Broken Honor (37 page)

Irish used a flashlight to inspect the car thoroughly for any device that might have been planted. Then he got in and drove back to the trailer. Amy had packed most of what they had. They left some food in the refrigerator, saw the chief then drove out.

Amy was quiet, and when he glanced at her, she smiled. But it was a wan, tired smile. He couldn't even begin to imagine what a toll this must be taking on her. Moving from place to place, always aware that killers might be just behind them.

“What do you think?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We don't seem to have many choices.”

“I liked Sally Eachan.”

“What about the Assistant to the Deputy Secretary of State?”

“
She
likes him.”

“What about you?”

“I don't know,” she said. “He doesn't give much away.”

“No, he doesn't. But I think I trust that more than I would have his ready assent.”

“Can you get what you need?”

He reached over and took her hand. “I'll be calling in every marker I have.”

“Do you trust Dustin Eachan?”

“Up to a point,” Irish replied.

“What point?”

“Let's just say not entirely,” he clarified.

She leaned back, and he hoped she was relaxing. They would drive through the night to the Kentucky facility where she'd stored her grandfather's desk. They would check it for any clues, then leave her boxes of papers there.

He found himself constantly looking in the rearview mirror, taking exits off the interstate, then catching up with it again a few miles ahead. He only hoped that he hadn't missed any kind of transmitter. He would soon find out.

Irish stopped several times for coffee. One time, Amy woke before curling back into a ball and going back to sleep, Bo next to her. The other time he took Bo for a short pit stop. He found a public phone booth, and made four collect calls. No way to trace those, unless his opponents had taps on every person he'd ever met. It was five in the morning, and none of the calls were immediately appreciated, but he'd wanted to catch the recipients at home. He told each what he needed, then thanked them.

They had a breakfast of fast food. Thank God for it now, though he usually abhorred the stuff.

“Why don't I drive for a while?” Amy asked as they looked at the map. A hundred miles to go.

“Good idea,” he said.

“Any luck?”

He looked startled.

“When you called.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Not entirely. Did you get what you need?”

“Yes,” he said. “They'll meet us in two days in Maryland.”

“All of them?”

“One's unavailable. The other three will be there.”

She reached over and touched his arm. “They know it's dangerous?”

“Oh, yes. They also know there could be legal problems.”

“They must be very good friends,” she said a little wistfully.

Friends
. Maybe. Strangely enough, they had not seen each other much in fifteen years. There were a few phone calls. One drunken reunion five years ago. Promises to keep track of each other. And they did, by long distance. One had asked him a favor three years ago. They all owed each other. But friends? Friends kept in contact with each other.

Their bond was too painful.

In fact, he'd really hated calling them. He'd always disliked asking favors. But now he had no choice. And these guys were the best.

P
IKESVILLE
, K
ENTUCKY

Amy drove into the old storage facility and confronted a locked gate. She sat in the parked car for a moment, then stretched. She was stiff. So was, she noticed, Irish. Both their bodies had taken something of a beating in the past few days. And it had been a long drive to eastern Kentucky, where she had once lived with her grandfather. As they had driven through Pikesville, she remembered the main street, the church cemetery where her grandfather was buried, the rolling hills that he loved. It had been twenty years since her grandfather died, five years since the last time she was here. She'd inventoried her grandfather's items then, weighed the possibility of taking them home, and driven past the grand old home he'd owned. It had been sixty years old when he'd died, and had always needed something fixed. But there was a wrap-around porch, and she could still see him in her mind's eye, sitting on the porch, his gaze wandering out toward the hills and the mines where his father had once worked.

He escaped that fate, but he'd never escaped the lure of the hills.

Suicide. It had been hard to bear then, even though she knew he had been ill. Now her heart hurt even more. She wondered whether he knew what was coming.

She'd been in her second year of college. Just eighteen. She'd finished high school a year early.…

The storage facility was old, not like the new, gleaming acres of storage facilities sprouting up everywhere in an increasingly mobile society. There was no office outside the gate, only a number to call in case of an emergency. Unfortunately her key was long gone. She paid the rent once a year and usually forgot about the space until the next bill came. And she hadn't given it a moment's thought when she'd fled Memphis days ago.

She spread her hands helplessly as she looked at the phone number.

“It's probably a wild goose chase,” she said.

“It won't be my first,” he replied with a wry smile. “And we have the time. My friends won't be in Maryland for another day.”

“Could they possibly know about this?”
They
was the only term she had for those who had turned her life into a roller coaster. Irish called them “the bad guys.” That wasn't descriptive enough for her.

“You didn't leave a bill around your house, or a key?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then it should be safe enough.” He looked at the sign. “Let's find a telephone.”

Twenty minutes later, an old man unlocked the gate and led them inside the office. “Miss Mallory, isn't it?”

Amy tried not to show surprise that someone remembered her. She was ready with her identification. She was sorry to say she didn't recognize the man.

He looked down at Bo, who was huddled next to her.

“Fine fellow,” he observed.

He'd instantly endeared himself to her. Not many people were that discriminating.

“Hugh Avery,” the man said. “I remember when you rented this place, then when you came back. I kinda check to see if you renew every year. Didn't want to see your grandfather's stuff go to auction. Used to have breakfast with your grandfather. He sure was proud of you. Said you were the smartest young lady he ever saw.”

Her grandfather had never said that to her. She felt a blush of pleasure along with a stab of regret. They had grown closer after a few initial years of pure hostility. But never as much as she now wished.

There would have been so much he could tell her.

And he was the last of her family.

“Thank you,” she said. “It's good to know that.”

He beamed at her as he unlocked the gate. “Have your key?”

She shook her head.

“Well, you don't need identification.” He turned and looked at Irish. “This your husband?”

“Just a good friend,” she said. “Has anyone asked about me?”

“Nope,” he said, his glance still running over Irish speculatively. “Should they? I don't let anyone in unless they have the proper authorization.”

“Of course not,” she soothed him.

He led the way inside, and went into the small office, returning with a key. “Here you go, Miss Mallory. You just keep it. I'll get another one made. It will open the gate, too. You just stay as long as you want, and lock it when you leave.”

“Thank you,” Amy said. “You've been very kind.”

He looked pleased, then left, apparently sensing that they wanted to be left alone.

Irish switched on the lights. The small area was crammed. The desk sat against the wall. A huge chair was next to it. There were several crates of books. Some, she remembered, were novels. She picked one of them up.
The Silver Chalice
. A historical. He had argued history with her, had been responsible for her love of it.

She saw him in her mind's eye. He'd had a full head of gray hair cut very short, like a newly minted Marine. His blue eyes never lost their intelligence, and they were shaded by heavy dark eyebrows. He needed reading glasses, which he hated and always lost. As long as she knew him, he was whipcord thin.

Probably because he worked so hard in his garden. He loved gardening and had a green thumb with both vegetables and flowers. It had always seemed strange to her that he was gentle with vegetables but so hard on people. He barked at them. She'd hated it in the beginning, but the housekeeper had taken her aside and said it was just his way. He'd simply been in the military too long. Everyone, to him, was a subordinate of some kind. Amy had understood why her mother had hated it. She had not been good at confrontation, and her father had never respected anyone who didn't stand up to him.

But Amy had learned to stand up to him. And he had taken interest in her, then pleasure. They had learned to like one another.

The desk had been a part of him. He always sat at it and leaned back in the chair. He often held a glass of fine whiskey and smoked a cigar. She could almost smell it now.

Bo whined next to her, as if he felt her disquiet. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Amy?”

“It's all right,” she said. “Just some memories.”

“Good ones?”

“Mostly.”

She moved the chair and sat down. Irish went over to the door and looked out.
Standing sentinel
, she thought. She wondered if he was wearing his gun in its holster.

Her hand ran over the oak. The desk was old, dating back approximately a hundred years. She'd known it would bring a fine price, but she'd never been able to sell it, nor keep it close. One of these days, she'd have to balance those two. It was a crime to keep it here.

She opened each of the drawers. They were all empty. Well, it had been a long shot at best.

She ran her fingers along the inside of the left drawer. It didn't appear as deep as it looked. Secret compartment? That only happened in books. And yet …

But if there was something, she couldn't find it. She knocked. No hollow sound. She started to move away, then hesitated. “Irish?”

He walked over to her.

“I think there might be something here. The top left-hand drawer, but I can't find anything.”

He touched the edge of the drawer. As she had done, he felt the bottom, investigated the sides. Then he slipped the drawer out of the desk and turned it upside down. He saw an indentation and pressed it. A spring lifted a false bottom of the drawer. Underneath it was one sheet of paper.

He handed it to her. Across the top was the letterhead of Jordan Industries. Then a long number. Under that were dates and sums. Fifty thousand dollars during five years. Ten thousand dollars a year, ending the year he died.

She looked toward Irish.

“It looks like it might be a numbered account,” he said.

“Who was paying whom?” she said as a heavy lump lodged in her throat.

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

“When he died, there was little left,” she said. “That's why I sold the house. He was deeply in debt. I paid that off and had just enough to finish my undergraduate degree.”

“Then I suspect he was paying Jordan rather than the other way around. But why? If your grandfather … had stolen anything, he would have more money than you thought he had. He should have had a damn good retirement.”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “A general's pay wasn't that high.”

“Could your grandfather have blackmailed
him
?”

Her first instinct was to say no. But the figure was odd. Ten thousand was a great deal of money twenty years ago. But blackmail? Either receiving or taking it? It just didn't fit her picture of her grandfather.

All it did is point another finger at Jordan Industries.

She took the sheet, folded it carefully, and put it in her purse. “Do you think this might be what someone was looking for? Or trying to destroy?”

“Fifty thousand dollars nearly two decades ago? I doubt it.”

“But we have a number.”

“We don't even know if it exists now,” he reminded her.

“Still, it could be more bait for the trap,” she said.

He scowled. “I don't think I like your enthusiasm.”

“Do you think there's anything else here?” she asked.

He explored the desk as she had. “I think that's it.” He looked around at the boxes and crates. “We might as well go through those.”

By midafternoon they were hungry and covered with dust. There had been nothing but books. She took out some to take with them and vowed to finally do something about the rest.

When she found a new house
. That reminded her she had no home. She would need this stuff. Perhaps, she thought, divine intervention had kept her from taking her grandfather's belongings home. At least now she had a desk and chair.

“Amy?”

“I was just thinking about my house. I'll have to get a new one when I get back. There's insurance, and … damn, the hearing. It's Friday.” She'd been able to block those things from her mind for a little while. Now she felt overwhelmed, batted around by fickle winds, out of control.

She hated to feel out of control. She'd had so much control over her life just three weeks ago.

He leaned down and kissed her lightly, his hand going to her neck and massaging it gently. “I can't even imagine what it's like for you,” he said.

She looked up at him, and her arms went around his neck. She needed his warmth.

His mouth met hers, and the kiss wasn't gentle. It was hungry and demanding. The warmth turned blistering.