Eye for an Eye, an (Heroes of Quantico Book #2): A Novel (17 page)

“I hate to go.” His voice was husky as he rested his forehead against hers.

“The feeling is mutual.” She whispered the words, and her breath was like a warm caress against his face. “I figured out your plan, by the way.”

“What plan?”

“The plan to break down my defenses with kisses.”

“Is it working?”

“I don’t think I better answer that.”

A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I’ll take that as a very positive sign. Walk me to the door?”

He rose and pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion, keeping her hand in his as they moved toward the small foyer.

At the door, he turned to her. “Be careful.”

“Always. You too.”

“Sleep well.”

He reached for the handle, but when she touched his shoulder he turned back. To his surprise, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his.

The significance of the gesture wasn’t lost on him. Until now, he’d initiated every romantic encounter. Tonight, she’d taken the lead.

A slow, warm smile began at his lips and spread to his eyes.

“Good night, Em.”

As he stepped outside and waited for the lock to click behind him, Coop materialized out of the shadows in the corner of the porch.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Yes. Thanks for that timely exit.”

“Hey, I’m a sensitive guy. I can pick up vibes.”

“Right. Like the night we went out for pizza after running that killer CQB training route and you forgot you’d promised to take Monica to dinner. You didn’t exactly handle your phone call to her with a lot of finesse.”

He winced. “You would remember that.”

“She does too.”

“Okay, it was a mistake. A big one. But I’m getting better. I just need a little more practice. Which is hard to get when I’m gone for weeks at a stretch.” He gave Mark a pointed look.

“Tell Les about it. He’s the one who decided you should be my shadow.”

“Yeah. Like that’ll do a lot of good.” He waited while Mark slid into the passenger seat, then walked around the car and took his position behind the wheel. “Did you give any more thought to Steve’s offer?”

“Lots of thought. No action.”

“Does she know about it?” Coop nodded toward Emily’s condo as he backed out of the parking space.

“Yes. But she’s running scared. After her experience with Grant, guys in high-risk professions aren’t on her top ten list of favorite people.”

“Like I said before, love changes everything.”

Coop was right, Mark acknowledged. In his case, anyway.

While he didn’t think he was head over heels yet, he was rapidly falling. He wouldn’t be considering a permanent move to St.

Louis if he wasn’t.

As for Emily . . . more and more, he was convinced she felt the same way. If he was an accountant or a doctor or a salesman, the risk factor wouldn’t be a barrier, and he suspected she’d have given him a green light long ago. But he couldn’t change who he was. He might be able to find a way to use his skills in a less risky position, but law enforcement wasn’t just a job for him; it helped define him as a person—in the same way Emily’s work helped define her.

He had a feeling she understood that.

But he wasn’t confident she could accept it . . . even if their future together hinged on it.

17

On Wednesday morning, Dale flipped through the magazine in Emily’s waiting room, trying not to appear nervous. The Lord had brought him here for a reason, he was sure of it. During the next hour, God would show him his next steps in righting the wrongs.

“Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Smith?”

He raised his head. The Mexican-looking receptionist was smiling at him. That radio talk show guy he’d begun listening to at night was right. The U.S. was being taken over by foreigners.

“No, thank you.” He buried his nose back in the magazine, hoping she’d leave him alone.

To his relief, she got the hint. Lowering the magazine a bit, he gave the headline of the story a disinterested scan . . . then read it again.

“Immobilization Drug: Attacker’s Best Friend.”

As he scanned the first few paragraphs, Dale’s heart began to thud. According to the article, the powerful, fast-acting drug was tasteless, odorless, and colorless. Soluble in liquid, a couple of teaspoons were enough to wreak havoc on the central nervous system. It immobilized without loss of consciousness, leaving victims responsive but passive and incapable of thinking clearly.

While the drug was illegal, the article suggested it could be made with common, available ingredients—and that the recipe was easy to find. The drug could also be sourced on the Net or easily purchased on the black market.

How that information fit in with Dale’s mission was a mystery. But somehow he knew it did.

Emily looked over the notes she’d taken during her phone conversation with Randy Miller as she prepared for her first meeting with Joe Smith. Age fifty-nine, employed by Aiken Concrete for twenty-four years, he had been considered a solid, dependable employee until the past month or so, when he’d become distracted and distant.

The cause was no secret. Two months ago, his sixteen-year-old son—an only child—had hung himself in the barn. Three weeks later, his wife had suffered a fatal heart attack. In total, Mr. Smith had taken five days off work for the two funerals. His stoic fortitude had amazed his supervisor and co-workers—until he’d begun making mistakes on the job.

The mistakes were a given, Emily reflected. A person didn’t suffer those kinds of blows without major fallout. She knew that firsthand. Fear was the legacy of her tragic loss. But now that Mark had entered her life, she’d faced her issues and was trying to work through them.

Based on the preliminary information Randy had given her— and his top-line assessment—Mr. Smith wasn’t even close to that stage yet. Meaning he could be on a direct path to a major breakdown.

Laying down her notes, Emily took a final sip of her coffee, set the cup aside, and headed toward the door to the reception area. A man with thinning gray hair looked up as she stepped into the waiting room.

“Mr. Smith? Emily Lawson. It’s nice to meet you.” She moved forward and extended her hand.

The man rose as she approached, folding his magazine in half as he tucked it under his arm.

He took her hand in an almost too-firm grip. About five-foot-nine, he had a lean but muscular build, suggesting he was accustomed to physical labor. Up close, his tanned, weathered face spoke of long hours in the wind and sun, while the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth conveyed prolonged strain. He wore jeans and a cotton work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy muscles in his forearms. Penetrating brown eyes, rather unnerving in their intensity, were fixed on her as he shook her hand.

“How do you do?”

“Please, come in.” She stepped aside and ushered him into her office, indicating the sitting area off to the side.

He chose one of the striped chairs and sat stiffly on the edge, twisting the magazine in his hands as he surveyed the room.

Considering his comment to Randy about the stigma of counseling, his nervousness didn’t surprise Emily. Her first order of business was to put him at ease.

Picking up her pen and notepad, she chose the chair at right angles to him. “Did Maria offer you something to drink?”

“Yes.” He gestured toward the Starbuck’s cup on her desk. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your morning coffee.”

“I must confess, today it was a double chocolate chip frap-puccino. And it’s long gone. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a beverage? Water, perhaps?”

“No thank you.” He twisted the magazine tighter in his hands.

“If you change your mind, let me know.” She crossed her legs and settled her notebook on her lap. “I spoke with Randy Miller about your situation. I’m very sorry for your losses, Mr.

Smith.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not surprising for that kind of trauma to have a negative impact on your work performance. Why don’t we talk about what’s been happening at your job?”

“I made a couple of mistakes.”

“I imagine you’ve been distracted.”

She waited for him to comment, but he remained silent, wary and watching. After several more queries about his problems on the job met with monosyllabic answers, she tried asking a few questions about his wife. Same result.

Consulting her notes, Emily took a few moments to regroup.

Joe Smith wasn’t the first resistant EAP referral she’d had, but she couldn’t remember too many who had been as tightly strung as this man. His rigid body posture, the mangled magazine in his hands, his intent but guarded gaze . . . no wonder his boss had been worried about him.

If he wouldn’t talk about his wife or his job, she doubted he’d open up about his son. The death of a child was always hard on a parent. And suicides were devastating. But she could try.

“Would you like to tell me a little about your son, Mr. Smith?”she asked gently.

“He was a good boy. He shouldn’t have died.” The man’s gaze bored into her. “It was wrong that he died.”

“The loss of such a young life is always a tragedy. I do some work with young people, and I’ve discovered that depression is often a very serious problem for teens. Do you think that might have been an issue with your son?”

His shoulders stiffened. “He had his blue days now and then, like we all do. But he was a strong boy. He would have been fine if he’d gotten out in the fresh air and enjoyed God’s creation, or read the Good Book, instead of holing up in his room.”

Denial. Emily ran into it frequently. “Depression can often be helped by treatment, in much the same way antibiotics heal an infection.” She strove to maintain a relaxed, conversational tone.

“And it often runs in families. Is there a history of depression in your family, Mr. Smith?”

“No, ma’am.” He stared at her, his face expressionless. “And my son wasn’t depressed. Just a little down.”

Now she was picking up another emotion. Anger, perhaps.

Possibly self-directed. Deep inside, he might be questioning his beliefs about the value of counseling and wondering if he could have averted the tragedy by seeking professional help for his son.

If that was the case, a sense of blame and a familial propensity to depression could lead to serious guilt and self-loathing—a dangerous combination.

The picture that emerged troubled her. While Mr. Smith hadn’t offered her any direct insights into his thoughts or feelings, she’d gleaned a fair amount from body language and what was left unsaid. The bottom line was that he appeared to be poised on the verge of meltdown, his tension palpable. Some of it could be attributed to the counseling situation, which he clearly found uncomfortable. But she sensed it went far deeper than that and was sourced in roiling emotions buried inside.

Anger, guilt, grief, confusion. As far as she could see, none of those emotions had found an outlet. And they needed to. Or the pressure would build until it burst.

Today, however, was a wash. The best that could be said was that he’d shown up. All she could do was hope that Mr. Smith, like Jack Hanley, would recognize sooner rather than later that he needed help. Until he was ready to talk to her, however, there was little she could do except be available.

Rising, Emily moved to her desk, picked up one of her cards, and held it out to him. “I understand this situation is awkward for you, Mr. Smith. But I’d like to see you again. Now that we’ve met, I hope you’ll feel more comfortable in the future. In the meantime, if you’d like to talk, don’t hesitate to call me at any hour of the day or night. My exchange can reach me within minutes.”

“Thank you.” He took the card and slid it into his shirt pocket as he stood, tucking the magazine under his arm.

“May I set up another appointment for you? How about Friday or Monday?” She didn’t want to wait a week to see him again.

“Monday is okay.”

“Give me a minute.”

Rising, Emily flashed him a pleasant smile. But his expression remained impassive. Closed. Verging on hostile. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, she reflected. But as she slipped through the door to the reception area, closing it behind her, she was glad he’d come.

Because Joe Smith needed help.

Badly.

Dale stared at the closed door as Emily exited. She was smooth, he’d give her that. With her gentle, caring tone, she oozed empathy. He could see how his son would have been sucked in by her.

But her comments about depression had disgusted him. She made the blues sound like an inherited disease, like high blood pressure or diabetes. But it wasn’t a sickness. It was a weakness. And no one could help you overcome weaknesses except yourself. And God.

That’s what he’d told Bryan.

And John.

All at once he was propelled back four years to his last phone conversation with his older brother. Two days before Christmas.

The day before John had walked out into his garage, turned on the car, and waited for the deadly fumes to end the grief that had plagued him after he’d lost his wife to cancer the prior summer.

Dale had tried to stand by him through his anguish, had pushed him to talk to the Lord, but John had sought “professional” help instead of seeking it from God—just as Bryan had.

And like Bryan, he’d been misled. As Dale had reminded both of them on numerous occasions, the Lord said, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

Come to
me
. Not some shrink.

But John had gone to the wrong place for help. Dale had tried to protect his son from falling into that same trap, but Bryan hadn’t listened. Instead, he’d talked to this woman. On the radio, no less. And he’d ended up dead too.

He couldn’t bring Bryan or John back. But he could at least eliminate the woman who’d caused his son’s death.

And God would be pleased.

The door to the reception area opened again, and Emily crossed the room to hand him an appointment card. He pocketed that too.

“We’re all set for Monday. But feel free to call me sooner if you’d like to talk.”

“I will.”

The door that led from her office to the hall had a peephole in it, as had the one from the hall to the reception room, he noted, waiting while she checked the corridor. She was being careful.

That meant he would have to be too.

“Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff.” She twisted the lock and opened the door. “I had a little problem recently and I’m being cautious. Take care, Mr. Smith.”

Stepping outside, he waited as the door closed behind him.

Then he headed toward the exit.

Once out of sight of her peephole, he withdrew the two cards from his pocket. Tearing up the one with the appointment on it, he discarded it in a trash can near the door. The other one he fingered thoughtfully.

A plan was forming in his mind. Through his conversation with Emily Lawson, the Lord had reminded him he wasn’t avenging just one death. His brother, too, had died as a result of a shrink. Not the one who had ruined Dale’s life. But they were all alike. Equally dangerous—and liable.

He’d also been reminded that John and Bryan hadn’t died instantly. They’d had time to think about their life coming to an end, John as he drifted into unconsciousness, Bryan as he’d gasped his final, choking breaths. That’s why his first plan had failed, Dale concluded. Emily Lawson needed to die more slowly.