Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers
“Price is wanted for the attempted murder of his commanding officer.”
Ward walked back in and handed a sealed box to the soldier Stork indicated.
“Thank you, Mr. Ward. You have been very helpful.” He nodded to them, then motioned for the soldiers to leave with him. “Have a nice day.”
Simone didn’t restrain her scream of frustration as Stork left with their victim. “Asshole!”
Matt said, “I know Stork’s type. He can make your life hell if he wants to.”
“I’ve never been in the military,” she snapped. “I don’t take orders well.”
Matt turned to the pathologist. “Good to see you again, Phineas. Have you met my sister, Megan Elliott?”
“I have now.” He shook her hand.
“I can’t believe we’re just standing around here doing nothing!” Simone said. “That’s my body they’re taking. You can kiss any prosecution good-bye.”
“Don’t take it out on the D.A.,” Phineas Ward said. “He delayed them long enough.”
“What does that mean?” Megan asked.
Ward shrugged. “When we process the body, we take certain samples. I forgot that I’d put the vials in the lab, and the lab director is already processing them.”
Simone wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “You’re wonderful.”
“It still won’t help with a prosecution,” Matt said. “Without physical evidence for the defense to test independently, most judges will throw it out.”
“But it can help with victimology,” Megan said, admiring Phineas Ward’s foresight. “Was Price on drugs? Drunk? Did he have any illnesses? Did the killer drug him in any way? There’s a connection between Price and the other two victims, and this is one way, albeit small, that we can try to figure it out.”
“Exactly,” Simone said.
“And,”
she added smugly, “the security tapes didn’t come in yesterday. I’m supposed to get them at nine a.m., and the damn CID will already be back on their base or in Hell or wherever they’re going.”
Megan turned to Ward. “Did you inspect the body? Did you see anything strange?”
“Other than collecting blood and hair samples, I only performed a visual examination, weighed, and measured him. Six feet tall, one hundred seventy pounds, forty-five to fifty years of age. I don’t have a positive I.D. on him, other than the identification on his person. But I collected fingerprints and already sent them off for processing.”
“So at least we’ll be able to confirm his identity,” Megan said. “You remembered those details?”
“My mind is full of useless trivia.”
“Not so useless,” Simone said, taking notes.
“I don’t think he died from the bullet in his skull.”
“What?” Megan and Simone said simultaneously.
“There wasn’t enough blood. Was there a lot at the crime scene?”
“He lost a lot of blood when his hamstrings were cut,” Simone said.
“But that didn’t kill him. The blood was clotted behind his knees, and you’d be surprised at how little blood can come from a wound like that. It tears the muscle but doesn’t hit any major arteries. The blood would clot quickly, yet the victim would be completely incapacitated. Not to mention being in intense pain.
“There was no clotting around the head,” Ward continued, “at least I didn’t see any. There might have been contamination, or perhaps a postmortem ritual of cleaning the body, but I think I would have noticed something like that.” He shrugged. “It’s just a guess.”
“The victim’s hands were very clean,” Megan remembered. “Compared to what I would expect from a homeless man.”
“Actually,” Ward said, “now that you mention it, the body was relatively clean. I see a lot of the homeless in here, and few take regular, or even weekly, baths. His clothing, however, was quite ripe.”
“Abrahamson,” Matt said, snapping his fingers.
“Who?” Megan asked.
“Detective Greg Abrahamson. He was undercover on the streets last year while investigating a series of murders. Found the killers and I have the trial coming up next month, so I’ve been working with him. I wonder if he knew the victim.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Simone said. “I’ll talk to Black about it.”
“You’re trying the case yourself?” Megan asked.
“It’s very complex. I just won the motion to try the two juveniles as adults, but the battle wasn’t pretty. Our office is going to be under scrutiny.” He didn’t have to explain why—California’s entire criminal justice system had taken a huge public slap last year for sending an innocent man to death row.
Megan knew exactly what kind of pressure Matt was under. When his knee got shot out in Desert Storm—the same war that killed their father—he turned to a law degree, became a prosecutor, then a state senator, and eventually the district attorney. Putting criminals behind bars meant more to Matt than playing politics. The events of last year had put Matt back in the political spotlight, and he hadn’t liked it.
“I’ll call Black about Abrahamson,” Simone said.
“And let me know when the security tapes come in,” Megan said. “Maybe we can put a face on the killer.”
“Killers,” Simone corrected her.
Naked, Ethan stood in the middle of the forest.
The darkness was complete, the earth and his mind. Black. Bottomless. He breathed, but he was not alive. He spoke, but he did not think. Sucked dry by the needles that controlled his nerves, an empty shell of a man told him what to feel and when. The pain, the pleasure, the pain, the nothing.
Nothing.
He’d wanted to die. Death meant nothing. He wasn’t really alive, was he?
He raised his bare arms toward the towering canopy of trees, a sliver of early light fighting its way in among the leaves. Arms outstretched, legs spread, he begged for lightning to strike him from above.
The phantom smell of charred flesh rushed through his nose, on his tongue. He snorted and moaned. The pain of electricity surging through his body, now a memory.
He looked down at his limp penis, but instead of the dank earth below he saw himself suspended by ropes, his feet barely touching the packed dirt floor. Rubbing his hands together, he felt the scars on his wrists, faint now, there for him to see and feel but no one else knew.
His body jerked as if he were on a string. He watched the needles that had pierced him years ago sink into his flesh. Wires this time, wires connected to a battery—what he thought was a battery. He looked straight ahead, the tree limbs holding the device, the wires crawling out for him.
You are mine you are mine you are mine.
Wires slithering as snakes, boa constrictors, wrapping around his ankles, knees, thighs, penis, down his throat . . .
Kill me God damn you kill me damn you KILL FUCK NO NO NO NO.
The pain tore all pleas from his mind, his throat, his scream suspended in midair. His body jerked violently from the electric jolt, a brief jolt that kept him bobbing long after they were done.
The room had been dark. The room had been bright. Hell. Heaven. Laughter. Laughter bubbled out of his scream-scarred throat. There was only Hell, Hell on earth, and all he wanted was nothing. Nothing. Empty, painless, nothing . . .
Dropping to the ground, he buried his face in the dirt, burrowing in the leaves. He would escape, run, hide.
They would find him.
She would find him.
He was being watched.
The cold hit him first. He shook uncontrollably. Raw earth assaulted him. He breathed in and coughed up dirt. His mouth was coated with the damp, moldy soil. He rose, resting on all fours, barely able to breathe.
“Ethan.”
Salty tears mingled with dirt on his tongue.
“Wa-water.” He could hardly speak. Where was he?
“Shh.”
It was his angel of death, the one who’d saved him. Over and over. She didn’t leave, didn’t desert him, leave him to the enemy, leave him to be tortured. She raised him from the dirt, draped a blanket over him. He was naked. It was so cold, where were his clothes? How did he get here?
“Walk with me.”
He went with her, her arm around him. He remembered tearing his shirt. His chest stung. He’d scratched himself. How bad? It hurt. She would take care of him.
“Kill me,” he begged, his throat raw.
She didn’t respond. He wanted to cry.
“I hurt myself,” he whispered, his throat raw.
“I’ll fix everything.”
She would. His angel would fix everything.
“Kill them.”
“Of course.”
“I will kill them. I will kill them. I promise you I will
kill
them.”
And she murmured in his ear, “Yes, sweetheart, we will.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Jack had been in San Diego for two hours, and in Patrick’s hospital room for the last thirty minutes, and now he wanted to leave. Hospitals and anything medical made Jack antsy. He’d spent enough time in triage to cringe at the sights and smells and sounds of the sanitary building.
Unfortunately, Patrick saw that in him. The kid had an uncanny sixth sense, like Dillon. Jack didn’t like to be psychoanalyzed by either his kid brother or his twin.
“You don’t want to be here,” Patrick said.
“I wanted to see you, make sure Dillon wasn’t jerking my chain when he said you woke up as if nothing happened.”
“Slight exaggeration. My muscles are weak and I remember everything. Up until the explosion,” he added quietly.
Two years ago, their eighteen-year-old sister Lucy had been kidnapped and Patrick, a cybercrimes cop with San Diego P.D., had gone with a team of FBI agents to an island off Baja California where they believed she was being held captive. The trap had left Patrick barely alive; life-saving brain surgery put him in a coma. The only life support he required was a feeding tube, his body went through all the rituals of breathing and blood pumping on its own. Twenty-two months later he woke up without fanfare. Jack didn’t believe in miracles, but Patrick’s recovery was the closest thing to one he’d ever seen.
Patrick reached for a five-pound weight on the table next to the hospital bed. Jack resisted the urge to help him when he saw the strain cross his brother’s face. Patrick did three curls then put the weight down, winded.
“Dillon came by earlier. You just missed him.”
Jack hadn’t missed his twin. He’d avoided him. He had plans to meet up later with Dillon and the rest of the Kincaid clan, but for now he wanted to focus on Patrick and adjust to being home.
“Thanks for coming,” Patrick added.
Jack nodded. “I’m glad you made it.”
“Nearly two years.” Patrick frowned and stared at the foot of his bed. “Looks like they’ll let me go in a few days. I’ll have P.T. daily, but at least I won’t be in here anymore.”
“Good.”
Jack didn’t know what else to say. He stood. “I’ll let you rest.”
“I don’t want to rest,” Patrick said. “Did you come to San Diego to spend five minutes with me, only to go back to Texas or Mexico or wherever it is you live?”
“Pretty much.”
Patrick picked up the weight again, this time in his left hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that, it’s just . . . two years and nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed.”
Patrick raised his eyebrow. “I missed so much. Dillon said you’d gone to D.C. a few times to visit him and Lucy.”
“I have.” Jack’s trips to D.C. had given him back the family he’d let his father deny him.
You didn’t have to follow the Colonel’s orders to steer clear.
It was obvious that Patrick wanted to say something. “Spit it out, Patrick. What’s going on?”
In a rush, he said, “Did I screw up? Did I fuck up the investigation in Baja? Tell me the truth, Jack. You’re probably the only one who will.”
“In Baja? Hell no. That bastard set a trap and you were caught in it. I should have gone. Maybe I could have seen it coming. I’m used to booby traps. I could have—” He shook his head, clearing the webs of guilt that continued to spin. “But I’d been certain it was nothing, that you’d been sent on a wild-goose chase. At first I was glad you’d left, thought it would keep you out of harm’s way. I didn’t like being responsible for everyone. Dillon was enough. But I was wrong.” And that didn’t sit well with Jack. Not in situations like that.
Jack stood. “I need to go. I just wanted—” He paused.
“I know.”
Jack squeezed Patrick’s shoulder. “Glad to have you well. Take care of yourself, kid.”
The door opened as Jack spoke. Rosa and Pat Kincaid walked in, Rosa saying, “Patrick, we have great—”
Then his mother saw Jack. Without hesitation, she rushed him into a tight hug. Jack accepted his mother’s warm embrace, but his eyes never left his father’s cold face.
“Hello, Mama.” He kissed the top of her head.
“I didn’t know you were coming. You’ll come to the house for dinner tonight. Everyone will be there.”
“I have to go.”
“No. You will have dinner—”
“Let him go,” Pat said, standing ramrod straight.
“I will not. Everyone is home for the first time since—” She didn’t say it, but Jack knew the last time all seven Kincaid children had been in the same room was for his nephew’s funeral thirteen years ago.
Jack had no intention of spending any more time in the same room as his father. But two years ago, he’d asked his mother to forgive him. This woman had given him life, raised him, never once turned her back on him. When he returned home, she welcomed him as if he were the prodigal son. Jack had been the one to let his father get between him and the mother who bore him. She had no part in what had happened two decades ago.
“What time?” Jack asked.
She beamed, hugged him again. “Six.” She turned to Patrick with a bright smile. “That’s the good news I have. The doctor said you can come home for the evening. By Friday, you will be released for good.”
“You mean they’re letting me leave?” he grinned. “For real food?”
“I’m making all your favorites. I have Nick helping because his wife is no good in the kitchen.” She shook her head. “How could I raise a daughter who can’t cook?”
Letting his mother babble to Patrick, Jack stared over her head at his father.
Pat stared back for five seconds, then turned and left the room.
Jack followed.
Pat stood in the middle of the brightly lit hall. He waited for Jack to approach.
“I’m not turning my back on my family again.”
“You made that choice twenty years ago, Jack.”
Jack suppressed his rising anger. “
You
made the choice. You gave me an ultimatum I couldn’t agree to. If I had had the balls back then I would have ignored you and never cut off contact with Mom.”
“You owe me an apology. I saved your career.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Dammit, Jack, you’re stubborn and shortsighted. You would have been court-martialed!”
“I was willing to take that chance.” He would have risked not only his career but his life twenty years ago in Panama to save the family who had taken a stand against Noriega. He found them hiding, with hardly any food or water, and he’d extracted them, brought them to an American base. Against orders, but should he have let them be slaughtered? The area hadn’t been secure, they were the only civilians in the small outlying village, trapped because one of the children was handicapped and couldn’t make the journey to safety fast enough.
Pat fisted his hands. “I couldn’t watch you lose everything. Jeopardize the entire mission, embarrass the army, embarrass me—” He stopped.
“This was about embarrassing you? People were killed because you pulled me out. The mission was never in jeopardy. I was risking only
my
life and
my
career.”
“You can’t save the world, Jack.”
“But I could have saved them!” He slammed his fist against the wall. Pictured the Ortega family when he found them a week later, executed. Father, mother, children, grandmother. A family of nine murdered in cold blood because their father had taken a stand against the criminal Noriega and his thuggish cronies.
“You don’t know that. They were safe where they were. How do you know that your impulsive decision to move them didn’t lead to their enemies finding them when I sent them back home?”
Turning his back on his father, Jack stepped into the staircase. He ran up the thirteen floors and stood at the top, unable to exit to the roof. He pounded his fists on the locked door, then put his hands on his knees and breathed deeply.
He didn’t know if he was to blame for the Ortega family being slaughtered. Jack had lived with that guilt for twenty years.
CHAPTER
FIVE
By the end of Tuesday, Megan had exhausted all avenues she could think of to regain control of the evidence and Price’s body. She finally decided to break ranks and call an old friend. If J. T. Caruso, one of the principals in the local office of Rogan-Caruso Protective Services, couldn’t find the answers she needed, no one could.
She was one of the select few who had J.T.’s private cell phone number—courtesy of her brother who had been in the navy SEALs with J.T.—though she rarely used it.
“Caruso,” the deep voice said.
“It’s Megan Elliott.”
“Meg,” J.T. said warmly. “How are you doing?”
“Personally, fine. Professionally . . . well, I have a situation I need your advice on.”
“Does it have to do with the dead veteran you pulled yesterday?”
It always unnerved Megan how J.T. seemed to know everything. “I swear you’re a psychic.”
He laughed honestly, seeming to surprise both himself and Megan. “Sometimes I wish I were. Truth, Mitch mentioned it to me this morning. Do you need to borrow him? I know your squad is spread thin.”
She hadn’t even talked to her ex-husband, Mitch Bianchi, but he still had a lot of friends on the squad. Half the time Megan wished she had never encouraged him to take the job offer from Rogan-Caruso last year. The best agent in fugitive apprehension, Mitch’s exceptional instincts and abilities were sorely missed. However, Megan had to admit that Mitch was better suited to private investigation than following the rigid rules of federal law enforcement.
“Thanks, J.T., but I really need you on this one.”
“What can I do?”
“You were in the military police, weren’t you?”
“Navy.”
“My victim was AWOL from the army. Their CID took my evidence and my body. I want them back.”
“That won’t be possible. The army—hell, the entire military—doesn’t like to share. If CID has flexed its jurisdictional muscles, you’re out of luck. Though I’m surprised they acted so quickly.”
“That’s what I thought as well, but the vic attempted to kill his commanding officer. At least that’s what they told us.”
“Okay, that makes more sense. If he was simply a deserter they’d probably have been satisfied with positive identification and the coroner’s report.”
“Price is the third in a string of murders with the same M.O. Two dead men in two other states killed by the same people.”
“There’s more than one killer?”
“Evidence suggests there were at least two on scene.”
“How common are serial killers working in pairs?”
“Not rare, but not common. There’ve been several high-profile cases—the Hillside Stranglers; several male-female partnerships, where the woman lures the victim into the trap; Bittaker and Norris, who were prison buddies and started a killing spree when they got out. There’s usually a dominant and submissive— Why am I telling you this?”
“It’s interesting.”
“You don’t need me to teach you Forensic Profiling 101,” Megan said.
“I don’t usually draw such violent cases.”
It was Megan’s turn to laugh. “Perhaps not serial murderers, but don’t forget I’ve known you for a long time.”
“I could never forget that,” he said, perhaps too seriously, or maybe because Megan was on pins and needles. “What would you like me to do?”
“If I can’t get the evidence back, do you think you can find out what’s going on? I am particularly interested in the autopsy report and any trace evidence report. The Sacramento Police Department isn’t letting go; the detective in charge is digging into the victim’s background, his last few weeks, trying to put together some sort of victimology profile, plus following up on one lead we had before the CID took our case. But without the autopsy report, a weapon analysis, and a comparison of the needle marks with the previous victims, it’ll be hard to tie him into the other two murders. I need to be sure we’re dealing with the same killer, or the joint investigation could be compromised.”
“Why? If you have two other victims, why is this one so important?”
“If there are three known victims attributed to the same killer, where the M.O. is similar and there is a cooling off period, that puts these killers into the serial murderer category and they’re most likely to kill again. It frees up staff and resources at the federal level, and when we’re competing with other, higher-priority squads like counterterrorism and counterintelligence—”
“Say no more. I know someone at the DOD. Let me see what I can find out. What information do you have on the victim?”
Megan shared everything she knew, and thanked J.T. She felt immensely better knowing that she was at least working the case.
Her BlackBerry rang and it was an out-of-state number. She took the call.
The caller had a Texas drawl, definitely southern with a slight accent that sounded Hispanic. “Miz Elliott? This is Detective José Vasquez with the Austin Police Department. To what honor do I owe speaking with the FBI?”
Megan couldn’t tell if Vasquez was being sarcastic or not. Her office had a terrific relationship with local law enforcement; other regional divisions didn’t. She glanced at her watch. It was after eight in the evening, putting Vasquez in Texas two hours later.
“Working late,” she said.
“So are you.”
Okay, no small talk. “I’m working with Sacramento Police Detective John Black. He told me he spoke with you briefly yesterday about a homicide two months ago in your jurisdiction.”
“Yes. He had a similar M.O. And the FBI is involved?”
“Three cases, similar M.O.s, and Black called me in early. We’ve worked together before.”
“What do you need to know?”
“My victim was in the military. Army. I’m trying to track down any connection among the three victims, but so far other than their gender, that they lived alone, and were roughly middle-age, we have nothing.”
“I sent Detective Black a copy of our files.”
She’d read them. “There was nothing about a military record. Did you run a check?”
“No need to. I didn’t see anything in the house—well, he had a POW sticker on his truck. Lotta people have them.”
“I need his Social Security number to look up his records through the online military personnel system.” She’d put in the name and current address, but that wasn’t enough. “I have a copy of the autopsy report, but it’s a fax of a copy and the numbers are unclear.” She’d been surprised they were handwritten. Most records were typed or computer-generated now.
He rattled off the number. She wrote it down, then logged into the online military database and typed in the search parameters. She couldn’t access detailed records without a specific request that needed to be approved by the military, but she could pull up basic information like name, rank, last-known address, and status.
“What do you think is happening here? As I told Detective Black, the trail went cold mighty quick. No witnesses, no other like crimes. Our lab has been going over trace fibers, but so far nothing we can use. I was thinking revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Oh, yeah. Guy was hamstrung then had all these needle marks. Couldn’t see them until the autopsy. Reggie, the coroner, called me in to see them, he didn’t believe it. Hundreds under the skin, but a needle so thin it didn’t leave a visible mark unless you looked real close.”
“Revenge?” It didn’t make sense on the surface, but it felt like that to her. Personal. She cringed. She was beginning to sound a lot like her ex-husband. She preferred dealing with facts. The fact was that there was no evidence of revenge, unless she could find a specific connection among the three victims, something more specific than the possibility that they were all military.
She asked, “In your investigation, did you come up with a connection to Dennis Perry, the mechanic in Las Vegas?”
“Name ain’t familiar ’cept from the hot sheet. When I saw it, I went through my notes. Name didn’t come up. Wish I could be more help.”
Her records search online was complete. She couldn’t suppress the excitement in her voice as she said, “Detective, I think we have our connection. Johnson was in the U.S. Army from 1986 to 2006, honorably discharged. Price was in the U.S. Army from 1978 to 2004, when he went AWOL.”
“That’s near a twenty-year overlap.”
“But it’s something I didn’t have before, and maybe Dennis Perry’s records can narrow it down further. Thank you for your help.”
“Call me if you need anything else. Keep me informed, all right?”
“I promise.”
Thirty minutes later, Megan had Perry’s service record and now a nine-year window—Perry was in the army from 1995 to 2005.
She grinned tightly. She had something! A slim thread, but it was more than she’d had this morning.
She picked up her phone to call Detective Black when her BlackBerry trilled again. She answered, “I was just about to call you.”
“The security tapes came in. Completely worthless.”
“Why?”
“Someone blocked the signal from seven p.m. until three a.m.”
“And no one noticed?”
“No one monitors the cameras. They operate automatically, more as a deterrent than anything else. And if someone gets his car vandalized, he can get a person on tape. But for practical or preventive security? Worthless.”
“Dammit,” she muttered. “What about the van?”
“Not on the camera before seven. That gave them an hour to drive in and disappear before security came through.”
“All tapes? Even the stairwells?”
“It’s all the same system. So what did you want to tell me?”
“I have a connection among the three victims.” She told him about their U.S. Army records.
“Were they stationed together?” he asked, excited.
“That’s going another level in, and I need more time. I can’t get it without a formal request. I’m giving it to one of my best analysts and I’ll let you know if anything comes up, but it won’t be tonight.” And it probably wouldn’t be tomorrow. Or the next day. Unless orders came down from high up the food chain, the army wasn’t going to jump immediately. And Megan didn’t have enough juice to go all the way to the top.
“I have plenty to do. By the way, I spoke to Greg Abrahamson, the detective who was undercover downtown. He knew Price. Not by name, but when I mentioned the clean hands Abrahamson knew exactly who I was talking about. Said he was obsessive about keeping clean. Washed his hands constantly, was known to bathe in the river regularly. No sicko ritual there for the killer.”
“Thanks for checking.”
Megan hung up and called J.T. back, only to get his voice mail. She left the information she’d learned about the three victims. There was no way she could get their military records quickly through traditional bureaucratic routes. But she might be able to get the information through other, faster channels.
She feared that if she didn’t figure out the connection soon, another veteran would die. She’d do everything in her power to stop it.
Jack had checked the Cessna Caravan’s instruments and now inspected the weather report in the small open office inside the private hangar. The sun was quickly disappearing and Jack wanted to get back to Hidalgo tonight. His trip had been troublesome on many levels, though it was good to see Patrick awake.
He heard footsteps and looked up to see Dillon approach. “Ma wasn’t the only one upset you didn’t come by the house.”
His twin brother knew just how to twist the knife. Jack shrugged, continued to look at the weather report but didn’t see anything new. “I called.”
“What happened between you and Dad today?”
Jack had never told anyone what had happened between him and the Colonel, and didn’t plan to break that silence now.
“Dammit, Jack, I thought we were beyond this martyr crap.”
“Is that
Doctor
Kincaid speaking or my brother?”
“Take your pick.”
Jack assessed his brother. They weren’t identical—Dillon was fair-skinned like their father, his hair light brown, his eyes green. Dillon and Colonel Pat Kincaid had a lot in common. Honor. Rules. Society.
But it was Jack—the dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark-eyed son—who’d worshipped their dad for the first nineteen years of their lives. Dillon was the smart kid; Jack was the kid expelled for fighting. Dillon prided himself on straight A’s; Jack prided himself on pitching no-hitters. Dillon went to college on full scholarship; Jack enlisted in the army the day he graduated from high school.
Jack had wanted to be his dad.
Now he wanted to be anyone but.
“Take off your shrink hat, Dillon. I’m not open for inspection.”
“I’ve never tried.”
“Bullshit.”
“Shit, Jack, you make this so hard sometimes.”
“Don’t go touchy-feely on me.”
Dillon laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Every time we make headway, you pull out the fact that I’m a psychiatrist. I specialize in violent killers, not stubborn mercenaries.”
Jack leaned against the half wall of the office and gave his brother a wry smile. “How’s Kate?”
Dillon tensed. “If you think baiting me is going to work, you’re shit out of luck, Jack. And if you think I haven’t figured out what happened, you must think I’m an idiot.”
Jack picked up his overnight bag. He didn’t need Dillon’s lectures or disdain.
“I have friends at the hospital,” Dillon said quietly.
Jack didn’t say a word. His eyes closed. He didn’t want to explain.
“Tell me,” Dillon pushed.
“It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Is family so unimportant to you that you’re just going to turn your back on us again?”
Again.
That stung.
“I never suspected that the reason you disappeared was because of Dad.”
“We all thought he was a saint,” Jack said, surprising himself. He took a deep breath and faced Dillon. He didn’t know what he was expecting—his father, a saint, or a shrink, but what he saw was his brother. The brother he once had. The brother he could have again if he wasn’t such a “stubborn mercenary.”
“He’s human. So are you.” Dillon caught his eye. “I think.”
Jack didn’t smile, but the tension dissipated. “Tell Ma—” He stopped. What should he say? That his father had disowned him? That her son may have been responsible for the deaths of an innocent family—or that her husband had been responsible? Could the family live with the fact that the Colonel had placed Jack’s
career
above the lives of civilians?