Last Breath (31 page)
Humboldt nodded. “So now you know.”
“But what I don't get,” Brendan said, “is why you crucified him.”
“I didn't.”
Something slipped along Brendan's spine, something like the awareness of a presence. Something he occasionally felt when deep in prayer, that feeling of being cradled in love and light. And it was so out of place that for a few moments it stunned him.
“I didn't do that,” Humboldt said again. “I’d never blaspheme like that.”
Oddly, Brendan believed him. And the warmth now encircled him, enveloping him. He was not alone. And neither had Steve King been alone.
Chloe eased down the hallway toward the light, Glock at the ready. She could hear the voices better now, murmurs mainly. Brendan's and someone else's. He wasn't alone.
Then she heard a question that made her freeze.
“What's all this crap you were giving me about a conspiracy?”
“I’m just telling you what your son told me, Mr. Humboldt.”
Chloe's heart slammed. Holding the Glock in both hands, she eased farther along the hallway to the partly open door through which light spilled.
“And,” Brendan continued, “there's evidence of conspiracy right now. Somebody moved Steve King's body after you shot him. You know that. Did you ever ask yourself who?”
If there was an answer, Chloe couldn't hear it.
“I fear Tom was right, Mr. Humboldt. There are forces at work here that neither you nor I know about. The more I think about it, the more I think your son was murdered. Can I ask you a question?”
If the man gave an answer, it was inaudible. Regardless, Brendan plunged on.
“Mr. Humboldt, did you get the idea that I was responsible for your son's death on your own? Or did someone else suggest it?”
The silence that followed was so profound that Chloe could hear the hammering of her own heart.
“My God …” said a strangled voice.
It was her moment. She burst through the door, gun at ready, and aimed straight at the man she assumed was Mr. Humboldt. “Drop your weapon,” she said.
The man looked at her, not responding.
“I said drop it. Because believe me, you can shoot one or the other of us, but not both. Now drop your weapon!”
The twenty-two pistol tumbled to the floor, and Humboldt put his head in his hands.
Chloe kicked the gun away, keeping her bead on Humboldt. “Father, call the police
now.
”
He didn't move.
“Father,
call the police!
”
He turned his head and slowly raised his gaze to her. “I’m not going to press charges for this.”
“Now wait —”
“You wait,” he said firmly. “This man was driven past the point of sanity by someone with an agenda, and I’m not pressing charges. As far as you know, we were just having a discussion.”
“At the end of a gun? No way, Father. The choice is out of your hands. Now call the police. You know damn well he killed Steve. And if you want to plead for mercy in his behalf at trial and sentencing, be my guest. But I saw what I saw, and if you don't call them, I will.”
“Call them,” Humboldt said, lifting his head. Tears streaked his face. “Call them. I’ll tell them everything I know.”
Healing wounds itched like the devil. A hundred times a day, Matt wanted to scratch the scabbed-over crease in his side. He'd lost his spleen, but other than that, and the damn itching, he was doing fine. Even his hearing was recovering, albeit slowly. There were still too many crickets in his ear.
He arrived at Chloe's house bearing gifts. What was that line about being wary of Greeks bearing gifts? The thought made him smile. She'd
better
be wary, because he was on the hunt now.
He carried flowers and a bottle of wine. The look on her face when she opened the door made him want to grin from ear to ear. He never thought he'd see her delighted.
“Come on in,” she said. “Let me put these in water.”
Then embarrassment struck him as he realized Brendan was sitting in Chloe's living room, wearing mufti and sipping a cup of coffee. He paused, hoping his cheeks didn't show the heat he felt in them. “Evening, Father.”
“Just Brendan, please. I’m off-duty.” Brendan smiled that engaging smile that had been absent for weeks now. “Go on. Don't mind me.”
Matt hesitated only a moment longer, then followed Chloe into the kitchen and watched as she filled a vase and trimmed the stems. He put the bottle of wine on the counter.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't know he was going to be here.”
“He just dropped in. Why should you be sorry?”
He nodded toward the flowers. “Sorry if I embarrassed you.”
“You didn't. But he'd probably like to hear what's going on as much as I would. Come on. Let's rejoin him.”
He followed her again, like a puppy on an invisible leash. The thought made him squirm a little. He wasn't exactly used to this.
Chloe sat on the couch at the opposite end from Brendan, and Matt took the easy chair.
“So any new news?” she asked.
“No. We're still dead in the water on who was behind this mess. The lab did confirm the plane was carrying a cargo of chlorine gas and a smudge pot full of old tire shavings. He'd have dumped a very smelly, very deadly gas. And we found notes and sketches in Victor Singh's apartment. His target was MacDill. Probably Central Command headquarters, judging by the notes he'd made.”
“My God! Matt, that would have been awful.”
“I’m not sure. The heavy smoke from the rubber would have made it hang around for a few minutes, but at that time of night, there wouldn't have been many people walking around. And there's usually a pretty good sea breeze by then.”
“So he was a stupid terrorist.”
Matt shook his head. “Between you, me, and the gatepost, I think it was planned that way. Nobody will listen to me, but I think this was only
supposed
to look like a terrorist attack.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the trail on Lance Brucon ends with the word ‘classified.’ And because somebody from the government e-mailed the photo that tipped us to all of this.”
Chloe was silent for a few moments. “That's a chilling thought.”
“I agree. But it's all speculation. We'll never know. Just like we'll never know who crucified King. How's that going, by the way?”
Chloe shrugged. “You know privilege is involved.”
“I know. I know. I’m just surprised you're defending Humboldt.”
Brendan spoke. “I asked her to, Matt.”
Matt shook his head. “You're a little too Christ-like, Father.”
Brendan cocked his head. “That's a good thing in a priest, don't you think?”
“Maybe.” Matt plucked a grape from a bowl on her counter. “I hate cases like this, where you never learn what really was going on. Where you just have to spend the rest of your life wondering.”
Chloe sighed. “Me too.”
Brendan shook his head. “The thought that government black ops might have been behind this is appalling. I thought things like that happened only in novels.”
“I would have said so, too,” Matt agreed. “But you were in the navy. You probably heard things.”
“I did.” His gaze grew distant. “Things that might be better forgotten, given what's happened here.”
Matt plucked another grape. “My guess is that they wanted you gone because you might remember something and put two and two together.”
“Like what?” Chloe demanded.
Brendan started to get that stubborn, I’m-not-going-to-say-a-word look, then sighed. “If I say anything, it stops here. I don't want the two of you in danger. I’m serious. You're not to pursue this in any way.”
Matt was about to insist he wasn't going to make any such promise, then realized it wouldn't matter. If he tried to take on the government, he was apt to wind up as dead as Steve King or Victor Singh. “Okay.”
Chloe nodded. “I agree.”
“Understand,” Brendan said, “that I’m piecing this together from a really fractured discussion and a distant memory. But … I got the impression from Tom Humboldt that some government operation had gone awry. That its purpose had become strengthening its own hand rather than its original mission.”
Matt whistled quietly. “I could see that. I could honestly see that.”
“How so?” Chloe wanted to know. “What could they possibly hope to accomplish by attacking their own country?”
“Easy,” Matt said. “More funding. More power. Martial law. Expansion of our antiterrorist operations. I could see lots of reasons.”
All three of them sat silent for a long time. Finally Chloe spoke. “That gives me the willies.”
“Me, too,” Brendan admitted.
Matt realized his ordinary level of paranoia was rising through the roof. “Listen,” he said, “let's not talk about this anymore.”
Chloe's head snapped around to look at him. “This is a free country.”
“Yeah. And they can listen through closed windows. If they're still watching us, we don't want to make them nervous. So enough of this. We'll never really know what happened, and we'll sure as hell never prove it.”
Brendan nodded. “I agree. I shouldn't have said anything.”
“So,” Matt said firmly, “how are you doing? Are you getting past this?”
Brendan smiled sadly. “Yes, I am. Steve is safely in the arms of God, and Wayne Humboldt … I pity that man. He was mercilessly used and now his life is truly ruined.”
Matt almost gaped at him. “He killed Steve King. That young man was innocent of anything.”
“I know. But I also understand the twisted emotions that led Humboldt to do it. They broke him. That's the long and short of it. They twisted the knife until he snapped. I pray for him, Matt, and so should you.”
Brendan left a few minutes later, wishing them a good evening. Chloe and Matt stood at the door watching him vanish into the twilight. Brendan walked jauntily, not as jauntily as before, but it was an improvement over the past weeks. It was clear he had settled in himself, and settled with God, and was glad to be back to being a full-time priest.
“He's amazing,” Matt said as Chloe closed the door.
“Faith will do that.”
“Quit pushing.”
“Aw,” she said, an impish smile on her face. “And here I was going to ask you to go to Mass with me on Sunday.”
He looked as horrified as if she'd suggested shoving splinters under his fingernails. “You know I’m not one for that organized religion stuff.”
“I know. But it sure wouldn't hurt you.”
“Shit. Cut it out.”
“Okay.” She laughed. “How about some of that wine you brought?”
Once again he trotted after her like a puppy, into the kitchen. “I read where you filed an insanity plea on Humboldt.”
Chloe merely looked at him, her gaze warning him off.
“There's no way he was legally insane, Chloe. He was aware of what he was doing. And he knew it was wrong.”
She shrugged. “He's my client. I have to try. And you know I can't talk about it.”
“Okay, okay. Let's discuss us instead.”
Slowly her face softened. “Okay. What do you want to discuss?”
“Do you like champagne, and how big is your bed?”
Chloe laughed then, a belly laugh so deep that it seemed to drive all the darkness out of the world.
Now, if he could just keep her doing that …
Rachel Lee, winner of numerous awards for her bestselling romantic fiction, is the author of Silhouette's #1 miniseries, Conard County. She also writes lighthearted contemporary romances as Sue Civil-Brown. But suspense fiction that zings like a high-tension wire with excitement and passion has become her signature style. As
Romantic Times
says, Rachel Lee is “an author to treasure.”
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“The incomparable Lee delivers unforgettable danger, intrigue, romance, and suspense
”
— Romantic Times
LAST BREATH
R
ACHEL
L
EE
A former top cop and now a crackerjack attorney, Chloe Ryder always gets to the heart of the matter with stunning precision. She never lets anything or anyone get past her cool, protective exterior. Yet even she can't keep her feelings on ice when a murdered man is found in the hallowed sanctuary of her church, and Father Brendan, beloved by all his parish members, is suspected of the shocking crime. To protect the innocent priest, she is forced to investigate the case with Detective Matthew Diel. They had once been lovers, and to this day only Matt knows the secret tragedy in Chloe's past. Now working with her again, he soon realizes some painful. truths. He has never stopped loving her — and he may never again get the chance to prove it. Because a killer is watching their every move …
Jacket design by Christopher Wait
