A Deeper Darkness (27 page)

Chapter Fifty-One

Savage River Lodge
Detective Darren Fletcher

The sun was gone. Defeated, Fletcher had agreed to hunker down for the night. His sense of honor was in tatters. He was so worried for Sam he could barely breathe. As darkness had enveloped the search team, they decided a staging point would be necessary, and found the nearby Savage River Lodge, a beautiful stone-and-timber retreat that Fletcher had half a mind to check into and never come back out again.

The forest service guys were stretched out over a table to his right, looking at a topographical map, estimating times and drawing circles with their protractors, then tapping things into their computers. They were attempting to figure out how far Sam could have gone on foot, working on the assumption, however faulty it may be, that she hadn’t been shoved in a car. Or put on a horse. Or dropped off a cliff.

All he could do was wait. On the streets of D.C. he knew what his place was, what he could do. Out here, in the woods, he didn’t stand a chance. He’d never been much of a nature guy. Outside of the odd Boy Scout camping trip with Tad, trips that Felicia increasingly took in his stead as the boy grew up, he’d never spent any time in the woods. He wasn’t a hunter or a fisher. He was a cop. A jog down by the river was as exotically outdoors as he ever got.

He’d been stupid to think he could control the situation. Alexander Whitfield was a seasoned soldier, capable of hiding in plain sight, and that knowledge made Fletcher even angrier. He’d been played. They’d all been played.

But something in his gut told him Whitfield wasn’t his man. He was so far off the grid that calling attention to himself by murdering his old friends seemed out of character, at least the little bit he’d been able to profile from Whitfield’s record and Sam’s translations from Edward Donovan’s journal.

Now, Margaret Lyons was another story. A woman scorned is a powerful thing. According to Taranto, Perry Fisher was the father of her kid. Maybe someone in her chain of command had figured that out and was using that knowledge to scuttle her career, and things got out of hand. Croswell could have found out and confronted her. She snapped, walked him across the street to the house she knew was empty, shot him and played dumb until morning, when Fletcher and Hart came knocking on her door.

A plausible theory, sure. But where did Donovan fit into that? Lyons had been at work at her law firm when Donovan was shot. Three people had seen her and confirmed.

Karen Fisher was still a good choice. Assuming she was playing the reporter for her own personal gain… She could have been using Taranto to ferret out the real story, and Donovan and Croswell were trying to keep it quiet.

Shit, if he just knew who’d been the actual shooter in the friendly fire. That would help narrow it down.

DOD wasn’t talking. Roosevelt had called three times, pushing hard. He was about to play his last card, which was going public with the information in an attempt to bluff them into telling the story. Fletcher wanted him to do it right now, but Roosevelt fancied a few more tries to see if he could work the back channels.

Fletch even thought about calling Felicia, beg and plead for her to talk to Joelle again, but they were running out of time.

That damn phone call. That’s what got the ball rolling. But there was nothing to indicate that the Raptor offices were Donovan’s end goal—he could have been meeting anyone anywhere. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a fluke that his direction took him toward the Raptor offices. Donovan’s boss, Deter, hadn’t called him in. The other guy, Culpepper, was in Iraq at the time. Fletcher had interviewed the personnel there three times, and didn’t have a single hit.

So Donovan was headed somewhere else. But where?

Fletcher paced around the room.

He thought back to the conversation Sam had with Taranto. He brought out his notebook and went through the code names again.

King, that was Perry Fisher. Doc was Donovan. Shaky Guy was William Everett. Mutant was Whitfield, Jackal was Croswell.

There was another name on that list. Taranto said when Karen Fisher heard that her husband might had been killed by one of his compatriots, by one of his friends, she went to another, Orange, to get the truth.

So who the hell was Orange?

Orange was his killer. He had to be. And something about Perry Fisher’s death exposed the man, or woman, who operated under that nickname, and as a result, they needed to minimize the damage as quickly and efficiently as possible.

And the best way to make sure no one talks is to permanently shut them up.

Had Susan Donovan figured out the truth? Fletcher resisted smacking himself on the head. Of course she had. She’d found the missing pages from the journal.

Could she be responsible for her husband’s death?

Shit. That couldn’t be. She was missing. But had she gone on the run? No. He was firmly convinced the killer was part of Donovan’s unit overseas.

He called Roosevelt.

“Where are we with the DOD?”

“Third time’s a charm. I’ve been invited to the Pentagon. Fifteen minutes.”

“That is fantastic news. I’ve got a couple things for you, too. Knock on my head must have sprung loose some nuts. You need to go find Karen Fisher. Taranto supposedly had her hidden away. She is involved, though how I don’t know. Check Taranto’s credit cards—he told Sam he was keeping Karen somewhere safe, so he probably got her a hotel room. And while you’re at the Pentagon, see if you can find out who was saddled with the moniker Orange while they were over there. Someone in Donovan’s unit was called Orange, and that’s who our killer is. I’m sure of it.”

Roosevelt was quiet for a minute. “Seems I should let you get shot, lost and hit on the head more often. How would someone get saddled with the nickname Orange?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe he likes orange juice, or is from Florida or California. Remember that show, the O.C.? Orange County? Or has red hair. Doesn’t matter. We just need to find out who he or she is.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Fletcher laughed. “Call me back.” He closed his phone and went to the table of forest service guys.

“You got anything?”

The lead kid, and Jesus, he was a kid, nodded. “Four sites they could be, sir. Spread across the mountain. All very remote. Permanent camps on private property. It’s going to take a few hours to get to any of them.”

“Show me.”

The topographical map was just a bunch of lines and squiggles, circles and four small red
X
s. All of them were in an area within the greatest concentration of lines, scattered across the map like miniature campfires.

“What do those lines mean?” Fletcher asked.

“Oh, you don’t know how to read a topo? That’s an elevation indicator. Pretend it’s in 3-D. If you can imagine the lines as rising into the air, as the concentric gets smaller, that’s the higher up the mountain it is.”

“I failed Boy Scout 101. How far are these from us?”

“Closest one will take two hours. Farthest is five, minimum.”

“Do you know who lives at any of them?”

“No. No, sir. Very remote. We don’t normally get up that way. We’re assigned to the park only. That’s private property.”

“All right, then. There are four of you. Each of you will guide a team of my men. And we aren’t waiting for morning. We’re moving out right now.” He turned to the tactical team guys who were happily sprawled around the lodge’s great room, enjoying the fire and their full stomachs. The lodge owners had taken good care of them.

Fletcher spun his finger in the air over his head.

“Get off your asses. Lock and load. We’re rolling.”

“But, sir…” The kid who’d explained the map looked panicked. “Really, it’s not safe.”

Fletcher turned on him.

“There’s a woman in danger at one of those camps. Do you want to be responsible if we get there too late because you were scared to go out on the mountain at night?”

The kid puffed out his chest. “I’m not scared. I’m just not an idiot.”

“Then prove it. And keep us safe while you’re doing it.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Savage River
Maggie Lyons

Maggie got Jen a glass of water and took her back to the bedroom to tuck her in. They were sharing a double bed—an inflatable air mattress. The boys were out cold on the floor in their sleeping bags. It always amazed her how hard they slept. Of course, they played hard, too, and, since they’d been up here with Xander, worked hard, as well.

This room was Xander’s armory, and playroom. Weapons in various forms lined the walls, guns and bows and artillery, a variety wide enough the ATF would probably freak if they ever saw. He’d pushed a table out of the way that contained all of his fishing lures, tackle and numerous other things Maggie didn’t recognize.

It was nice, having guy friends who could do some of the fathering Roy was incapable of providing. Noah and Bobby had both been up here before. To them, visiting Xander’s was like a really elaborate camping trip. She wondered if they’d remember the fun times they had up here when all was said and done.

Now that she’d finally listened to Jen, who’d been trying to tell her about the scary man across the street for three days, now that they knew for sure who had killed Croswell and, of course, Donovan, Maggie had no illusions about what was going to happen.

She and Xander were next. And once they were gone, the whole situation went far, far away.

She didn’t want to die. She’d already been through hell, and come out the other side. Not unscathed, never unscathed, but whole enough to get her life back on track.

She had made mistakes. Big mistakes. Getting involved with Perry Fisher—that had been a whopper. She’d always hated women who cheated, but once Roy started drinking more and more, treating her like she was a piece of dirt trapped under the sole of his shoe, after he punched her when she was home on leave and she had to return to her unit with a black eye and lie about how she got it, something in her changed. Her allegiance to Roy was shattered. She met Perry, and was lost. Perry was a gentleman, a soft-spoken soldier with intensely blue eyes that to Maggie seemed like staring into a perfect summer sky. He was married, as well, which made her feel doubly bad, but he’d filed for an official separation before they got involved, so she supposed it wasn’t as much of a sin as it would have been if he was just getting his rocks off.

He loved her. And she loved him.

When it became apparent to both of them that their feelings went deeper than just a simple physical affair, she’d gone online and found the makings necessary to file for divorce from Roy. Separation wasn’t even on the drawing board. Roy would have to be a clean split, or else he’d never let her go. Not all the way.

But she had to tell him in person. She owed it to him. So they were waiting for her to get back to the States to file.

She and Perry snatched time together whenever they could, which wasn’t a lot. War doesn’t leave a lot of downtime. But they’d managed to finagle leave together, back at Kandahar Airfield. Compared to being out on the roads, the Kaf was the Four Seasons.

And that’s when it all went south.

The fight they’d had after the “incident,” as she called it, was epic. She’d come out an emotional wreck. Perry died three days later, and nine days after that, while she was still in the grips of horror, she found out she was pregnant with Jen.

She went straight to the doctor, determined to have an abortion, but couldn’t go through with it. The doctors who treated her wrote her a medical discharge, and she was out of Dodge before you could shake a stick. She wasn’t even going to pretend she wanted to stay. She just wanted, no, needed, to lick her wounds at home, away from prying eyes.

There was no way to play Roy, though. She was three months gone before the dust settled and she was back in Georgetown, applying to law schools. One look at him, drunk and weaving, the fire of anger boiling in his eyes, and she blurted out the truth, told him she wanted a divorce and threatened to kill him if he touched her again.

She didn’t tell him the name of Jen’s father, though.

She didn’t tell anyone.

She kept her head down, worked hard, loved her kids, all three of them, and tried to forget. Until three days ago, when Hal Croswell was murdered across the street from her house, and all she knew to do was bug out. She ran straight for Xander and told him the whole story, start to finish. Not the party line. She’d told him what really happened. He’d gotten her set up with the boys and immediately headed south, to Billy, to bring him to the safety of Xander’s home. But he was too late. Billy had caved under the pressure.

They were all dead. And the man who killed them was still out there. Haunting her. Hunting her. Trying to make sure the secrets never came out.

She put her head in the pillow and let the tears come.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Savage River
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam watched Maggie’s subtle retreat to the bedroom. Xander got up from the table and cleaned the kitchen in silence. He was a big man, naturally lean and muscled from outdoor work. He took up a lot of real estate in the small kitchen space.

She considered him for a few moments. When nothing was forthcoming, she said, “Um, hey. Are you planning to share? Because I’d really like to know what’s going on. You know who killed them now?”

“Yeah,” Xander said. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head, but he didn’t say anything more. She sighed and nudged him again.

“Are you going to tell me who did this, or are you going to keep me in the dark, like you have everyone else?”

He shut the refrigerator door.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

More walking. Her legs were like rubber already. He must have realized the reason for her hesitation, because he smiled and said, “Just outside. It’s a pretty night. Here.” He took a thick flannel jacket off the peg by the door and tossed it to her. “Put this on. You really shouldn’t be out in the woods without a coat.”

She glared at him and put the coat on. She swam inside it, but the warmth curled around her and she relaxed. She’d been cold all night. He was the reason she was devoid of suitable outerwear. If he hadn’t kidnapped her… God, that smile of his was like turning on a light switch in a dark attic. It illuminated everything around him.

“Come on.”

Sam was getting awfully good at following orders. She stepped out the front door, waited while he shut it behind them. The darkness surrounded them, pushing in, and she suddenly felt afraid. Now that she’d heard some details, was he going to get rid of her?

“Dr. Owens. You can relax. On my honor, I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

God, he could read her like an open book.

“You can call me Sam, you know.”

“I’d like that.” He took her hand and led her from the porch, surefooted as a mountain lion in the pitch-dark. The moon had set already, but it would have been blocked by the chimney on this side of the house, she realized.

“We can sit here.”

Xander helped Sam find a seat. She swung above the ground for a sickening moment, then settled, her feet barely touching. She felt a breeze on her butt. She realized it must be a rope hammock. She heard a sharp flick, then saw flames dancing in Xander’s hands. He dropped the two matches onto the ground, and a nice fire sparked. Now that there was some light, Sam could see the fire pit clearly. Simple and clean, prepped and waiting, just like the rest of his things.

“A hammock by the fire? Is the ambiance appropriate now?”

“I like to lay out here and think sometimes.”

“It’s…nice,” she said. She expected her teeth to start chattering, but the jacket held its warmth. And his smell. Evergreen and the tiniest hint of sweat.

Jesus, Sam. Get it together.

He worked the fire a bit, then settled on his haunches on the ground next to her. No, he wasn’t on the ground. She realized he was perched on a tree stump, looking like it was the most comfortable place in the world. He set the gun against his leg.

The creaking of the night settled around them like a blanket. Insects chirped, birds rustled. She could hear her own breath, and his. It was time.

“You know what’s on the pages Donovan tore out of his journal, don’t you.”

“I think so,” Xander said. “Are you sure you want to hear the story? It’s not sanitized.”

“Of course I do. My God, isn’t that why I’m here? To hear the truth?”

“You’re here so I can keep you safe.”

Around and around the mulberry bush. This man was going to drive her crazy.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you feel the need to keep me safe?”

“Because you need looking after.”

Way to state the obvious. Sam wasn’t a warrior. She was just a girl. That had been emphasized all the more back in the cabin when she was sitting side by side with Maggie, who was also of the female persuasion but could hardly be called
girlie.
Hell, even the way she strutted around with the weapons was graceful and contained. She reminded Sam of Taylor. That was funny.

“I don’t disagree with that. I do need looking after. But why does it have to be
you?
The cops can take care of me. They’ve done a decent job of it so far.”

“Ha. They sent you, a civilian, into an ambush, nearly got you killed, then lost you on a mountaintop. I’d hardly call that taking good care.”

Xander poked at the fire, and the blanket of silence settled over them. She gave it a few minutes before she acquiesced. Maybe agreeing with him would draw him out more.

“Granted. But the way you say it, it’s like you have an obligation to me or something. You don’t. You don’t even know me.”

“I know you better than you think.”

He got quiet again. She felt like she was pulling teeth, long, slow, arduous teeth that were cemented in a fossilized mandible. She let her breath out slowly, hoping some of the exasperation she was feeling would bleed away. It didn’t.

“Eddie loved you a lot, you know,” Xander said.

That
she wasn’t expecting. It was obvious that Eddie had mentioned her to Xander, or else he wouldn’t feel the need to keep her tucked away, but she never imagined his feelings had been this deep. Not after such a long time.

“We hadn’t talked in almost fifteen years,” she said quietly.

“Doesn’t matter. A man never forgets his first love. And you were his.”

She laughed, a harsh, unforgiving sound that surprised her. “No, I wasn’t. I was his second. The Army was always his first love.”

“Hoo-rah,” Xander said automatically.

“Exactly my point.”

“Point taken. But you can’t think it didn’t break his heart to leave you, too. Because it did. I knew him before he met Susan. She was the best thing that could have happened to him. Because until he met her…that man was lost without you.”

Sam didn’t want to hear that. Didn’t want to be reminded of what might have been. There was no going back in this life, no do-overs. She’d walked away, across the bridge, and closed the door on Eddie Donovan forever. Or so she thought.

The night air drew in around them, and she used the chirping crickets as cover for her shaky breath.

“It wasn’t supposed to be him. We both knew that. Him leaving was for the best.”

Xander tossed the stick to the ground. “He knew that. God, Sam, don’t you see? He left because of the obligation he felt to you. He knew he’d put you in an untenable situation. Making you choose between the man you’d loved for years and the man you’d practically just met? He couldn’t handle the thought that, one day, you’d wake up and realize you’d chosen the wrong man. He didn’t want to put you through that. So he pushed you as far away as he could. He sacrificed his own happiness to assure yours.”

Sam couldn’t hold the tears back anymore.

Donovan, you bastard. Still making me cry. You weren’t supposed to love me like that.

Xander waited patiently while she pulled it together. Finally, she took a deep breath and wiped at her eyes.

“I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. It helps. I’m glad he was able to find happiness again. But he found you, obviously. You were his very good friend. I can tell.”

“Yes, we were. We met in Ranger school. An experience like that bonds men. Of course, that’s part of its intent. Then we were both assigned to the 75th, though we started in different units. By our third rotation, though, he was my commanding officer. Man could have risen through the ranks like he was on fire, been a colonel, even a general, easily. He was a
great
leader. He cared about his men. He didn’t just keep them safe out on missions, he helped them with their money troubles, girlfriend troubles, whore troubles. He called and wrote letters to each parent as soon as their son or daughter joined the unit, letting them know he was watching their backs. He fought for better facilities, more rack time, safer gear, real counseling after bad missions. When we lost someone, he cried with us. He inspired loyalty. That can’t be taught. It has to come from within.”

She could see him tense, the line of his shoulders taut under his jacket.

“You were in charge of men, too. You must have embodied some of that.”

He didn’t respond right away. Sam turned away from him, listened to the fire crackle. Xander nudged a log with the toe of his boot. It shifted and settled deeper into the flames, sending sparks into the clear night sky.

When he spoke again, his voice was gruff. “You’re kind to say that, but everything I learned about being a leader was through his example. He was the real deal. And he had medical training, so we were always doubly covered out on missions. He’d drop his weapon and bind up a wound while shouting orders… He was something to behold, let me tell you.”

His voice trailed off. She let him sit in silence, not wanting to push him, realizing he was telling her the whole story, just in his own way.

“Have you ever heard of literal obedience
?
” he asked, finally.

“No, but I can divine its meaning.”

“It’s an important concept in the military, one that’s drilled into every new recruit and officer candidate the moment they get their high and tights and become one of the masses. When your commanding officer says, ‘Come stand on this line,’ he means stand
on
the line. Not an inch in front of it, or behind it, or to the side, or with your knees bent or your toes sticking out. But
on
it. We were taught to be literal because when we’re out in the field, and your commander gives an instruction, that inch left or right or forward or backward might mean our leg, or our arm, our life or the life of the man standing next to us. Orders have a reason. That’s why they’re orders. A good commander won’t ever have to ask twice. Obedience and loyalty go hand in hand if there’s respect, too. That’s the kind of soldier Eddie was. He never had to give an order twice.”

He sighed, and Sam felt like he’d made some sort of decision.

“I trust that you’ll keep this to yourself.”

“Of course. I don’t want Eddie dragged through the mud any more than you do.”

“It’s not Eddie’s reputation I’m worried about. You may not know this, but it’s illegal to have relations within the unit. Fraternization can get you court-martialed. It could have gotten all of us in trouble. Because we knew. Shakes, Jackal and I. We knew about King and Maggie. They were trying to keep it quiet, but King needed to talk to someone about it. We were his closest friends. He was conflicted—he didn’t love Karen anymore, felt she was unstable. He wanted custody of the kids. He was head over heels for Maggie. They clicked, like two magnets. I know Karen, know she’s not a piece of cake to live with. So I supported him, because that’s what friends do.”

“So you covered up the affair for them?”

“And covered our asses, as well. Yes. We did.”

Sam pushed off the ground with her foot. It was so quiet up here. No one was around. Xander could tell her this story, then toss her off the mountain, and no one would be the wiser. But Eddie had trusted this man. She wanted to trust him, too.

Xander put another log on the dwindling fire, then sat back and spoke again.

“We’d been on a week’s leave at the Kaf when something happened. All was well and then boom, at the end of the week, Maggie suddenly wouldn’t talk to King. Wouldn’t see him. Shut him off completely. Wouldn’t give a reason. He was devastated. Wrote her letters, begged, pleaded… She cut him off cold, and he had no idea why. Before he could fix things, we got sent back out, and within three days he was dead.”

Xander was tense; Sam could feel him next to her, rock still. She spoke softly, not wanting to interrupt but realizing he needed some space, that he’d slipped back in time to the moment of his friend’s death.

“Taranto had a video. I saw it, but I couldn’t understand what exactly happened.”

His voice was like a metronome, flat and emotionless.

“Mission went south. We were all back at the base, in our racks. Got called out to provide support. Echo Company was taking heavy fire, they’d been ambushed on a ridge. We scrambled out there, everyone, all hands on deck. We got to the fight, saw things were out of hand. Doc and Orange devised a plan, sent us around the back of the firefight to flank the Taliban who’d holed up in the hills. They were taking potshots, just picking our men off as they drove up the wadi—that’s the dry riverbed. Some of the most dangerous spots we had to ride through. King and I took the lead, on foot, got around the backside, running along the top of a ridge. I stopped and he went ahead of me, over the edge, into the wadi. We’d flanked them perfectly, and Doc ordered us to open fire.

“It was a seamless operation. We neutralized the threat, our guys were able to get out of harm’s way. Except, somehow, King went down. He had gotten in front of us. We didn’t realize it for a few minutes. He was KIA instantly. When Donovan found him he tried to resuscitate him, but it was obvious he was gone. We had to pull him off to get him to stop. We got King back to base. Once the wound was lit up, we could see it clearly. There were two shots to the
back
of his head. Below his helmet. He was shot from behind. It was one of us.”