Broken Honor (29 page)

He disappeared inside the deli, stopping first to pick up several newspapers. They were late for lunch and early for supper, so business was light. Within five minutes, he left the deli with two bulging sacks of food.

They didn't eat there. Instead, he drove around until he found a park. They all needed to get out of the car. Bo was particularly eager, especially after Irish filled the dog's new dish with water from the park restroom.

“What now?” she asked as she fed Bo part of a sandwich.

“This is a Navy city. Sailors live here six months, then ship out. There are lots of visitors and a lot of turnover in trailer parks.”

“How long do you plan to stay here?”

“Until we can arrange a meeting with Eachan. See if he knows anything about my sudden transfer.”

She didn't say anything, but her gaze stayed on him, her big gray eyes solemn and just a little distant. They were far more cautious than they had been yesterday on the beach. He felt as if he'd lost something very valuable.

It was for the best
.

They finished in silence. He looked at the paper. Nothing about either him or Amy. He skipped over to the want ads. He was aware that Amy had stood and walked away, obviously taking Bo for a stroll.

He found trailer parks, then rentals. He circled three. Then he turned to the used cars section, and he circled several offerings. When he finished, he stood, waiting for Amy to return.

They had to get a place to stay. He was still weak, still hurting. They needed a temporary headquarters, and he knew the language of the military. He would bet his last dollar that the trailer parks were either owned or managed by retired sailors.

He considered his appearance. He needed to do something about that. When Amy returned, he headed for the car and his newly acquired goods, including his shaving gear, and returned to her side.

“Do you mind staying out here for a few moments? I should get cleaned up.”

“I'll be fine.”

“You have the pistol with you?”

“Yes.”

“If you see or hear anything suspicious, come after me.”

She nodded and sat down.

He didn't want to leave her again, even for a few moments. But he had left her earlier when he'd gone shopping, and that would have been a better opportunity for an attack than this. Too many people here.

The public restroom was empty. He shaved at the sink. Then he changed clothes. Jeans. The long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His face still looked as if he'd been in one hell of a fight, but there was nothing he could do about that. He might even make it work to his advantage.

It was the damned telephone call to Eachan that bothered him. He no longer felt he could use his cell phone. Nor did he want to use a public phone anyplace close to where they were staying. Once settled, he would drive to Portsmouth and call from there. Fifty miles away. He didn't like it, but he no longer underestimated the other side's resources.

Amy tried to relax as she waited for Flaherty. She'd hated the tension that had accompanied them today, but she didn't know how to break it.

She tried not to think of him inside the restroom. His face had been darkened by stubble this morning, and the assorted bruises and cuts made him look as much the ruffian as she'd ever seen. They went with his cool, detached words this morning about his mother, about his dedication to a life that allowed little intimacy.

It contrasted so completely with the gentleness and warmth he radiated on the beach yesterday. Before the world crashed in on them again.

She swallowed hard as he exited the restroom. He was completely changed. He was clean-shaven, and he wore a cap that in some way changed everything about him. His jaw seemed more slack, his eyes not quite as wary. Only that intriguing crook of his lips seemed the same.

She had seen actors change their appearance not through makeup or clothes, but the way they carried themselves, the facial expressions that distinguished a businessman from a street person. She'd never known anyone who could do it.

“You look different,” she said.

“That's the idea,” he replied with a quirk of his lips.

She stared at him, wondering if she knew him at all. “Have you worked undercover before?”

“A few times.”

Something else she hadn't known but should have guessed. She'd known, of course, that he was with CID, and she knew a little about that agency. After meeting him, she had found its site on the web. The most interesting things were its independence from the regular chain of command, and that most of its agents were warrant officers or civilians. But he obviously had been groomed for command within the service.

He was, all in all, an enigma.

She followed him to the car. “I should change, too.”

“You're perfect as you are,” he said.

Knowing exactly how she looked, she wasn't sure what he meant by that.

They got into the car. “Where now?”

“Gas and a city map,” he said. “Then we're going to find a suitably disreputable truck and rent a trailer.”

“Why a truck?”

“We can't drive up to a trailer park in an upscale rental car and claim we've been mugged.”

“We've been mugged?”

“Better than what really happened. Also explains why we don't have identification.”

“Then how do we have money to pay for anything?”

“A friend wired us some.”

She looked toward him and lifted an eyebrow. “You're a very good liar.”

“Sometimes it's a necessary skill in my line of work.” He hesitated, then added, “You're Lori Hunt. I'm Al Hunt. Retired Chief Petty Officer.”

“Lori,” she said, tasting the sound of it. “I always wanted to be a Lori.”

His lips turned up. “Why is that?”

“Lori sounds exotic.”

“I think you
are
exotic.”

“I'm a plain, ordinary history teacher.”

“Is that what you think?”

Amy didn't answer. They were turning onto a main road. As had been her habit in the past week, she scanned the streets behind them. But she knew she used that as an excuse. Her description was
exactly
what she'd thought. Her life had certainly taken on a certain … complacency. She'd given up notions of a white knight, of a great romance.

She had great reservations as to whether Irish Flaherty could ever be that. He certainly had made it clear that he wanted no permanent bonds, but maybe that was a necessary quality for knight errants.

She just wished it didn't hurt so much. As much as she wanted to save her physical self, she also wanted to protect her heart.

Flaherty made a turn and she saw several used car lots. He drove into one. “This shouldn't take long,” he said.

She really wanted to go with him. She was becoming fascinated with the Machiavellian way his mind worked.

But she couldn't because of Bo. And, she suspected, she might well ruin Flaherty's plan. She waited.

“I want cheap transportation for my son,” Irish told the salesman. “He's turning seventeen next week. But,” he warned, “reliable.”

The salesman gave him a huge grin. “Got just what you want. We specialize in old but well-maintained vehicles. Now what sum are we thinking about?”

Irish noted the
we
. “I was thinking about something around five hundred.”

The grin faded a little. “Now that might be asking a little much. Hey, what happened to your face?”

“Mugged,” Irish said. “Last night.” He shoved the bill of his cap a little farther down on his forehead as if in serious thought. “Why don't you just tell me what you have?”

“Can't get anything manufactured in the nineties for that.”

“Didn't think so.”

“Well we might have an '88. But can't let you have it for less than eight hundred. Be losing money if I did.”

“I'll look at it.”

He was led to the back of the lot, past a number of brightly washed cars with prices scribbled on their windows. There were a few sad-sack vehicles at the very back.

The salesman led him to one. “Trade-ins,” he said. “Haven't had time to pretty 'em up. But we wouldn't have taken them if they didn't run right.”

There were three vehicles. All of them probably headed toward the junk heap or the salvage dealer. One was an old station wagon. Two were sedans from the mid-eighties. No pickup.

“My kid wanted a pickup.”

“Sorry. This is all we got.”

Irish eyed the station wagon. But no kid would want that. He moved to the second sedan. An ugly purple. But a kid might like it. If it ran.

“How much is the purple number?”

“A thousand.”

Irish raised an eyebrow. “Does it run?”

The salesman looked indignant. “I'll bring the keys.”

A moment later, Irish turned the key in the ignition. It turned, but sounded rough as hell.

“Piece of junk,” he told the salesman. “But my kid is good with cars. Tell you what, I'll give you that five hundred I mentioned.”

“Nine hundred,” the salesman said.

“Can't get that much by selling to salvage, and you know that's all it's good for.”

“
You
want it,” the salesman retorted.

“Want is an exaggeration. I'll take it off your hands for, say, six hundred. Not a penny more.”

The salesman looked pained. “My boss will have my hide.”

“Your boss will be ecstatic. You won't have this eyesore sitting in your lot.”

“You a Navy man?”

Irish grinned widely. “How did you know?”

“Do a lot of business with 'em. Was in the Navy myself.”

“My kid's planning to enlist when he finishes high school.”

The salesman's face cleared. “I think we can arrange something.”

“I hoped you could,” Irish said.

Minutes later, with car registration papers proclaiming Al Hunt as the proud new owner of a purple eyesore, Irish returned to the car. “We passed an apartment complex down the road. I'll meet you there. We'll leave the rental car there.”

Amy eyed the purple car dubiously. “Do we have to?”

“I'm afraid so. It's just for a couple of days.”

She sighed, then moved over to the driver's side and started the car. He followed her to the apartment complex, and they transferred all they owned. Bo. The boxes of her grandfather's papers. The suitcase with their meager belongings. Her laptop computer. The cooler.

He drove the recently purchased car out of the complex. It was like riding in a tank. The air-conditioning didn't work. Her window came down halfway, then stuck. “You have a real eye for cars,” she observed.

“I think so,” he replied with equanimity.

He handed her a map. “Can you find Fourth and Cedar? It's southeast.”

She found the spot on the map and guided him easily. He found himself smiling at the precise, concise way she did it. She did so much just like that. She concentrated, and never let anything get in her way.

He would miss her. He would miss her very much when this was over.

More, in fact, than he ever wanted to admit.

He shoved the thought aside as a string of trailer parks appeared. He found the one he was searching for, and drove in, parking in front of a building with an “Office” sign outside.

The trailers and their small sites looked neat and well-kept. He wasn't sure whether that would be an advantage or a disadvantage. Well, he had several other prospects.

He got out of the car and went around to Amy's side. He opened the door. “Ready, Lori Hunt?”

Her gaze met his and never wavered. He was beginning to understand that she liked challenges. She might not know it, or recognize it, but she was a competitor, a warrior in her own right, on her own terms.

She left the windows open and Bo in the car. He understood now that Bo was never going to go anywhere on his own. He was still amazed that the shy, affectionate dog had attacked someone in that Jekyll Island motel.

They opened the door and went inside. A man in his fifties—a paunch showing in what obviously had once been a fit body—sat at a desk. He looked up, scanning their faces. His gaze lingered on Irish's battered one, then at the newspaper ad in his hand.

“Can I help you?”

“You had an ad for a furnished trailer?”

The man nodded noncommittally.

“I'm Al Hunt. This is my wife, Lori. Our son's a squid on a sub that's due in next week. We're planning to stay a couple of months and visit with him.”

At the words, the man's face relaxed. “We have a lot of sailors here.”

“I thought we'd be more comfortable here. You see, I'm retired Navy myself. Finished my twenty a few months ago, and my wife and I drove here from California. Problem is, we were mugged last night, attacked in a state park. Lost all our identification. A friend wired me some money, but.…”

“Retired Navy, you say. Me, too. Retired fifteen years ago. Chief Petty Officer.” He stuck out his hand. “Sam Beard. Don't worry about anything. I'll see you get what you need. Your kid's following the old man, huh? My kids couldn't get far enough from the Navy. One's a banker,” he added with disgust.

“Yeah, I'm lucky,” Irish said. “It's hard on the wife, though.”

Sam Beard looked at her enviously. “Forgive me for saying so, ma'am, but you hardly look old enough to have a grown child.”

Irish put his arm back around her. “We were married real young. Worked out good, though, didn't it, honey?”

“Yes, darling,” she cooed.

“Nice to see a couple together after all those years. Mine left me. Gone too much, she said.” He looked at Irish's face. “Those muggers did that?”

“Yeah. Didn't see one hiding in the shadows. They started roughing up my wife, and I took exception. They might have done something worse if they didn't hear someone coming.” He hesitated. “I thought someone might be following.…”