Broken Honor (10 page)

Visitors had dropped by. Sherry brought her books and clothes, and told her about Jon's funeral. The colonel stopped by several times, but he'd had nothing new to offer. Neither had the police. They'd shown her the composite sketch the police artist had produced from Colonel Flaherty's description, and wanted to know whether she could add anything. But she'd been in a drug-induced fog, the room had been dark, and she had barely caught a glimpse of the assailant.

She stared at the composite for a long time. This was the man who had tried to kill her. She hoped it was a close likeness. Flaherty said it was, but she'd too often seen composites that looked nothing like the real person. Still, she'd stared at it, memorizing every feature.

The detectives reported they had picked up her boxes from the security office and gone through them. Nothing interesting turned up. Could she review the contents? Perhaps she would find something they hadn't.

She intended to do exactly that. Until now, her concentration had been weakened by drugs. But on her release, the police said they would deliver the boxes to her hotel room. They had dusted for fingerprints, and now their only value as evidence seemed to be whether she could find something in them. She used her wound as an excuse not to go to police headquarters to pore over their contents.

And the colonel? She wished she could trust him, but after the last few days she couldn't trust anyone. Not even those eyes that made her
want
to trust him.

He'd shown up yesterday with flowers.

“To make up for the ones I squashed,” he'd said with that odd little quirk of his lips that was too darn appealing. He'd dominated the room with his restless presence, and his attempts to tame it were very unsuccessful.

He had eyed the copy of the composite sitting on the table next to her. “No one you've met?”

The police had asked the same question. “No.” She hesitated, then asked, “Is it very accurate?”

“I'm good at faces, Miss Mallory. And we were very close to each other. It's as good as one of those things can be.”

“It's odd,” she said, “looking at a picture of someone you don't know but who tried to kill you.” Her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

He nodded, hesitated a moment, then said, “The police said they didn't find anything in that … box that was taken from your friend's office. Would you mind if I looked?”

Her gaze met his. “I thank you for saving my life that night,” she said. “And I appreciate the flowers. But I want to go through my grandfather's possessions before anyone else does.”

He nodded as if he expected the answer. “And then?”

“Then I will decide.”

He smiled at that. It was a very attractive smile, especially since it touched his eyes, making the skin around them crinkle. “I don't think I would ever want you as an adversary,” he said lightly.

She fought an answering smile. He wanted something from her. It was nothing more. “Is this happening to anyone else?” she asked. “To the other families?”

“Not that I've discovered. I've warned them, though.”

Thank God, he didn't add that he was not even sure that it was her relationship to General Mallory that had caused this … curse. Nothing else made sense. “You will let me know?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Whoever is behind this must know that I'm here, probably even that I've contacted the Eachans. That might deter them.”

“Or it might not,” she said.

His silence gave her the answer.

“I have sources you don't,” he said. “And neither do the police. I can help you.”

She was considering that, and whether she could—or should—trust him when a nurse entered the room.

He stood for a moment, obviously uncertain, then gave her a slight smile. “I better go. I'll be back in the morning.”

She nodded, feeling the oddest sense of loss, and unhappy at herself for regretting the interruption. She couldn't trust him. She couldn't trust anyone at this point.…

That had been yesterday, and she hadn't really expected him to return today. She'd tried to distract herself by making plans for the next few weeks. Her tenure meeting was in three weeks, and she still had some preparation to do. The bulk of the paperwork was done and had been submitted. But there were several additional letters she had requested that had not yet arrived, one last grant application she had almost completed, and the matter of ensuring that all her publications had been included. One had disappeared, and she was trying to find a copy. If only she didn't need to stay in Memphis.

Or did she?

Her classes were over now. She had one day's work on final grades and paperwork. She'd wanted to consult with Jon about one student. But Jon was dead. Jon, her mentor, who had written one of the letters of recommendation for her tenure.

A deep sense of loss flooded her again. Not because Jon couldn't help her, but because of their friendship. She also knew she had to be realistic, no matter how much it hurt. She'd lost her strongest supporter in a department that was none too friendly to women.

She would go through everything again, see if there was something she'd overlooked, perhaps even try to get more letters from her lectures at other universities. But how could she do that when fear haunted her? It was a living thing within her now. Boring in like a parasite.

If nothing else, her innocence was gone forever. So was the illusion of safety in her own home.

Maybe a week at the beach was what she needed. She would take the boxes that belonged to her grandfather—and the materials she'd put together for the tenure meeting, and Bojangles—and go somewhere no one could find her. And she
would
be careful. She would use another name at a motel; she could do that if she paid in cash. Once she took off in the car, she would make sure no one followed.

She felt like a fugitive from a spy novel. There had to be an explanation. A logical, sensible, nonparanoid explanation. People just didn't try to kill people like her.

Oh, a random street mugging, maybe. Even a burglar. But someone desperate enough to go into a hospital room with flowers in her name? That was serious stalking.

She still couldn't believe what had happened. Despite an unusual childhood, she'd never really felt physically unsafe. She'd survived the constant moves, her mother's boyfriends, the lack of stability, but part of her had hungered for normalcy, or what she considered normalcy. Though a few of her mother's views took root in her, most had not. Like her mother, she hated injustice. Unlike her mother, she'd never believed that copping out—or breaking the law—solved the problem.

Her grandfather had had more of an impact on her than he had ever known. His sense of honor had invaded her psyche, despite her mother's disdain for the military. Which was why, she knew, she wanted to get to the bottom of this affair. Her grandfather would have wanted it. She knew that as sure as she knew that someone on the hospital staff would wake her at midnight.

“Ah, Grandfather,” she whispered. “What is going on? What might you have left me that someone would kill for?”

Now she wished with all her heart that she had gone through his papers at the time of his death. But she'd been heartbroken. They'd had a long and rocky relationship, but in the end he was the only family she'd had. She hadn't realized how much she'd come to love him during his last courageous months. She was in college then, in an accelerated program that took all her time. It only made sense to sell his house. She had glanced through his belongings and sold most of them, but kept his papers, always intending to go back and examine them thoroughly. Instead, they had remained in a storage facility. She hadn't looked at them again until Jon had asked her whether he'd left papers. Or had
she
mentioned them to
him
?

Now she realized she'd been trying to escape the reality of her grandfather's death by putting his possessions in storage. She hadn't wanted reminders. When she was stronger, she'd told herself. And then she let month after month go by, then years.

The phone rang, and she picked it up. One of the friends she'd asked to check on Colonel Flaherty was on the line.

“I think he's who he says he is,” Eric said. “I have a photo I'll bring over later. He's with CID, as he said, and apparently is one of their best people. Commanded a unit in Kosovo and is in line for battalion command. His grandfather
was
your grandfather's commanding officer during the last months in World War II.”

“Is there any other family?”

“Doesn't look like it,” Eric said.

“Does the man in the photo have dark hair, a lean face? A small indentation in his chin?”

“You described him.”

So Lieutenant Colonel Lucien Flaherty was who he said he was. Why did she not feel safer? “Thank you, Eric,” she said. “I don't think I have to see the photo.”

“Righto. Anytime I can help.”

“I might take you up on that.”

“I'm surprised at you, Professor. Hacking into the Defense Department.”

“All in a good cause, Eric.”

“And that is …?”

“My life.”

There was a long silence, then he said somberly, “Take care.”

“I will,” she said.

She slowly put the receiver into the cradle. What now?

She'd already been told she was being discharged today. An hour. Or two. And then the doctor would be here, telling her she could leave.

Amy sat on the side of the bed and tried to analyze her situation. Physically, she was much better. Her side was stiff, but the world no longer spun in crazy arcs. Emotionally, though, she felt overwhelmed. She hadn't felt that way for years, not since she was thirteen and her mother died, and there was no one to turn to, no one but a name that belonged to a man in an old photograph, a portrait of a man with a stern expression.

She'd been bewildered, then, when the social workers had come to get her. They wanted to know whether she had family. She had a photograph. Nothing else. It had been several weeks before they had located him because her mother used another name. Amy hadn't wanted to go with him then; she hadn't wanted to go with someone who'd disapproved of her mother. She'd been scared, but tried hard not to show it.

Amy was scared now, and she was still trying damned hard not to show it.

She dressed in a pair of slacks and blouse that Sherry had brought earlier, the few pitiful pieces of clothing she'd bought since her home went up in flames. She looked at them again and fought back tears.

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened. It was the police officer who guarded her room. And the colonel.

“Is everything all right, Miss?” the police officer asked.

She nodded.

“The colonel asked to see you. Is that all right?”

Not exactly, but at the moment any company would be a diversion from her very dark thoughts. She nodded.

“I'll be outside if you need me,” the officer said, casting a doubtful eye at Lieutenant Colonel Flaherty, dressed casually in blue jeans and a dark blue shirt. Unfortunately, he looked as striking as he had before.

“The doctor said you could leave this afternoon. Can I offer you a ride home?”

She hesitated, suddenly wanting to take him up on the offer. She didn't want to go to the hotel alone, and Sherry had a meeting with her adviser this afternoon. She'd had no idea how long it would take.

Her visitor held out a card. “You can call this number,” he said. “My commanding officer will vouch for me.”

“I don't have to,” she said. “A friend of mine already checked you out.”

He looked surprised, then impressed. “Good girl,” he said.

“I'm not a girl, Colonel,” she said a little waspily. She hated to be called a girl. She'd worked too hard to get her doctorate and now a full professorship.

“Irish,” he said.

Her puzzlement must have shown in her eyes.

“Nearly everyone calls me Irish.”

“Why?”

“If you had a first name like Lucien, you wouldn't ask that question,” he said with that damnably attractive smile.

He was being charming, and she didn't want to be charmed. Still, she couldn't resist. “Where did Lucien come from?”

“Damned if I know. My mother had probably just seen a movie and liked it, and my older brother had been named after my father. At his insistence. I think Lucien was my mother's revenge.”

“I like it,” she said.

“
You
weren't called Lucy when you were a boy.”

She couldn't help a smile. It was probably a weak one, but it was a smile. She couldn't imagine someone calling the man in front of her Lucy. But kids could be cruel. She'd been taunted as a child because she didn't have a father, then because she was so tall. She'd struck back once and bloodied a boy's nose. Her mother had been appalled. Violence, she'd said, never solved anything. But it
had
solved her immediate problem. From then on, the teasing was behind her back.

“You smiled,” he observed.

“I did,” she admitted. “You have to admit I haven't had much to smile about since we met.” She paused. “And again, thank you. If you hadn't come in.…”

He shook his head. “I'm afraid I may have stirred things up. When I read about the investigation, I made some calls. Maybe if I hadn't.…”

“Has
your
home been invaded?”

He hesitated, then said, “I'm not sure. My grandfather had a ranch in Colorado. I inherited it, but I haven't spent much time there. When I read about the commission report, I did go through his papers. There was nothing there that touched on the months when he served in Austria. But someone could have gotten to them before I did. I've been gone for months at a time. There's a ranch foreman, but he has his own place and is often out on the range. A maid cleans my house every month, but she's completely trustworthy.”