Hard Landing (9 page)

Rebecca eyed her old post office box with trepidation. She had left work early on a Monday to arrive at the post office before closing. The clerk hadn't so much as blinked at her story that she'd lost her key and needed another. Now a copy of the key was in her hand, and she stood at the verge of discovering something else Max might be hiding from her.

It's going to be empty
, she told herself. After all, Max would have emptied it on his visit here the day before. Sliding the key into the lock, she opened it with bated breath. Upon seeing an envelope inside, her heart started to pound. With a nervous glance behind her at the patrons rushing to beat the clock, she pulled out the letter, eyes widening to discover that the envelope was addressed to her.

With a sense of unreality, she stared at it. Not only was Max keeping secrets, but he was hiding his dirty deeds under
her
name. The address had been typed on a label and affixed to the envelope. There was no return address, just an origination stamp next to the postage indicating that the letter had been sorted in Bronx, New York, two days earlier.

Curious to know what lay inside, she slipped it into her purse, closed the box, and left the building, greatly relieved not to run into anyone she knew, particularly Max.

Within the safety of her car, she took the letter out and studied it.
Do I open it?
How else would she discover what was inside? She could always stick the contents into another envelope, affix an identical label and re-mail it tomorrow. As long as Max paid no heed to where the letter had originated, he might never know the difference.

Checking her peripheral vision to make certain no one watched, she slid her finger under the flap and tore it slowly open. Her heart suspended its beat as she withdrew the contents with a frown.
A newspaper clipping?
She angled it toward the waning sunlight and read the title.

Sniper with Military Background Kills for the Mob.

Intrigued, she waded through an article summarizing an FBI special agent's hypothesis that two homicides attributed to the organized crime family, the Scarpas, had been perpetrated by an assassin who could only have been trained as a sniper in the U.S. Special Forces. Both victims had been shot from a watercraft anchored half a mile away. The special agent was quoted as saying, "
Only an ace sniper could mark a victim from that distance."

A chill ascended Rebecca's spine. Why had someone sent this article to Max? Was it simply an item of interest? Max was in the Special Forces. Plus, he'd been a SEAL sniper for ten years before rising so high in rank that he no longer went into the field to fight. Someone just wanted him to read this story and know the facts.

That had to be it. It couldn't possibly be that
he
was the sniper that the FBI was looking for. That would be ludicrous.

With stiff fingers, she put the article back inside the envelope, the envelope back into her purse.

For several seconds, all she could do was stare at the brick exterior of the post office. Max's foreign account—all the money in it; where had it come from? Maybe it wasn't so farfetched to think that Max might be working for an organized crime family.

Her chest rose and fell as she thought it through.
What do I do?
She could show the article to her lawyer at their upcoming appointment. But she didn't want to wait that long. She needed to talk to someone about this
now
, someone who knew Max, who could tell her if she was out of her mind for thinking such treacherous thoughts about him.

I need to talk to Bronco.

"No," she grated, grinding a palm against her closed eye. Just the other day she had promised she wouldn't involve him any further in her problems. But he had assured her that he didn't mind and that she could call him any time.

Breathing deeply, she sought to slow her rapid heartbeat. The pay phone she had used the other day stood right up the road at the 7-11 near the hospital where she worked. The temptation proved to be too much. Starting up her car, she exited the parking lot and drove in a state of distraction straight to it.

* * *

Brant hadn't expected to see the same number pop up on his cell phone any time soon. Concerned, he reached for the volume on his truck radio and turned it down. Luckily, he'd just exited the gate of the naval annex, freeing him to talk on his phone. "Becca?"

"I'm sorry," she began. "I said I wouldn't bother you again, and here I am calling you already."

Her shaken tone had him checking his rearview mirror automatically. "What's wrong?"

He heard her inhale and exhale. "I need to show you something. Can I get you to meet me somewhere soon?"

Possibilities swarmed his thoughts like a flock of blackbirds. "You mean like right now?" He was headed to the special Jujitsu class Bullfrog was teaching every night that week.

"No, I can't right now. I need to get home." She sounded antsy, like she ought to be home already and expected to get into trouble for being late. "What about tomorrow evening? Can you meet me after work?"

"What time do you get off?"

"Right around 4 P.M."

"That's pretty early, but I can probably get away. Where do you want to meet?" The bass on someone's car radio vibrated the windows of his old Bronco as he stopped at an intersection.

He pictured her wetting her rose-tinted lips in a familiar, nervous gesture. "Do you know the park right next to the hospital where I work?"

"Uh, yeah. Gateway Park, right?"

"Yes, but the sign says Princess Anne Commons. Let's meet under the pavilion at, say, 4:15?"

Her nervousness made his blood flow faster. "You going to tell me what this is about?"

"I need to go. I'll show you tomorrow, okay? You'll be there?"

"I'll be there," he promised. "Hey," he added before she could hang up.

"What?"

"Take a deep breath, hon." The endearment popped out of his mouth without his intending to say it. "It's going to be okay. I'm glad you called me. I'm right here."

He thought he heard her breath catch, but then she said with commendable poise, "Thank you." With a click, she was gone. He lowered his cell phone onto the console next to his seat and pondered what she could have come across to rattle her so badly.

Max was probably having an affair. Brant had heard a rumor the first time they were TDY in Malaysia that the CO had hooked up with their female CIA liaison.

"Bastard," he muttered, hating the man for inciting fear in his own wife.

It wasn't until he neared his apartment complex that he realized what a hypocrite he was. He'd hooked up with a lady-of-the-night himself while in Malaysia, and at the time, he'd been dating two women back in Virginia Beach. He wasn't any more honorable of a man than his commander was. Poor Rebecca deserved better than either one of them.

* * *

In the little restroom inside of the pavilion at Gateway Park, Rebecca checked her reflection in the mirror.
Oh, for heaven's sake. It doesn't matter what I look like.

After a sleepless night in which she'd fought to drown out Max's abrasive snores, she had worked a grueling twelve-hour day. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her trust in her husband, along with her marriage, was falling to ruin. Yet here she was, trying to look pretty for Bronco, who had half-a-dozen women at his beck and call and thought of her only as a friend—the same way she thought of him.

All the same, she slicked pink lip gloss on her lips and tugged her hair out of its ponytail before stepping out of the restroom to wait for him under the covered picnic area.

Situated adjacent to the hospital, the park offered the perfect retreat during warmer months for her to eat her packed lunch in the middle of her workday. Her feet gave a throb of relief as she lowered herself onto a picnic bench and shaded her eyes against the low sun to watch several children clamber on the playground equipment.

A soft footfall followed by a shift in the air announced Bronco's arrival a split second before he sat down next to her.

"Boo," he said, grinning at the way she clapped a hand to her heart.

"Where'd you come from?" she marveled.

"Thin air." He paused to examine her face, no doubt seeing all the signs of strain she had failed to erase. "Want to walk with me?"

The last thing her aching feet wanted to do was to take a walk, but his suggestion eased her concern that someone would see them sitting together. "Sure."

Side by side, they started down the path that curved away from the common area to wind among the trees and all around the periphery of the park. The leaves had thinned, allowing sunlight to slant through the green canopy and dapple the tar strip under their feet.

Rebecca looked down at her practical nursing shoes, wishing she'd taken the time to change. While Bronco, in his BDUs, resembled a poster model advertising the glamorous life of a Navy SEAL, she looked nothing short of frumpy in her light blue scrubs. Then again, this wasn't a date. The article she wanted to show him was tucked inside her scrub's front pocket.

To her gratification, he didn't bring it up right away.

"How was work?" he asked, slanting her an admiring glance.

"Rough," she admitted, considering her long day. "We had several car-accident victims, including a five-year-old girl who should've been in a booster seat but wasn't. Her collarbone was broken, but luckily not her neck. The mother, who was driving intoxicated, broke her pelvis. We had no choice but to report the incident to social services."

His burnished eyebrows came together. "You think they'll take the girl from her mother?"

"No, I think they'll assess the home situation first. The mother could probably use some counseling—she's all of twenty-one years old, so she's still learning herself."

Brant's mouth twisted into a cynical-looking smile. "Where's the father?" he asked.

"Not in the picture as far as I know. Some men aren't cut out to be fathers." She thought about her own dad.

"True. Doesn't mean they have the right to disappear, though."

Their footfalls sounded in tandem, making hers indistinguishable from his.

"That's what my father did," she heard herself confess.

He shot her a startled look. "I'm sorry. I thought he just died young."

"He did that, too, but first he left—just disappeared one day, when I was thirteen years old." She shrugged. "The next time my mom and I saw him was when we claimed his body, five years later. Turned out, he'd been living in Minneapolis all that time."

His jaw muscles jumped. "That must have sucked."

"It's fine. I don't mind talking about it. I think he did his best to be the domestic type, and he just wasn't cut out for it." She smiled to convey her acceptance of the situation. "At least his body found its way back to us. There's an unclaimed body here at this hospital." She nodded in the direction of the building where she worked. "A homeless man who looks a bit like you, as a matter of fact."

"Like me?" He sounded perturbed to hear it.

"Same age, same hair color, that kind of thing. I keep hoping someone's going to claim him, but no one has, yet."

He made a thoughtful sound in his throat. A heavy but not uncomfortable silence enveloped them as they followed the path. She was certain he would ask what she'd discovered about Max. Instead, he surprised her by saying, "My dad left, too, before I was born. He's still alive, though. Quinn Farley—maybe you've heard of him?"

She frowned. "No, should I have?"

"Maybe. He used to be a champion bull rider. Now he's a commentator for the Professional Bull-Riding Network."

She slowed to a stop, forcing him to turn around to face her.

Noting that his father's last name was different than his, she longed to pull more details out of him, but the fact that she was only now learning about this meant that he kept it a guarded secret. A yellow leaf floated to the ground between them. "Thanks for telling me," she said, simply.

He sent her a small smile. For a moment, they regarded each other with silent understanding. Then, knowing the time had come, Rebecca reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded envelope.

"Max has been using my old post office box without me knowing. I saw him swing by there on Sunday, so yesterday I got a copy of the key and checked the box for myself. I think he was looking for this."

Curiosity flashed in Brant's eyes as he took her offering, pulled out the article and perused it. She studied his expression with a held breath. A crease appeared between his eyebrows, and her stomach started to churn. She saw him arrive at the end and return to the beginning to read it a second time. He then examined the envelope, noting the lack of return address, her name in the center, and the origination stamp next to the postage. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes appeared darker.

"Well," she prompted. "Do you think Max could be working for the Scarpas?"

He gave a short laugh. "No way." He put the article back inside the envelope and shook his head. "That's absurd. He would never do that."

Now that she'd had a night to think about it, she wasn't so sure. "Not even to get out of debt? We owed forty-five thousand dollars on top of our regular mortgage, and suddenly that's all paid off. How did that happen?"