Conard County Marine (4 page)

“Do you talk about your problems?” She watched him start.

“My problems?”

“You’ve been in combat, haven’t you? Surely you’ve got some wounds from that.”

He looked down, but didn’t release her hand. “I don’t talk about that much, for obvious reasons.”

“But you’ve learned to live with it?”

He glanced at her, his expression almost rueful. “I’m still learning. I’m good at hiding it.”

She sighed, feeling the warmth of his hand. This wasn’t wise, not in her current state. She was letting a man get too close—worse, a stranger. What was she thinking? Had she become that desperate for comfort? The only comfort she was going to find evidently had to come from within herself. “Maybe I should hide it, too.”

“Why? I talk with other people about my experiences. I’ve just found it’s wiser to reserve them for other combat vets. We’re all on the same page. Unfortunately, I don’t know who else would be on the same page with you.”

Except him, she thought. He probably came closest. He’d undoubtedly been under attack. Maybe even wounded. He might understand better than anyone.

“I don’t like being scared,” she said quietly. “Especially of something that’s over. I don’t like the fact that my whole career plan blew up. If I had to forget something, the attack would have been quite enough, without forgetting all the time I put into school. But that’s where I am, and I’m already sick of feeling sorry for myself. I need to move on.”

“Of course. But you’re scared. So...it’ll take a little time. You’ll grow comfortable again. Promise.”

Then he smiled and astonished her by leaning forward to drop a quick light kiss on her hand. Then he rose and stretched. “I want more coffee. You?”

She hadn’t even touched hers and it had grown cold, but it sounded good now. “Thank you.”

Then she was alone again, although not entirely. She could hear him in the kitchen, but it was as if her internal vision was shattered somehow. She could look around the room and recognize every single item except the new TV. Her grandparents’ living room, hardly changed over the years except for the chair she sat on. It should have felt like home. Except something was preventing her from feeling that. In its silent emptiness it had become part of the threat that stalked her. An unresolved threat. The man who had tried to kill her was still out there, and from things she suspected she hadn’t been intended to hear, they thought she’d been attacked by a serial killer. Someone who had done this before and would do it again.

So how could home even feel safe?

*

Coop stood in the kitchen making a fresh pot of coffee. The last one had mostly gone down the sink drain. He liked his coffee, but he didn’t like wasting it. Like when he was in the field, and he’d be lucky to get an opportunity to make one lousy, warm cup of instant coffee. Precious coffee.

Thinking of Kylie was opening a can of worms inside him, too. He couldn’t imagine how alone she must be feeling. She was walking a path that no one else could walk with her. Everyone was trying to make her feel better and take care of her, but that wasn’t enough. She needed to face that demon, or at least talk to someone who understood it.

As he waited for the coffee to finish, he wondered if he should open his own can of worms for her benefit. Just a little. To show her that someone really
could
understand. Holding things inside rarely did much good, which was why he’d been taking full advantage of various veterans groups where folks could get together and share those stories that couldn’t be heard by other ears. That
shouldn’t
be heard.

But Kylie wasn’t going to find a support group for the surviving victims of a serial killer, or any kind of killer, around here. And he doubted there was a whole lot of support anywhere for the victims of amnesia.

Which left him, he guessed. Maybe he could find one story to share with her that would let her know he understood what it was like to live with crawling fear even when you were safe. Yeah, he was getting better at it, but that didn’t mean he was fully past it.

He returned to the living room with two mugs, saying, “I guess I should have asked if you want tea. That seems to be Glenda’s poison.”

She gave him a wan smile. “I like coffee, too. Thanks.”

“It’s the staff of life for me.” Then he volunteered a bit to see what kind of reaction he got. “When I was in the field, we had packets of instant coffee. I was lucky if I could warm it up a little. These days I’ll take a real cup of coffee any time I can get it.”

“I’d imagine so.” Her eyes followed him as he returned to the couch. He could feel her gaze, an instinct as deep in the human race as it was in any prey animal, but honed in his case by experience. When he sat facing her again, he got socked once more by how pretty she was. But it wasn’t just that she was pretty. His body had chosen a very inopportune time to react to a woman. This one was in no condition for
that
.

But how to reach her? He scoured his memory for a way to relate his experience to hers. Maybe generalities, he decided. “I have some idea what you’re going through, Kylie. When I was in a dangerous area, the only way I could tell friend from foe was by a uniform. People who seemed nice and welcoming could turn into killers in an instant. Not always, but often enough that I stopped trusting.”

She nodded, and he thought she was looking almost hungry for what he might say, as if it would help her to feel better in some way. “So, yeah,” he said after a moment. “I know what it’s like to be wondering what’s around the next corner, what’s right behind you, where the threat might be.”

“And now?” she asked.

She wanted more hope than he knew how to offer. “It’s getting better,” he answered truthfully. “It still sometimes hits me hard, but it’s getting easier.”

She bit her lip, then asked, “So you feel it even at home?”

“Of course. Those feelings don’t let go easily.” And sometimes they never let go, but he didn’t add that. The repeated experiences of war were different from a single attack, and if anyone had a decent chance of getting past this, she did. He didn’t want to discourage her in any way.

“But I’m not crazy?”

Shock rippled through him. “Hell, no. Who made you think that?”

“Me,” she admitted. “I can’t remember any of it. But I’m sitting here in a house I know every nook of from my childhood and it’s like... I can’t explain it. It’s like the coziness went away.”

He waited a moment, seeking words that might help without making her more uncomfortable. “When I come home,” he said presently, “I can’t tolerate narrow streets. In fact, I sometimes have trouble driving.”

Her gaze grew intent. “Why?”

“Experience. A narrow street is the perfect setup for an ambush, with no place to run. And driving...well, at times when I drive I see oncoming traffic as a potential threat. It’s like I’m dealing with what’s really there, and what I used to have to fear.”

“But you get past it?” she asked eagerly.

“Eventually. It eases. I get occasional flashes, but just flashes. It doesn’t consume me anymore.”

She nodded, absorbing what he’d said. He didn’t tell her how hard-won that emotional equilibrium was, or that he could still, though rarely, have a really bad flash. She had only one experience to deal with. There was no reason to believe she wouldn’t eventually get almost completely past this.

“But,” he added, “sometimes it’s like living in two worlds, where for a few moments here and there I’m not sure where I am. So if I do something weird, you’ll know why. I haven’t been back very long.” Although the time in Germany had helped ease the transition.

Finally, she sipped some coffee, but he thought she was looking as weary as if she hadn’t slept in a week. Which brought another question to his mind. “Are you sleeping okay?”

She shook her head slowly. “The anxiety hits the minute my head touches the pillow. Finally, I fall asleep, but I wake up again almost every hour with my heart pounding. That’ll pass, too, right?”

“I’m familiar with that. It passes.” Eventually. God, he was beginning to feel as if he were talking to another vet. She might not have had the same experience, but she was having the same fallout. Maybe it was worse for her because she had forgotten so much. He knew a lot of guys who forgot the trauma of their injuries, but they didn’t forget the rest. How much harder might it be when you couldn’t remember anything for such an extended time frame? Imagination failed him.

He spoke. “Did they give you any medicines to help with this?”

She shook her head. “I had some brain damage. I got the feeling they’d rather I didn’t take anything at all, at least not yet. They sure didn’t offer me anything.”

“Tough.” Absolutely tough. He had plenty of friends who were on all kinds of meds to help them over the hump of PTSD. Plus counseling and support groups. He looked at Kylie and realized that family and friends aside, she was more alone than anyone he’d ever known. No one to turn to who could really understand. No real medical support.

And he was getting in deeper by the minute. For a guy who’d come here to take a break and visit his cousin’s kids, he was starting to become involved in more dangerous waters. He wanted to help this woman but he didn’t know how. Not really. All he could do was listen and assure her she wasn’t crazy. And she certainly wasn’t crazy.

He passed his hand over his mouth, thinking again about how pretty she was, how beaten she was and how frail she looked. Where did he find a wedge to start prying her out of the prison the attack had created around her?

Damned if he knew. Hell, he didn’t even know if she had shared any of this with anyone else. Did he seem safe to her because he was a stranger who’d be leaving soon?

He didn’t know. And he wasn’t sure he liked that idea, either. What was happening to him?

*

At some level, Kylie had been listening to herself, wondering at her own frankness, surprised that she felt as if Coop was some kind of kindred spirit. Really, they had little in common, yet here she was spilling her fears to him. She hadn’t even done that with her own sister.

Think about something else
, she told herself.
Talk about something else. Pretend to be a normal person talking about normal things.
God, every time he told her he’d experienced some of what she was going through, she was probably stirring up bad things for him. That wasn’t very kind of her. At any minute he’d probably find a reason he needed to stay at the motel, just to escape her whining.

She sighed and shook her head. “Sorry. I seem to be totally self-involved. And don’t tell me it’s understandable. We both need other things to think about than trauma, yes?”

“Only if it works.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t apologize. I’ve done my own share of this over the years. It’s normal. The brain processes things in bits when they’re overwhelming. Give yourself the processing time.”

“I may be processing for a long time.”

“And maybe not. So Glenda said you’re a nurse, too?”

“I was.”

He leaned forward. “Was?”

“With this memory loss... I was studying to become a physician’s assistant. I can’t remember any of my studies from the last three years. And right now, I doubt anyone would let me take care of a patient as a nurse until they’re sure I haven’t forgotten important parts of that.”

He nodded. “I guess I can see that. And I guess that was exactly the wrong change of subject.”

Her mood shifted a little. Where it came from, she had no idea, but she laughed quietly. “Quite a conundrum. This is one of those wait-and-see things, I guess. Ashley is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Now why had that popped out? One of the disturbing things she had noticed since she awoke was that occasionally things would just pop out of her mouth, things she never would have spoken aloud before. It scared her, because it showed she had lost a basic form of self-control. Thank goodness it was apparently rare. She just hoped it didn’t become permanent.

“Yes, she is,” he answered. “But
you
were the one I noticed.”

Her jaw dropped a little and she felt an astonishing kernel of warmth blossom inside her, driving back the cold that had been consuming her for weeks now. Just a little lifting of the curtain that reminded her she could have normal feelings.

Then he said something more. “You look exhausted. If you don’t want to go up to your room and be alone, how about you stretch out on the couch here and I can keep watch over you. If you won’t feel awkward. Or...you can put your head in my lap for a pillow. I’d kinda like that.”

“But how would you sleep?”

“Lady, I can sleep standing up or hanging off a cliff. No worries.”

It proved to be an offer she couldn’t refuse. Not to be alone. Even after Glenda had come to her apartment they’d slept in separate rooms, leaving her to face the nightmare alone each time she woke.

It would be miraculous not to be alone when she woke in terror. The invitation was irresistible.

Five minutes later, she had a blanket and took the offer of his lap. His thigh was warm and powerful under her head, and his hand reassuring on her shoulder.

Until now, she had believed she would never want to be touched again. Instead, with Coop at least, it felt like the most wonderful thing in the world.

Her heart didn’t slam into high gear; her mind didn’t start racing trying to recover the forgotten nightmare. She focused instead on his warmth, his strength, his caring.

And sleep found her gently for the first time since her coma.

*

The killer was growing increasingly agitated. Why couldn’t Kylie have remained in Denver? Getting to her there would have been so much easier. Instead she was living in a town with few secrets where everyone knew her, and that Coop guy was an added wrinkle.

He told himself over and over that he’d gotten even, that he didn’t need to finish her. But there was a part of him that needed that resolution, knowing that his victim was gone for good, and that he’d made sure of it.

How had he screwed this up, anyway? That bugged him as much as knowing his victim was still alive, however damaged. He’d failed.