The Good Daughter (44 page)

She didn’t know what she’d expected from Keith—certainly not a friendly greeting—but his total lack of response was—was—

Something thick and molten ignited in her veins. With one great sweep of her arm, she sent his cards careening off the table. They hit the floor with a satisfying thwap that spurred her tears to start flowing once again.

The scrape of metal chair legs against the floor snapped her head up. Keith stood, a muscle leaping to life in his tight jaw. She’d gone too far. Rationality had taken a backseat to her goal, but God, her heart was disintegrating to dust without Ryker.

She leapt up and grabbed Keith’s hand before he could move away from the table. His hazel eyes shot daggers of contempt at her, but she sandwiched his warm fingers between her cold palms.

“
Please.” Her throat ached. “It’s been two days. Two days without seeing my little boy’s crooked smile.” She released his hand and snatched up Ryker’s photo. His wavy, brown hair swirled about his head, his mischievous gray eyes twinkling up at her from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

She touched his cheek, her heart constricting over the photo’s two-dimensional limitations. Emotion lodged in her esophagus. She tipped the picture to Keith, who gave it barely a once over. “He’s eight.” She stuck the picture in his face. “Look at this face. Can’t you understand that I need help?”

Wariness crept into Keith’s hazel eyes, along with something that almost looked suspiciously like compassion, but before she knew what to make of it, it was gone. “So go to the police.”

“
Don’t you think I tried that?” Her voice rose an octave, earning her more stares and a glare from a sour faced lady on staff who was rearranging the books in the room’s small bookcase housed below the wall mounted flat screen TV. Grace took a slow breath and spoke softly. “Since he was taken out of school by his father, they won’t do anything without evidence of a threat.”

“
There you go. He probably took the kid camping.”

“
My ex wouldn’t do that. He hated camping.”

No, the Mark she knew hated camping, but then again, as she’d recently discovered, she hadn’t really known him at all.

“
How do you know he’s not after custody?”

“
Mark has no reason to do that. We’ve always shared custody of Ryker.”

Keith rubbed at his furrowed brow for a moment then leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. “Look, lady, I’d love to help, but as you can see, I’m not exactly in any position to go anywhere. Hotel Monthan’s got a lock on me for the next couple months.”

“
What?” Her throat tightened, pushing the word out in a squeak. “But your sister said—she told me your—your stay was voluntary.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “You think I’d willingly check myself into this place? You should know better than to trust anything Victoria says. She’s a drunk, and half-crazy to boot.”

Grace’s knees buckled, her elbow hit the edge of the table and jarred her back into the chair, but the sharp pain was nothing compared to the despair that knifed through her. “But….he said you were the key.”

***

Keith wasn’t the damn key to anything, and the sooner he made this woman realize that, the sooner he could go back to being what he was. The patsy. The Army’s scapegoat. If he’d learned anything during his three week stay here at Monthan it was that the Army wasn’t interested in looking for the real traitor behind the training exercise tragedy that had taken the lives of several of his friends. His superiors knew someone needed to pay, not only for their deaths, but also for the missile components stolen from Fort Bragg during the screw-up. He’d been the convenient choice.

He was suffering from PTSD, they’d said. Spiraling out of control. Drinking and raging at fellow officers. Damn them all to hell, he’d been grieving the loss of the only stable family he’d ever known, the brothers who had taken him into the fold without question and watched his back.

And as soon as he’d done his time here, he’d find out who was really responsible, and lock the son of a bitch traitor up for good.

He glanced down at the woman who’d barged in here looking for something he couldn’t provide. “I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

She brought her head up, tears tracking from her misty green eyes and down her cheeks, mouth trembling. “You’re exactly who I’m looking for. Mark left me a note. He told me to find you.” She didn’t look at all happy by the admission, a fact that confused him further. He didn’t know her, did he? He looked closer, but she’d bent her head to rifle through her purse, her hair falling in front of her eyes. She withdrew two more photos, which she spread out on the table next to her son’s. “Do you recognize him?”

Keith reached out a finger and snagged one of the photos closer. He narrowed his eyes on the familiar craggy face. “Your ex is The Bard?”

She frowned up at him, wiping tears off her face. “Who?”

“
Mark Stevens. We called him The Bard ‘cause he was always spouting poetry at us.”

“
Mark spouting poetry? That doesn’t sound…” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, God. What was he into?”

Instead of answering her, he picked up the second photo. The penetrating stares of his Special Ops unit slithered up his spine. Parker. Dead. Millhouse. Dead. Not from a dangerous mission or an attack, but by the hand of a fellow soldier who’d betrayed them.

His throat constricted. The acrid stench of burning flesh still lingered in his mind. As the Engineer Sergeant, Keith had double and triple-checked those charges. Damn it, he wasn’t some fresh recruit just out of basic. He knew the difference between live explosives and dummy loads. He’d used dummies, as always.

Someone had to have switched the charges and blown them all to hell. Why couldn’t he remember those last precious seconds before the explosion? He shoved the picture aside, but the sour taste of retribution remained.

“
You know something. About Mark.” Grace leaned forward and a lock of light brown chin-length hair popped out of its resting place behind her ear. She scrubbed at her cheek, brushed the strand away from her eye and tucked it back in place.

A sudden prickle of déjà vu hit him in the back of his neck. Why did the simple action seem so familiar? She tipped her head and the sensation eased, but Keith knew better than to ignore a feeling that strong.

Don’t trust her. Tread carefully. There’s something about her…

He crouched down to pick up the cards that were still scattered over the floor, hoping to give himself some space to clear his head. She came alongside to help him, getting right back in his face.

“
Tell me. Was it something…illegal? Is Ryker—?” She clamped her mouth shut like she couldn’t bear to give voice to the thought that her son might be in danger.

There was no ‘might’ about it. The people The Bard dealt with weren’t your average every day criminals. Then again, Mark Stevens wasn’t your average Defense Intelligence Agent. He’d been tasked with a highly sensitive covert mission: infiltrate the inner sanctum of the Army in the hopes of catching the traitor known only as The Keeper. After years of dead ends, Mark had finally found a lead. A name—one he hadn’t had the chance to divulge before he’d disappeared.

“
Stevens wouldn’t be caught dead doing something illegal.” Keith had been his point man, the only one who knew the real reason for his sudden appearance at Fort Bragg.

Grace’s wide eyes snared him, willing him to divulge more out of compassion. But he’d learned long ago that such a weak emotion had no business in his life.

He rubbed the still tender scar along his forehead with the jack of clubs in his hand, a raw reminder that even when you worked hard to control every corner of your life it still managed to end up royally FUBAR.

Keith closed his eyes and was immediately transported to that afternoon. He could see his finger depressing the trigger to detonate the dummy charge to expel a thin blanket of smoke into the hollowed out training facility. Instead of the familiar pop he’d expected to hear, a roar had shook the ground and tossed him on his back.

Keith tightened his jaw, willing his fuzzy brain to remember more. But all he could recall was the smell. The thick, impenetrable smoke. The hazy whispers before he lost consciousness. And the blurred image of a man. Had it been The Keeper? Keith’s gut told him it had.

He needed a name. And if the only way to get it was from The Bard himself, then that’s what he’d do. He’d bided his time in this stinking rehab center long enough. He’d thought if he did his sentence like a good soldier he could save his career, but his career meant nothing if the bastard who’d killed his friends went free. He couldn’t wait. He had to find Stevens now. If Keith was the key, then Stevens was the lock, holding all the secrets that would break the truth wide open.

“
Do you have any idea where Mark might have taken your son?”

Misery drew Grace’s features into a tight mask as she handed him the stack of cards. “No.”

“
Then we have our work cut out for us.”

Excitement coursed through his veins. He was going to do something reckless and impulsive but damn nothing had ever felt so right. He flicked a glance at the rows of tables, the nurses and counselors wandering around, the security doors he’d have to breach. Difficult but not impossible.

He leaned forward. “Do you have a car?”

She nodded.

“
Good. Get rid of it.”

“
But—”

“
Abandon it. Take your money and buy something else. Four wheel drive. Nothing fancy. Got that?”

“
Why?”

He tapped the deck of cards on his thigh. “It won’t take long for someone to report my disappearance.”

“
You’re going to—” She gasped. Her breath caressed his skin. He cursed himself from noticing. “But how will you—?”

He looked away from her gaze, he couldn’t allow that turbulent mix of fear and hope mess with his head. “Leave that to me. There’s a place on Grand Avenue. A real dive. You can’t miss the flashing pink lights. It’s called The Cheshire. I’ll meet you there. Midnight.”

Against his better judgment, he reached out and touched the back of her hand. It trembled under his fingers, her skin warm and soft.

He jerked, curling his burning fingers into a fist.

Focus. Keep your distance. Find the kid, find Stevens, and get the bastard responsible for the death of your men.

Keith stood. With a scowl, he pocketed the deck of cards. “Remember. The Cheshire. Midnight. Don’t be late.”

***

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