Beginning with You (22 page)

Rook searched her memory. “Yes,” she admitted slowly. “I didn’t understand what you were talking about.”

“I was eighteen before I found out the extent of Jack’s lies. I had just gotten to the Coast Guard Academy and had sent you a letter at the address the detective agency had on you. I got it back ten days later, unopened. I called the agency and they said it was your last known address. It wasn’t, of course. Jack had given them orders to lie to me. By this time, Jack had pretty much given up on harassing Mom. The letter should have reached you, Rook. When I went home on leave that summer, I cornered Jack about it.

“He tried to weasel out of giving me an explanation. I had grown up believing that neither of you wanted to hear from me, but this letter indicated something far different.” Noah rubbed his square jaw. “It was one of the few times in my life I lost my temper. When I did, it triggered something in Jack, and he started screaming at me. He told me how much he’d hated Mom and how he was going to make her pay for leaving him. When he started calling her names, I jerked him up by the lapels of his sport coat and slammed him against the wall. I told him to never speak about our mother that way again. We ended up in a fight.” Noah pointed to his broken nose as proof. “While I was lying semiconscious on the floor of the den, he went over to the desk, opened this drawer he’d always kept locked and flung this bunch of letters at me. He told me that none of the letters I’d written over the years had been delivered to you.” Noah’s voice faltered, and he looked deeply into Rook’s eyes. “All those years he’d lied to me, Rook. He said you had gotten the letters but that you refused to answer them. He’d convinced me that neither of you had ever loved me.”

Rook blinked once, pain of an insurmountable nature moving through her. She opened her mouth, but Noah interrupted.

“Look, do me a favor. Just read the letters. They’re all dated. Let them prove to you that I didn’t hate you—or Mom.”

Before she could say anything, Noah went to the kitchen, picked up his garrison cap and left. Rook stared down at the stack of letters. Oh, God, what was happening? The ache in her heart multiplied as she went over and carefully picked up the pack. She saw a number of envelopes that had turned yellow with age and ran her fingertips reverently across them. Her hands shook as she sat down and carefully unknotted the red yarn that bound them.

It was 10 p.m. by the time Rook finished reading the eighty-five letters. They lay scattered all over the coffee table. She picked up one of the early letters, studying Noah’s wide scrawl. What hurt the most was the fact that Rook could still see the tear stains splotched on the yellowed paper. Other letters made her cry. Noah thought he’d been abandoned by his mother. “Why don’t you love me anymore, Mom? I still love you. I want to come home to you and Rook, but Dad says he’s dying and he needs me….”

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Rook reread another one. Tears blurred her vision. It had been a letter Noah had written to her when she was thirteen. By then, he’d accepted the fact that they might not want to write to him, but he was persistent in believing they liked to hear from him. “Today’s a special day, Sis. I’ve been chosen to carry the flag at our next academy graduation ceremony. I wish you were here to see me. I miss you and love you so very much. When the other guys talk about their sisters, I don’t say much. If you could maybe write just a few lines and let me know how you are, I’d have something to brag about to them about you, too.”

Miserably, Rook looked at her watch. She had to talk to Noah. The June night was cool and windy. The sky was clear, for once. As she walked to her sports car, the stars hung above her, cold and silent—just as she had been to Noah. Placing all the letters on the seat, she started up the car.

Rook knocked until her knuckles were sore, but Noah didn’t answer the door of his apartment. She turned, tucking her chilled hands into the pockets of her white jacket. Looking toward the town of Port Angeles below her, she could see the wharf where the
Point Countess
was docked and decided to go to there, next.

Dave Harper was on duty and allowed her on board.

“Where’s Lieutenant Caldwell?” she asked,

“Last I saw him, ma’am, he was in his cabin, working on some reports.” Harper pointed down the well-lit hatch opening and stairs.

“Thanks.”

The cutter was small and economically built. She could smell oil and diesel fuel as she trod through the quiet boat. Heart pounding in her chest, Rook located Noah’s stateroom and knocked lightly. No answer. Again, she knocked.

Nothing. Rook looked around, chewing on her lower lip. Was Noah avoiding her? God knew, he had a right to be angry with her. Could he forgive her for all those years she refused to see or even talk to him? Taking a deep breath, Rook climbed topside. Harper was up on the bridge. She walked to the aft end of the boat, searching.

The shadows swallowed her up as she walked on the starboard side of the cutter, heading toward the bow. She spotted Noah. Shoulders hunched forward and wearing his foul weather jacket, he had his back to her. He was staring up at the stars. Noah looked so alone—abandoned. Rook girded herself. It was her turn to ask for his forgiveness. She stepped toward him.

Noah heard Rook approach but barely turned his head in her direction. Even in the darkness, the light defused by the cutter’s bridge above them, he could see the anguish written on her face. Would she understand? Would she forgive him and herself for their twisted past? A lump formed in his constricted throat.

Rook moved to his side, inches separating them. Her voice was unsteady when she spoke. “I read them. All of them…”

Noah steeled himself. “And?”

Tears scalded her eyes and she swallowed, her voice thick. “I—was wrong, Noah.”

He turned to Rook, looking at her for a long moment. Two silvery paths of tears glistened down her cheeks. Gently, Noah wiped them away with his trembling fingers. “Can we start over?”

“If you want to….”

He nodded, no longer able to trust his voice.

With a muffled sob, Rook blindly threw her arms around her brother’s broad shoulders. They stood there a long time, the darkness shielding them, absorbing their old pain and loss.

Finally, Noah released his grip on Rook. “Come on,” he urged thickly. “Let’s go to my cabin. I think we could both use some coffee.”

Rook nodded, trying unsuccessfully to smile. His face was tortured with so many emotions, but new hope burned in his dark-gray eyes. “Yes….”

In his cabin, Rook sat on the tiny bunk, the mug gripped tightly between her cold hands. Noah sat on the chair, the desk behind him. This time the silence wasn’t stilted.

“You never gave up on me,” Rook said, her voice still raw. “Why?”

“Because you were my sister. How can you ignore your own blood, Rook?”

“I did a pretty good job of it, didn’t I?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was Jack’s.” Her voice hardened. “He was sick, Noah. Sick!”

“Right now he’s in a mental hospital. Did you know that?”

Rook gasped and looked over at Noah. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, last year my stepmother had him committed. He was diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic. Even the medication hasn’t helped him.”

“My God.”

Noah nodded thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. “He did a lot of damage to all of us, Rook.”

“Worst of all, to you. He made you think Mom didn’t love you, and she did—always.”

“I know that now,” he whispered, “thanks to you.”

Rook rubbed her face, emotionally exhausted. “God, so much suffering, so many lost years that we’ll never be able to make up.” Her eyes softened as she held her brother’s red-rimmed gaze. “Worst of all, you never had Mom’s love.”

“I had a stepmother.”

Rook shook her head. “I don’t care what you say, Noah, it had to hurt you—deeply.” Forever…

“I survived.” He mustered a sad smile. “We both did, despite some pretty awful circumstances. And look at us. We’ve both grown up, we’re responsible adults who care about others. Things could have turned out a lot worse. No, we’re well off, despite all that other stuff.”

“Noah Caldwell—the eternal optimist.”

He grinned. “And you, the eternal pessimist.”

“Guess we’re a good balance for each other, huh?”

His smile widened, warmth shining in his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you show me those letters sooner?”

“It was obvious to me that if I tried to push you too hard, I’d destroy any chance of getting you to sit still long enough to hear me out. I had to wait.”

“You always did have patience.”

“And you never did.”

“No, it’s not one of my strong points.”

Noah cleared his throat, holding Rook’s softened gaze. “You’ll never know how much it meant to me for you to show up yesterday when all hell was breaking loose.”

“I fought myself all afternoon. I knew they’d brought you and your crew in. I kept telling myself I didn’t want to see you. Why should I go hold your hand? You’d never held ours.” Rook shrugged, giving him an apologetic look. “I was trying to punish you for past transgressions.”

“In the end, you came, Sis.”

“Yes….”

Noah reached out and gripped her hand. “You were there for me because I was your brother, and I was in trouble. That’s when I knew it was time to show you those letters. I was going to show them to you as soon as the incident was cleared up, one way or another.”

She squeezed his hand. “In my heart, I knew you’d never shoot a whale.” And then Rook smiled shakily. “You were always so chivalrous. I swear, in some ways, you’re a throwback to the days of knighthood.”

Laughing, Noah stood, feeling the last of the weight he’d carried for all those years slipping free of his shoulders. “Come on, you need to get home and catch up on some sleep. You’ve still got dark shadows under your eyes.”

Rook moved off the bunk, placing the mug on the desk. “Uh-oh, there you go, starting to act like a mother hen.”

Noah opened the cabin door. “Wrong,” he told her with a devilish grin. “It’s called acting like a brother. You might as well get used to it, Rook Caldwell.”

With a dramatic groan, Rook laughed freely. The sound carried throughout the cutter. “Just remember, there’s only eighteen months difference in our ages, so don’t go getting too pushy and know-it-all with me.”

“Agreed. But from now on, let’s use each other’s strength in times of need, okay?”

“Okay.”

It was time. Chappie glanced out the window of his office toward the quiet hangar bay. The doors were closed against the weather, which had turned foul, with rain and winds exceeding thirty-five knots and thirty-foot waves at sea. Gale warnings had been posted throughout the day. A powerful Alaskan cold front was bearing down on them. He’d purposely stayed late, until the day crew had left. The only ones on duty now were Lieutenants Scanlon and Caldwell. A grizzled smiled pulled at his mouth. Annie Locke was flight mech for tonight. Good. Everything was in order. He’d waited with the patience of a hungry wolf, watching his quarry for the last three weeks.

Chappie had been smart: he’d let the station settle down after the whale incident and the funeral for Welsh’s wife before making his move. When Locke’s error came to light, he wanted the whole station to be focused on it, not detoured by some other crisis. The watch on his wrist read 11 p.m. By now, the SAR pilots were asleep. Locke was already in the duty quarters across the way, with the door shut and lights off.

Moving to CG 1224, the helo that was prepped and ready for a SAR call, he stole through the open fuselage door. Making his way forward, he halted before going into the cockpit, looking right and then left. The hangar was buried in deep gloom; only a few necessary lights illuminated the area.

Chappie settled into the right-hand seat. His hands trembled as he unscrewed the top of the channel monitor panel to the right of the pilot’s seat. Glancing around again, he pulled the wires that led to the hardover switches of the automatic stabilization equipment, or ASE. Scraping one wire carefully with his penknife he then put two drops of saltwater on it. Satisfied, sweat beading his wrinkled brow, he screwed the plate back into place.

The nose of the ’60 had a tendency to turn in the direction of flight. That was due to a large, flat plate area aft of the main rotor shaft. The ASE improved the helicopter’s basic flying qualities, in conjunction with the cyclic stick trim system, and was capable of maintaining a desired attitude with minimal assistance from the pilot.

Chappie slid out of the seat, making sure his presence in the cockpit would never be discovered. An electrical ASE hardover could occur now. The ASE could become a critical item—especially at night, or if the SAR was taking place during high winds or dangerous conditions. If any of those combinations occurred, the pilot could get vertigo and lose his sense of direction. Then the helo could crash. Or, if the SAR was at a critical phase when the hardover occurred, it could push the pilot over the edge, snapping his concentration and he might create an in-flight emergency.

Jarvis didn’t anticipate anything as dangerous as that happening. The ASE had only ten percent control over the flight attitude of a helo. If the pilot was on top of things, and he didn’t doubt that Scanlon would be, the hardover would be overridden with a simple flight correction on his part, and then the channel could be disengaged—or, if that didn’t work, the ASE off switch could be punched on the cyclic stick and the system would be shut down.

He checked the maintenance record on CG 1224 and saw Locke’s initials signing off a previous ASE discrepancy. Earlier that day, she had also done the normal inspection on the helo. When Scanlon got back from the SAR case, he’d have to down the aircraft. Then Chappie would have Locke’s ass right where he wanted it. He would put her on report for failing to do a complete and proper QA check on her helo and endangering the crew, as well as potentially losing an expensive helo. Letting the maintenance record fall back on the board, Chappie smiled. He’d get even with her for squealing on him. One way or another, she’d pay—in spades. Now, all he had to do was wait and hope for a SAR case tonight. With this kind of weather, there was bound to be some boat or yacht caught in the grips of high seas and the hammering wind. Someone would need assistance out there.

“Hey, Rook, wake up.” Ty leaned over, giving her a good shake. Rook was in her rumpled flight suit, sleeping on the couch in the ready room. The television was on, but had gone off the air a long time ago. It was 2 a.m.

“I’m up,” Rook mumbled, sitting up. Automatically, she slipped into her flight boots while Ty went back down to the SAR desk. She stumbled after him, sleepiness quickly replaced by alertness. Adrenaline was pumping through her now.

A cup of hot coffee was waiting for her when she joined Ty at the desk, falling into her normal duties as copilot.

“What have we got?”

“An SOS from a disabled yacht with three people aboard. They’re going to need to be airlifted out.” Ty answered. “This is going to be a rough flight.”

Rook turned and looked out the rain-glazed window. “Ugly might be a better word.”

He nodded, his mouth thinning as he wrote down the necessary information. “Winds are thirty-five knots out there. We’ve got a report from a tanker twenty miles west of where the signal was picked up, and he’s reporting thirty-to forty-foot waves.”

Her heart started to pound. All her previous cases had been fair-weather rescues. “You’re joking.”

“Wish I was.”

“But—this is July. They said—”

“This is typical Northern Pacific weather,” Ty muttered unhappily. “We’ve got heavy head winds, and it’s going to slow us down getting to the spot. They’re sending a Falcon jet from Astoria to assist us. They’ll locate the distressed boat and lead us to it.”

Rook tried to ignore the chill that stalked her. Nightmare cases like this one made her uneasy. Undetected turbulence could test even the most experienced pilot’s abilities. Pursing her lips, she reached for the charts. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”

Ty shook his head. “What a mother of a night for a case….”

Annie Locke’s face was grim. And so was that of Beau Jones, their rescue swimmer. It made Rook even jumpier. She had less than three months of SAR training under her belt, and this rescue worried her. Ty knew she wasn’t fully trained to help if they got in trouble—at least, not in the rescue portion, if something happened to him.

Getting the helo checked for flight and lifting off into the darkness helped settle Rook’s nerves. As they flew past the last Washington landmass and headed out over the Pacific Ocean, Rook strained to see the water five hundred feet below them. She could see nothing. The rain pounded furiously against the cockpit windows, severely limiting visibility. The soft red glow of the panel lights bathed their faces. Nothing but blackness lay outside the thin skin of the struggling, shuddering ’60. What little Rook could see was evidenced by the lights on the fuselage, blinking rapidly in the turgid darkness of the howling storm.

Scanlon glanced over at Rook and saw the tension on her face. Christ, what was he going to do? He’d better be able to pull this case off on his own. It wasn’t her fault, he reminded himself. Both Logan and Welsh, who had flown with Rook on a couple of other rescues, had high praise for her touch with a helo. They said she was a pro and not to worry about her being behind a stick. That was good. This was the first chance he’d had to fly with her. The duty roster had been so screwed up lately that copilots flew frequently with the same pilots.

Tonight, he’d need everything Rook had to give him. From his own years of experience, he knew a basket hoist would be the only way to rescue the people on board that yacht. Scanlon’s eyes narrowed as he concentrated on his instrument flying. The cyclic vibrated in his right hand, but the collective, which sat on the left side of his seat, felt good and solid. The ’60 was working well. He breathed another bit of relief: Annie was tops in flight maintenance. Not that the other flight mechs weren’t. He simply trusted her a bit more because she was such a stickler for details when she worked on a helo. And right now, Ty knew he was going to need all those infinitesimal extras to pull off this SAR case. With the present weather conditions, they would have to refuel at Neah Bay and La Push, in order to go out over the rescue site with a full load on board.

Jarvis could hardly wait for the ’60 to land. He’d sat in his office, following the rescue on radio. The transmissions from CG 1224 had been sparse and terse. He was delighted when he heard Scanlon on the radio instead of the copilot. So, Caldwell had had to take over the rescue. The electrical hardover must have occurred or Scanlon wouldn’t have given the controls to such a green copilot. Two ambulances from Mercy Hospital were standing by near the hangar bay doors, waiting to transfer the three survivors once the helo landed. It was 0310. Chappie rubbed his hands together, congratulating himself.

CG 1224 returned to the station at 0400. While Annie slid the fuselage door open, Rook sat limply in the left-hand seat, completely wrung out. Her flight suit was damp with sweat. Her hands ached and so did her forearms, shoulders and neck. Midway through, the helo had had unexpected flight difficulties. Ty Scanlon had developed a case of vertigo and had handed the controls over to her. Thank God she had been able to complete the rescue and fly them back without further incident.

Ty leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, silence filtering into the cabin. They should go through their checks, but right now, they both needed a few minutes to collect themselves.

“You did a good job, Rook.”

She snorted softly. “Yeah, if you call five tries before I got the basket on the deck good.”

“You got the men off safely and hoisted them. That’s all that counts.”

“Did you see how much fuel we have left?”

“Not much. It’s okay.”

Gradually, some of the knots were beginning to work out of Rook’s fingers and lower arms. She turned her head and sat up. “How are you feeling?”

“I didn’t have vertigo again after we discovered it was the ASE hardover.”

“Good.” A pilot with severe or continuing vertigo would have to go to the medical officer and be examined. A pilot could be grounded until a doctor was convinced that he wouldn’t experience the dangerous condition again. “I’m sure it was caused by the hardover.”

“It had to be. I’ve never had vertigo before—ever.”

Rook stirred and unstrapped, beginning to feel shaky now as the adrenaline left her bloodstream. Annie had gotten the survivors into the ambulance. Rook watched as the flight mech climbed back into the helo.

“Ms. Caldwell, what happened up here?” she asked worriedly, crouching between the two seats.

Rook’s heart went out to Annie. Her freckled face was waxen looking, her eyes dark with concern. The flight mech who rode in the helo was also responsible for servicing it properly. She knew what Annie was thinking: that she was responsible for the malfunction.

“We experienced an ASE electrical hardover.”

Annie reached out, touching the lower radio console with her trembling fingers. “I can’t figure it out. I did my periodic check on this bird only two hours before the call. The ASE was working fine then.” She turned to Ty, apology in her strained voice. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Scanlon.”

“Annie, it’s a fluke. I know how well you maintain the helos. You’ve got a clean record. Don’t worry about it.” He managed a weary but genuine smile for Annie, giving her a well-deserved pat on the shoulder. “You did a hell of a job out there. We couldn’t have done it without you, Annie.”

Rook nodded. “You were the greatest, Annie. Now, I see why all the pilots pray for you to be on the duty roster when a case comes in.”

Annie lowered her lashes, a blush bringing color back to her features. “Gosh…thanks….”

Rook saw anxiety in her drawn features. “We’ll have to down the bird,” she told her.

Annie nodded, understanding. “As soon as I can get a dry set of clothes on, we’ll bring the helo in, take off that plate and see what went wrong.”

“Fine,” Ty agreed, beginning to unstrap. “Go get cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Annie ran through the rain, visor down on her helmet to shield her eyes from the deluge. She halted just inside the now-quiet hangar and shoved the visor back up into her helmet. With shaking hands, she unsnapped the chin strap and pulled the helmet off. When she straightened up, Chief Jarvis was standing no more than ten feet away from her. She saw a savage gleam in his eyes.

“Looks like you fucked up real good, Locke,” he began softly. “An ASE electrical hardover? What’s the matter, you cheating on your QA checks and just signing them off, instead?”

Anger roared through her as she stood there with the helmet in the crook of her right arm. Physically, mentally and emotionally drained, Annie struggled to hold on to her temper. “The day I sign off a discrepancy on a helo without checking it first will be the day I die, Chief.”

Chappie smiled wolfishly. “You damn near just killed two fine pilots, not to mention the three men you picked up.” He walked slowly toward her, his face mirroring his pleasure. Jabbing a finger into her shoulder he snarled, “You didn’t do your job, Locke. You got lazy because those QA checks are boring, and you damn near cost a lot of lives, not to mention a helo.”

“Now, look here, Chief, I checked that helo out two hours before we flew!”

“Doesn’t appear to be that way, Locke.” He gloated as Annie started coming loose, like an unraveling ball of yarn. “One thing I learned about you, Locke, a long time ago, was your false pride in your work. Of course, with your looks, maybe work is all you have to take pride in.”

Annie gripped her helmet hard, wanting to throw a punch into the chief’s smiling face. “You bastard,” she hissed. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? You’ve been wanting me to make a mistake for so long that—”

Jarvis stepped up to her, his face inches from hers. “You’re on report, Locke, for insubordination.”

Shaken, Annie took a step back, realizing what she had done. After taking a year of Jarvis riding her almost daily, she’d done the one thing she swore she wouldn’t do: talk back to the mealy-mouthed bastard. “But, I—”

“You’re on report, Locke. I’m also pulling you off duty as ready crew for the rest of the night.”

“But, Chief, I want to pull the ASE apart and check it out—”

“I’ll do it. I’m the chief here. I’m going to find out what really happened.”