. She waited until he unlocked the doors, then opened the door for Bo. When he was settled in the middle of the seat, she got in, Bo between them.

She really didn't have to do that.

There was already a huge barrier between them.

nineteen

M
ARYLAND

Sally's life had always been tumultuous. Her parents' marriage had been volatile. Her father had been a charmer, scooping her up in his arms and telling her she was the prettiest girl in the world.

Her mother made her father's life miserable and finally left him, dragging an unwilling Sally with her.

She had just returned from her senior prom when her mother told her that her father was dead. He'd killed himself. The ultimate selfish act, her mother had said.

Sally had never forgiven her for that statement, nor had she forgiven herself for dancing and enjoying herself when her father was in agony. She had not sensed it the day before when she'd talked to him. Maybe if.…

But lives were full of ifs. She'd turned to the only person she felt would understand, her cousin who had always protected her, who had taken her to movies when her parents were having furious fights, who had convinced her that it was not her fault. Had
tried
to convince her. He had also tried to convince her that the fault in the marriage had not been Sally's.

Sally knew she had been wandering. For some reason, she couldn't seem to really grasp anything of importance. She'd loved drawing as a girl, but she blamed her mother's abandonment of her father on her mother's own art and career. Art was the only thing that mattered to her mother, who now owned a little gallery in Sedona, Arizona.

Sally received Christmas checks from her but sent them back. She simply didn't want anything to do with her. Her mother had always been a distant figure, while her father had represented the only warmth she knew. Sally had always believed that if she hadn't been in a hurry that night of the prom, she might—in some way—have prevented her father's death. Her own guilt built on what she believed was her mother's indifference to William Eachan's death.

After Dustin left, she stared at the art supplies for a long time. She was restless. She didn't really understand what was happening, and Dustin had purposely been vague. But she'd trusted him so long that she obeyed.

She was thirty-five. Anyone else would have their life firmly in hand. Instead, she still drifted among the shipwrecks of her family, unable to seize a life raft. Instead, she waited for someone to save her.

It wasn't a very attractive picture. She wondered why Dustin even bothered.

She picked up the sketch pad and a charcoal pen, then curled up on a sofa, folding her legs underneath her. She looked at it for a long time, then her hand began to move across the surface. Slowly at first, then faster. A face began to develop. Strong. Aristocratic. The eyes were partially shadowed, though, the expression enigmatic. It was a face she knew well, but the essence had always escaped her. Dustin masked his feelings, moods, emotions. He was so many people that she never quite knew which one she was with. He could be intolerably sarcastic and mean-spirited, then the next moment do or say something so sweet that it would completely negate his earlier remarks.

Who was the two-faced god in mythology? Janus?

The sketch came to life as she darkened the cheekbones, brushed in the shock of hair that sometimes disobeyed his sense of propriety and fell on his forehead. She hesitated at the mouth. To smile or to frown?

Instead she found herself turning his lips in a quizzical expression, as if even he himself didn't know exactly who or what he was.

By the time she finished, dusk had fallen and she felt hunger gnawing at her. Dustin had left just before dawn. She had heard him showering and had gone out to bid him good-bye. He had stared at her for a long time, then smiled, catching her hand in his.

“You're beautiful, you know,” he said, and she'd wondered whether she really heard a wistful note in it. She wanted him to kiss her, to lean down and kiss her as he had long ago in a stable when she had returned to her grandparents' for a visit after her father had died.

Her grandmother had found them. She'd lectured them both at length. They were
cousins
. The very idea was sinful and wrong.

Later Dustin had spent an hour in their grandfather's den, and the next day had left. There had been no goodbye, no note. She hadn't seen him again for two years.

So many years ago. And yet she still remembered that kiss
.

Nothing else had matched it. No other embrace had made her feel right.

God knew she had tried hard enough to find its equal.

Oh, he had kissed her since then, but they had been light, feathery, relative-type kisses. Not the intense need that had rocked them.

It had rocked him, too. She knew it.

She stared at the sketch. She had caught some of him, but not all.

Sally finally put it aside. Time to go out and eat. Maybe go to the bar nearby, she thought defiantly. She remembered Dustin's warning. But she'd been here five days now and had seen nothing suspicious.

With that thought in mind, she went into the bedroom to change clothes and apply some makeup. Just a few hours away from this room. Otherwise she would go stir-crazy with all the thoughts of Dusty and the mess she'd made of her life.

You're just like your father
.

Shivers rocked her body for a moment. Her mother had accused her of that more than once, and as a teenager Sally had gone out of her way to prove her mother right. Now she was very careful about how much she drank.

Am I, Daddy? Am I like you
?

Why couldn't she take charge of her own life?

Because she had no goal. No aim. She wasn't good at anything but art, and being pretty. She'd discarded art, and being pretty meant nothing, especially now that she was getting older.

You're like your father
.

She looked at the paints again.

Maybe she'd try another sketch and have just a sandwich tonight.

She would go somewhere tomorrow.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Dustin knew he couldn't keep Sally safe much longer. She was like a caged butterfly.

He stared down at his messages. Among the stack were three messages from Colonel Flaherty, the last one this morning, just minutes before he came in.

Damn it, the colonel wasn't going to let go. Or maybe at this point, he couldn't
.

He turned on his computer, and logged on to the E-mail. A message from his contact in the Justice Department. The police were looking for Flaherty and Amy Mallory for questioning. They were identified as being at a house in the Myrtle Beach area that was destroyed in an explosion. If that were true, why hadn't they remained? Why would Flaherty risk his career by running?

And how had they been identified? He called his friend at the FBI.

“Should I know why you're interested?” his friend said.

“No,” Dustin said flatly.

A silence. “You're not mixed up in anything.…”

“No,” Dustin said. “He called me a few days ago, something about our grandfathers.”

“Don't lie to me, Dustin. I'm going out on a limb for you.”

“I'm not. And I'll protect you. Just see if you can find out how Flaherty's name surfaced.”

“I'll check on it, but if you're not being straight with me.…”

“Then you can do what you have to do,” Dustin said. “Thank you.”

The phone clicked off, and Dustin wondered whether he'd lost one of the few friends he had.

Flaherty must have checked on him. His name might well surface in some way. He would have to get to Flaherty first.

He called in his secretary. “Judy, next time Colonel Flaherty calls, I want to talk to him. If I'm not here, give him my cell phone number.”

She looked at him with surprise. Only a handful of people had that number.

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you tell him the last time he called?”

“What I told everyone. You had a family emergency and I didn't know exactly when you would be back.”

He would call. Dustin was sure of that. One message two days ago, two yesterday. He returned to his office and called his contact at the Justice Department. “Ed, can you get a trace on a cell phone into my office?”

“I can get a number. As for location, no. Not unless we know exactly when he's going to call. Then.…”

“Thanks,” Dustin said.

His intercom buzzer interrupted.

“I'll get back to you,” he said, hanging up. He turned on the intercom speaker. “Judy?”

“The Deputy Secretary of State. He needs to see you about your recommendation on the sale of those Jordan Industries vehicles.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Dustin grimaced. He'd finally recommended against the sale. Jordan had obviously gone over his head. He remembered Jordan's veiled threats, but damned if he was going to put those vehicles in the hands of a dictator to use against his neighbors. He would be the one explaining that if the war escalated.

He looked at his watch. “If Flaherty calls, tell him to call back at noon. I'll have lunch here.”

“Would you like me to order something?”

“Salad and sandwich.” She knew what he liked.

Dustin checked the mirror in his private restroom, straightened his tie, and hoped the rings around his eyes weren't as bad as he feared they were. David Talbot would be sure to ask him about his “family business,” if everything was all right. Probably if he planned any more unscheduled trips. And more certainly he would try to persuade him to change his recommendation. Jordan was a very large campaign contributor.

To hell with that
. If Jordan won on this one, it wouldn't be the end of his not so subtle blackmail. Dustin was not going to open that door.

N
ORFOLK
, V
IRGINIA

Around midday, Flaherty and Amy reached Norfolk. They'd taken secondary roads, feeling they would be safer. They could keep a better eye out for anyone tailing them. He'd also gone over the car once more, checking every inch of it for some kind of tracking device.

They had stopped briefly in a discount department store in a small city. Amy gave him a list of what she needed, and he'd gone inside. Neither of them felt they could leave Bo, even for a few moments, in a locked car. She rolled down the windows and placed her purse next to her.

Because of long lines, it took him longer than he wanted. He used Amy's cash to pay the bill. Shaving gear. Toiletries. Two pairs of jeans, two T-shirts and a long-sleeve shirt for him; a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts and several tops for her. A dish for Bo along with a bag of dog food. And a cheap suitcase to put everything in.

He also got a six-pack of sodas and several packages of crackers. A the last moment, he grabbed a baseball cap.

He used his ranch credit card at a bank machine to draw out four hundred dollars—the limit from one machine. Hopefully, the bad guys weren't watching that account since it wasn't in his name. Even if they were, he would be long gone by then. He also called Betty, his friend from the general store, waking her because of the time difference. He asked her to drive out to the ranch and tell Joe Mendoza that he'd taken money from the account and might take more. He stressed the urgency of not using the phone. Like many westerners, she asked no questions, figuring he would tell her what he wanted her to know.

He called Eachan, but the official wasn't in yet. When he hung up, he returned to the car. Amy stood outside the car, obviously stretching. She was clutching the purse, and her gaze kept moving. Her eyes lit as she saw him, but then the glow faded as she remembered exactly why they were here.

Still, it was nice that she was lowering her guard a little. The drive this morning had been awkward because of yesterday's conversation. He'd made it clear that he was a loner and a gypsy, and didn't care what anyone thought. Perhaps he'd done so because the mention of his mother raised dangerous emotions and memories.

He didn't want her to think of him as anything but what he was. He was no paladin, no saint, no selfless hero. Hell, he'd been caught in this situation as much as she.

He hadn't been that competent, either. He should have anticipated the attempts on them. He'd always been the hunter, never the prey, and he didn't like it at all. Neither did he like the feeling of impotence it gave him.

Most of all, he feared that growing feelings for her were dulling his instincts, and that would be fatal for both of them. He had to keep his head. Falling into bed with her almost guaranteed that he wouldn't.

He stole a glance at her as they reached the city limits of Norfolk. He had decided to stop here for several reasons. One was its military population. Another was the large number of motels and trailer parks serving that particular population. Equally important, Washington was only about three hours away.

“Hungry?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Anything special?”

“A salad,” she said hopefully.

“I'll see what we can do.”

They went past a number of motels, hotels, and hamburger places. He pulled in at a self-proclaimed delicatessen. “A sandwich, too?”

“A hot pastrami, if they have it,” she said.

He nodded. “Then we'll find some place to stay for a day or two.”

“Any ideas?”

“A few.” Except his last one didn't work all that well. How had someone found them? He would try to be a little more creative this time. And he still had to call Eachan again. He might have a missing puzzle piece.