Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
“Move your ass, Zanella.
Now.
”
News of his nuptials had apparently spread—thanks so much, Danny-bo-banny—and the senior was going to ream him a new one for playing fast and loose with the rules of their agreement.
That was no big surprise. Izzy had never been one of Senior Chief Wolchonok’s favorite people—and things had gotten worse after his little unauthorized absence incident a few years back.
Izzy’d done two months punishment duty behind a desk in freakin’ Hawaii for that goatfuck. It had been excruciating—cooped up inside, doing paperwork so that other guys could dive and jump and swim and practice blowing shit up. It was supposed to have lasted six months, but because of the shortage of troops and the escalating hostilities in Iraq, he’d cut a deal with Commander Koehl and the senior chief, and he’d gone to Afghanistan with SEAL Team Sixteen.
The deal had put a leash on him. It was also open-ended. And the senior had let him know, every day since then, that if he so much as failed to fart according to rules and regulations, Izzy would find himself back behind a desk.
And so he’d behaved.
Most of the time.
“I’ve got to go to the base,” Izzy told Eden now, as he searched the bedroom floor for his boxers.
“This late?” She was incredulous.
“Sweetheart, we get the call, we go,” Izzy said, putting his uniform pants back on. “That’s how it works in the Teams.”
“Oh, my God. Are they sending you to Iraq?”
“I doubt it,” he said, shaking out his shirt and jacket. “I think this has more to do with us getting married, than—”
“Are we in trouble?”
“You’re not,” he reassured her. His night of roller-coaster-worthy highs and lows, however, was about to take a serious nosedive.
“What if they
are
sending you to Iraq?”
Izzy looked up because there was real fear in Eden’s voice. She was seriously frightened.
“My father went on a two week TDY and ended up gone for six months,” she reminded him.
Damn. It wasn’t as if it couldn’t happen. And wouldn’t that be just their luck? He had no clue what Eden’s crying-in-the-bathroom, pain-in-her-back thing was about. He’d barely managed to talk her down from whatever ledge she was on. If he left now…Not to mention the PITA-factor of his not being around to help her find a doctor and just be there when Pinkie made his debut…
“Okay,” he said as he tied his shoes. “Let’s worst-case-scenario it—while keeping in mind that best case has me back in a few hours. Don’t lose sight of that, okay?”
She nodded, eyes glued to his face.
“Worst case,” he said. “I kiss you good-bye and immediately go wheels up. That means we get on a plane and leave.”
“I know that,” she said, impatient.
“I won’t be able to tell you where I’m going,” Izzy said. “You know that, too?”
She nodded again.
“I’ll leave my truck in the team parking lot,” he continued. “The keys’ll be in the commander’s office. You’ll be able to pick it up. Well.
After
you get your driver’s license and
shit!
” He’d just remembered. “The rental car. Will you check online—my laptop’s on the kitchen table—and get the phone number for the nearest Avis rental office? If I’m not back by noon, call them and ask them to come pick it up. I’m sure there’ll be an extra charge, but fuck it. They’ll just add it to my credit card. Better that than having to pay for an extra day. I’m pretty sure you’ll have to be here, though, to give them the keys.”
She nodded as he dug in his pocket for cash. Damnit, he only had about fifty dollars. He gave it all to Eden, pressing it into her hand. “My ATM card is in the top drawer of my dresser,” he said. “The PIN number—”
“I don’t want to know it.” She cut him off. “You said—”
Izzy kissed her, swift and hard, on the mouth. “3292,” he told her anyway. “F-A-Y-A. It’s kinda my war cry.
Fuck all y’all.
”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t so much as smile. She was sitting on his bed clutching both the money he’d given her and her towel. Neither of those items was doing a particularly good job of covering her, but she either didn’t mind or didn’t notice. She looked shell-shocked.
Welcome to life as a Navy wife.
“Team Sixteen has a wives’ support group,” Izzy told Eden. “I’ll make sure someone gets in touch with you. They’ll help you find a doctor and…They’ll help you with everything, okay?”
She nodded, but he couldn’t tell if she’d really heard him.
“Eed, this is worst case, remember?”
She gave him eye contact at that, which was good. She nodded again.
“I gotta go,” Izzy told her. “Oh, key to the apartment. There’s a drawer in the kitchen—it’s got shit like batteries and keys in it. Spare key’s on a Family Guy key ring. I think it’s a picture of Stewie…” Was she listening? He honest to God couldn’t tell. “I’ll go get it.”
“Stay alert,” she said as he went into the kitchen. “Please?”
That was refreshing. Izzy had been a SEAL for quite a few years, and had been “Be careful-ed” damn near to death by various long-forgotten girlfriends. But aside from the fact that SEALs tended to be men who didn’t have “be careful” on their daily “to do” list, it was also a superstition among Team Sixteen that being too careful could actually get you body-bagged.
Of course, Eden’s brother was a SEAL. Apparently, she’d paid attention to what Danny had told her in the past. Which was nice—family members sometimes didn’t get it at all.
“I always do,” Izzy promised her now to, indeed, stay alert as he dangled the key from his finger, coming back into the bedroom. “And really, Eed, I’m probably going to be back in a few hours.”
She nodded and even forced a smile as she took the key from him. “I’ll be here,” she said.
“Good.” He kissed her again. But okay,
he
was now a little freaked out about the potential for a worst case scenario. And truly? The worst case Izzy had come up with wasn’t the absolute worst case.
Which was that he could very well die out there. It was true, he could also be hit by a bus in downtown San Diego, so he usually didn’t give his chances of being KIA all too much thought. But he was thinking it now.
So he kissed Eden again, longer, slower, deeper. Just in case it was the last time. And then he crouched down and pushed aside her towel, so he could kiss her belly, too. “Later, Pinkman.”
As he got back to his feet, Eden caught his hand. “Izzy…” As she stood up, too, her towel fell off of her, forgotten.
Eee-doggies. “Baby, I’ve really got to go.”
She nodded. “I just…In case you
are
gone for a while…” She took a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to be faithful to me. This marriage is…it’s you doing me a favor. I know that. You don’t love me and I…I don’t love you and it’s…It’s not real. But you’ve been so…great. So nice. So…You should feel free to…You know.”
“Fuck other women?” Izzy finished for her.
She flinched at the harshness of his language, but quickly recovered. Far more quickly than he had from her words.
I don’t love you
…
She nodded. Yes. She also realized she’d lost the towel, and wrapped it back around herself.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s…Um…”
“I mean, we should be honest about what this is,” she told him, oddly unable to meet his gaze. “And if you were here, and we were, you know, sleeping together, then I would prefer it if you didn’t…You know, for…for Pinkie’s sake. But when you’re away, for so long…You shouldn’t have to…You should, you know…”
“Feel free to fuck away,” he filled in for her again.
“Just…” Eden actually achieved eye contact. For someone who cried all the time, her eyes were remarkably dry. “Be safe. Use a condom?”
Izzy managed to nod. He was the idiot who was having to blink a lot. She obviously cared about him—and therefore wanted him to have lots of sex with other women while he was on the other side of the world. Yippee.
“I have to go,” he said again.
And he walked out the door.
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
W
EDNESDAY
, J
ULY
30
TH
E
den managed not to cry—at least until the door closed firmly behind her husband.
She found an Izzy-sized T-shirt on the floor and slipped it on as she went to the window. She watched him through her tears as he climbed behind the wheel of his truck.
It was the same one he’d used to drive her home from the Ladybug Lounge, a lifetime ago. Apparently, he was not one of those guys like Jerry and Richie, who needed a new car every few months.
Izzy’s face was tight and grim as he backed out of his parking spot, as if he were already thousands of miles away.
Eden watched his taillights until they disappeared, well aware that it might be months before he returned. Yeah, the way things were going in Iraq, it could well be
years
…
No, Eden, I will not have sex with any other women, even if we are forced to be apart for years and years. The truth is, sweetheart, after making love to you, I cannot imagine wanting even to
touch
another woman for the entire rest of my life. So, no. I will not agree to your ridiculous suggestion, especially since you so obviously made it with a heart filled with your deep and abiding love for me. You see, I know this about you, baby, because I, too, love you, deeply, endlessly…
File that one under things Izzy hadn’t said before leaving.
And the truly foolish part was that, because he was such a nice guy, if
she’d
said,
Hey, it’s really important to me that you stay faithful while you’re away. Even though this marriage isn’t a conventional one, I think maybe we’ve got something here that’s worth taking kind of seriously. So please, while you’re gone, will you wear your wedding band…?
If she’d said that, he would’ve said
yes.
Instead, she’d given him permission to have sex with other women as a kind of a test. Which they’d both failed, since he’d seemed pretty cool with the idea.
Yeah, like, what guy wouldn’t be?
Eden was exhausted and queasy, but she went into the kitchen, where his laptop computer was, indeed, out on the table, just as Izzy had said.
She’d promised she’d find the phone number for the nearest Avis rental car return and came up with a location several blocks away. The website said the place had a drop box for the keys of cars dropped off while the office was closed. It would take two minutes for her to drive the car over there, and about fifteen to walk back.
She mapquested the directions and printed them out.
And then, because the sun wasn’t up yet, and she didn’t want to walk back in the dark, she checked her e-mail. It had been weeks since she’d last been online.
She had an e-mail from Anya in Germany.
Everyone misses you. Frau Schutte asks me daily for an update…
She had one from Brittney, too. Britt—who had allegedly been Eden’s friend back in high school, in Vegas. Britt—who had a little brother Ben’s age. Britt—who still stayed in touch with Jerry, because she’d always had a crush on the jerk. Subject header:
Omigod, are you really MARRIED?
Kyle told me that Ben told him that you were marrying some soldier named Irving that you met in Germany. Irving?!?! Is that TRUE? And that you’ve got to get married because you’re having a BABY?!?!
You barely even broke up with Jerry, and you’re hooking up with an IRVING who gets you preggo—you total slut!
That winking smiley face was the cyber-equivalent of Britt’s sweet-tea-serving mother saying, “Bless your heart” to pretend it softened her judgmental insults.
Have you talked to Jerry since you’ve been back? He’s still FURIOUS with you, and I don’t blame him. Really, Eden, how could you? You told me you hated Richie. I didn’t believe Jerry until I saw it with my own eyes.
PS You might want to google yourself.
PSS dont do it while your mother or IRVING’s in the room
bff, Britt
Best friends forever. Right.
With an impending sense of doom and dread—
I saw it with my own eyes
—Eden went to Google and typed in her name.
Eden Gillman.
Her MySpace and FaceBook pages both came up, along with Brittney’s MySpace page.
There was an obituary for a John Gillman, and what looked like a whole list of medical publications for a Dr. Erika Gillman.
She sifted through several pages of additional hits. An article on one of Danny’s recent triathlon wins, several other mentions of him in a publication about Navy SEALs called
The Blast
…
She went back to Brittney’s e-mail, about to reply with a brief
Not sure what you mean about googling myself…
when one of those all-caps IRVINGs caught her eye.
Irving.
Eden clicked back to Google and typed in
Eden Zanella
and…
The very first hit was a site called GirlsWhoLoveToShag dot-com. It was a free Internet video site—a porn equivalent of YouTube, where users could post and share their homemade sex tapes.
Stomach churning, Eden followed the link and…
The name of the video—posted just last night—was
Eden Zanella’s A Lying Ho.
It was her. It was definitely her. The video’s quality was crisp and clear. She was sitting on the couch in Jerry’s brother’s apartment—completely naked. She was lolling back, but her eyes were open. She looked a little drunk—not drugged.
“Smile for the camera, baby.” God’s-gift-to-women handsome, his hair in dreadlocks, white teeth gleaming, Richie came into the shot as Eden did indeed smile.
The camera was at a kind of weird angle, as if it were low to the floor. Richie, too, was naked, his variety of tatts practically covering his muscular upper body, his dark brown skin gleaming, and he sat down next to her on the sofa. “Come on, baby,” he said. “I got what you want right here.”
He pulled her up, facing him, so that she was straddling his lap and—
That
was why the camera was positioned down there.
Eden squinted at the computer screen, looking through her eyelashes, but that didn’t make the video any less horrifying.
She was compliant. She didn’t fight, didn’t argue. She didn’t do anything but seemingly willingly have sex with the bastard.
Eden hit the stop button, forcing herself to breathe. Crap, she was dizzy. She dropped her head between her knees.
It was okay. It was going to be okay. She’d told Izzy what had happened, told him that Richie had made a video. He seemed to be fairly well educated about the effects of rohypnol. He’d definitely be pissed when he saw this—who wouldn’t be. He’d want to kill Richie—and Jerry. This was Jerry’s handiwork, posting this here, of that Eden had no doubt.
She’d change her name. What was it that Izzy had called her that very first time they’d met, all those months ago? Susan. She’d become Susan Zanella. She’d cut and color her hair.
Eden sat back up, to back-button that awful video off the computer screen when…
Oh, no.
There were two other video links.
Eden Zanella’s A Lying Ho, The Sequel
and
Eden Zanella’s Still A Lying Ho.
Eden clicked on the sequel, which started with Richie grinning into the camera. “This bitch wants me—anytime, anywhere, anyhow.”
It cut to a shot of Jerry’s kitchen. Eden was standing at the sink, washing dishes—or trying to, anyway. She was washing the same plastic bowl, over and over. It frequently slipped out of her hands.
The good news was that she had clothes on—a skirt and a tank top that she would never have worn together. Never. Someone—no doubt Richie—had dressed her in those clothes.
The camera panned around her so that there was a close-up of her face. Again, she looked a little drunk, her eyes a little strange, a little glazed. But open.
“Say hi Richie,” he said, still off-camera.
“Hi, Richie,” she said and—oh, God—smiled.
In the next shot, she was bent over the kitchen counter, her head down and her skirt up—revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath. Richie came from behind the camera, grinning and giving a thumbs-up right into the lens and then…
Eden grimly back-buttoned, clicking on the third link.
This video started with her opening her apartment door. Again, she was dressed, again in clothes that she’d never wear—at least not in public. A white tank top with no bra, and a pair of terry-cloth running shorts that had shrunk in the wash and were uncomfortable.
The video cut, oddly, jerkily, as if the camera position had been moved a few inches to the right.
But she still stood there, in the open doorway, leaning against the door.
“Come on in,” she said.
Another jerky cut, and she said, “I’m so hot for you,” and then laughed.
Another cut, and the door opened to reveal that she was wearing an entirely different outfit—jeans and a T-shirt.
Then the door opened again, and she was wearing her pink and black dress.
And Eden realized that each of these shots of her in different clothes had a different date stamp. Somehow Richie had altered the date on the camera to make it look as if he’d shot the footage over the course of eight different days.
The eight different outfits came off in a montage of cuts that made it look as if she were in a hurry to get naked. Her clumsiness played into the illusion. And then she
was
naked, and Richie was nailing her—against the wall by the apartment door, on the kitchen table, on the living room floor, in the shower, in the bed she’d shared with Jerry. And over it all was an uneven soundtrack of her voice, some of it soft and hard to hear, some of it very loud. “Oh, yes, oh, God, oh, Richie, oh, Richie, oh
Richie
…”
Somehow he’d gotten her to say that, and spliced it all together, but if she were Izzy, seeing that…?
He’d never believe her. Why would he, when what seemed to be the truth was right in front of his eyes?
The scene cut to Richie, solemn, speaking into the camera. “I know this looks like I’ve betrayed you, Jer, but your girlfriend’s been grabbing for me, every chance she gets. I been, like, fighting her off for months now. I wanted to see how far she’d go and…I made this video for you, for your own good, so that you know. Your girl’s a ho.”
Cut to Eden, close up, saying, “Jerry doesn’t have to know.” Her speech was slurred—dozshn’t—but the words were coming out of her mouth.
No wonder Jerry had ditched her in the Krispy Kreme.
And Izzy, when he saw this? He was going to do the same.
Eden rushed over to the kitchen sink and threw up.
S
ACRAMENTO
, C
ALIFORNIA
Decker pulled into the Sacramento Residence Inn shortly before 0230.
This was crazy. He knew it.
And yet he’d found himself driving north, his phone conversations with Tracy and then with Tess playing over and over in his head.
You stay the fuck away from me,
Nash had said to Jo Heissman.
I don’t need your help…
It made sense that Nash would naturally be mental-health-care-averse, but his hatred of Dr. Heissman seemed extreme. It seemed…
Personal.
So Decker had gone into Tracy’s reception desk, to find that blue folder that held the doctor’s background information.
And then, after reading it, he’d used his computer to dig even deeper.
Dr. Josephine Heissman. Age forty-eight.
Graduated Boston University in 1982, with a liberal arts degree. Married Michael Quincy in 1983, immediately had two kids and was a stay-at-home mom, but for only a few years. Went back into the working world in 1988—as a secretary—when she and Quincy divorced. Took him to court again in 1990 for being a deadbeat dad, but shortly after he was killed in a car accident so she probably never saw even a penny of support.
Despite that, she managed to go back to school and get her masters and PhD in developmental psychology from Boston College. Her daughter attended Harvard and graduated with high honors. Her son currently attended a graduate program at MIT.
Nowhere in that blue folder with its detailed bio and four-page list of publications was the fact that she’d also worked, for nearly five years, for the clandestine government organization known only as the Agency.
Uncluttered with an alphabet nickname, it was where Decker and Nash had worked before signing on with Tommy’s Troubleshooters.
They’d left when Doug Brendon, the newly appointed director of the Agency, put into place some politically partisan policies. Brendon’s also-newly-appointed support staff also came damn close to burning Decker—leaving him high and dry in a situation where he’d very nearly wound up dead.
Nash had been convinced the accidental almost-burn had come about because Decker had obstinately put bumper stickers supporting the opposition political party on his truck. Decker refused to think that. The new Agency director couldn’t be
that
much of a fascist.
Still, after some of the dust settled, he and Nash had handed in their resignations.
Not at all oddly enough, regardless of their years of exemplary service, there was no attempt made to make them stay.
It had been ages since Decker had so much as spoken to anyone from the Agency. He now had reason to believe, however, that that was not the case for Nash.
Fuck you,
he’d snarled at Jo Heissman. Tess had told Decker that for one, brief, awful moment, she’d been afraid that Nash was going to attack the doctor.
Something was definitely wrong. And since Nash still wasn’t answering his phone, that meant only Dr. Heissman was currently available to answer Decker’s questions.
She was in hotel suite 408. Fourth building, first floor.
Decker parked near the entrance. The door was locked, with one of those electronic locks that allowed only keycard-carrying hotel guests to enter. He got out his B&E kit and in a matter of seconds did just that—broke and entered. He made sure that the door clicked securely closed behind him.