The Colonel's Daughter (19 page)

No matter what Mrs. Logan thought, she was wrong. He hadn’t saved Michele. He had placed her in danger. Jamison had been a fool instead of a hero. If he hadn’t run from the house, Michele never would have followed him.

“Failure...a disappointment... You’ll never succeed,
Jamie-boy.”
The words tumbled through Jamison’s mind.

Time was running out. He had to ensure that the plans for the airfield were in place. Dawson might think the killer had been apprehended, but in his gut, Jamison didn’t feel it was over yet.

He’d been wrong before, and he had questioned his own ability too many times since Dawson had been wounded. Tonight, he couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense that the case wasn’t closed. Jamison would wait until the ballistics came back before he’d sigh with relief.

The wound on his side throbbed, but Jamison refused to take the painkiller the medic offered. He didn’t want anything to hamper his ability to think clearly. He had a lot to figure out, about the killer, about Michele and what the future would hold.

Right now he needed to finish the job he’d been given. He would protect the women at the airfield and the soldiers coming home from Afghanistan. More than anything, he wanted the homecoming to be a time of joy and not sorrow. Then he thought of Major Hughes and Sergeant Rossi and knew some pain lasted a lifetime.

Michele would go back to Atlanta, and Jamison would ask for a change of assignment. He needed to get away from Fort Rickman and everything that reminded him of Michele. She didn’t want him in her life, and he didn’t blame her. He had made a terrible mistake. A mistake that had almost cost Michele her life.

* * *

Michele heard the ambulance drive away. The voices in the backyard quieted as, one after another, the military police cars pulled from the curb and headed back to their headquarters.

She stared at the sleeping pill the medic had given her, still on her nightstand. She couldn’t and wouldn’t take it no matter how much she wanted to sleep. Her father was on a plane coming back to the States. If something happened en route, she wanted to be able to accept the news and deal with it without some type of crutch to take away the pain.

Plus, she needed to be strong for her mother, although tonight—after Jamison had been hit—her mother had been the tower of strength.

Michele had run away from Jamison once more. This time, she had fled into her house instead of all the way to Atlanta. She couldn’t face him again. If she did, she’d see the blood and his torn shirt and the bullet that ripped open the flesh on his side.

Once the ambulance had arrived and the medics assured her the wound wasn’t life threatening, she had raced into the house overcome with nausea so strong she could hardly hold up her head.

Everything she feared would happen had come true. Jamison had charged into danger, and he’d been wounded. If the killer’s aim had been better or if Jamison hadn’t pushed her to the floor, he could—
would
—be dead.

The thought brought a sour taste to her mouth as bile bubbled up from her stomach. She rubbed her hands over her abdomen, trying to calm the chaos of fear that swirled within her.

She had tried to warn Jamison, to call him back, to tell him to stay inside with her. He’d ignored her warning and turned his back on caution and common sense. If she needed a sign that she had done the right thing ten months ago, she had one today. The message was as loud as the gunshots that rang through the night.

A door slammed and footsteps signaled her mother was downstairs. Water ran. At this hour, Roberta was probably brewing a cup of herbal tea before she climbed the stairs and went to bed.

A chill slid down Michele’s spine. As much as she’d like a warm mug to hold in her hands and hot liquid to temper the frigid cold that washed over her, she couldn’t face her mother now.

Roberta liked Jamison. She always had. Without saying as much, Michele knew her mother wondered how her daughter could have left such a good man. Roberta didn’t understand Michele’s fear that Jamison would walk into danger and be shot, just as had happened tonight.

Her worst nightmare had come true.

She heard a familiar voice outside and stepped toward the window. Pulling back the curtain ever so slightly she saw Jamison and McGrunner deep in conversation.

Farther away, she noticed additional military police patrolling the area around her house. Nothing seemed to have changed, even though she had overheard some of the men talking about the captured killer.

Her mother’s footfalls sounded coming up the stairs. She knocked softly on the closed door. “Michele, honey, can I get you anything?”

She stared into the night, unable to answer. Hopefully, her mother would think the pill had worked and she was sound asleep.

McGrunner saluted and walked away. Jamison glanced up at her window. Even at this distance and in the darkness, Michele knew he saw her, and that caused her heart to break.

She loved him more than he would ever know, but she couldn’t keep looking over her shoulder wondering when the next gunman would strike. Michele wanted Jamison, but she wanted him alive. She’d rather leave him behind than have her worst fears come true.

SEVENTEEN

J
amison spent most of the night coordinating security between flight personnel at the airfield, the military police and the Criminal Investigation Division. Once everything was in place, he reviewed the operation, checking to ensure that he hadn’t missed some seemingly insignificant item that could become a stumbling block during the actual event.

When dealing with the safety of a brigade of soldiers as well as the families who loved them, every detail had to be checked and doubled-checked.

Even though Sergeant Kenneth Cramer was in custody, Jamison didn’t have a sense of closure on the case. He used to be able to trust his instincts. Now he was never sure if the signals he was receiving were accurate. Hopefully, with time, his old confidence would return, but the memory of his mistakes still haunted him, especially when lives were at risk.

Corporal Otis arrived at CID headquarters shortly before 0500 hours. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee and poured Jamison the first cup. “Here you go, sir. Strong and black.”

Jamison accepted the mug with a nod of gratitude. The hot brew burned going down, but the effect gave him the burst of energy he needed.

“How are you feeling, sir?” the corporal asked.

“Like I should shower and shave.”

“And the wound?”

“A little sore, but not really a problem.” In truth, his side ached, although not enough to slow him down.

Otis returned to the main office. Jamison continued to work, not only because of the importance of the mission but also to keep his mind focused on anything except Michele. If he paused for even a moment, images of her from last night tangled through his mind.

He glanced up as Otis reappeared, carrying two donuts and a banana. “I scrounged up breakfast.”

Jamison laughed. “You raided someone’s stash of snacks.”

The corporal laughed. “Sir, I plead the Fifth.” He placed the contraband on Jamison’s desk. “The chief’s secretary told me to help myself anytime I was hungry.”

“I’ll spring for donuts next week.” Jamison took a large bite out of the glazed pastry, enjoying the impromptu meal. After eating, he downed his coffee and stretched back in his chair. “So, tell me, Otis, have you ever been a fool for love?”

His light mocha face twisted into a wide grin. “More times than I’d like to admit.”

Tapping a pen against his desk, Jamison hesitated before he asked, “Did you send flowers?”

The soldier nodded his head. “Matter of fact, I use the florist on post any time I want to tell a lady how special she is. Best way I know to get on a woman’s good side. Does the trick just like that.” He snapped his fingers, which caused Jamison to smile and wonder whether he needed to call the florist this morning and order a bouquet for Michele.

“Little secret I learned at a young age, sir, if you’re interested.”

Jamison nodded.

“The ladies like roses. Red, yellow, white. The color doesn’t matter, but I can attest to the return such an investment might bring on your behalf.”

Otis chuckled and headed back to his own desk.

The corporal’s wit brought a burst of fresh air into the stuffy office. Feeling encouraged, Jamison closed the files, nodded to Otis as he left the CID headquarters and drove to the gym. Thirty minutes later, Jamison had showered and shaved and donned a fresh white shirt before he headed to the airfield.

His optimism deflated as he drove across post. Flowers wouldn’t change the situation with Michele. Jamison had been a fool to get close to her again. Holding her in his arms had wiped away the ten months they had been apart. The pain he felt at the moment was as real and as raw as when she had initially left him.

All his efforts to move forward without her had been foiled last night in her kitchen. He’d told her the moonlight was special, but he’d been wrong. The moon had lulled him into believing he had a chance.

She had seemed so willing to fold into his embrace. Her perfume was hypnotic, her eyes enticing. Touching her was like touching life itself. She was everything to him, but he couldn’t walk away from who he was and what he did no matter how much he loved her.

Arriving at the airfield, he quickly ensured that everyone knew their jobs and were ready to execute them flawlessly. Word had spread that the killer was in custody, and a sense of euphoria settled over the military police and CID personnel on duty. Jamison cautioned them not to be lulled into believing the danger had passed. Ballistics needed to confirm the rounds fired at Michele’s house matched those from the firearm found in the suspect’s vehicle. Until then, Jamison wanted everyone to be vigilant and act as if the killer was still on the loose.

Jamison went person to person, ensuring all the security personnel realized the complexity of keeping the brigade safe and the necessity to be on high alert until the last soldier had left the airfield.

The three planes transporting the soldiers were scheduled to land at approximately 1100 hours. The estimated time of arrival had been released to the Family Readiness Groups, and people had already started to trickle in to the terminal.

Even now a sense of excitement permeated the air. Many groups on post had set up tables to support the families as they waited. The Red Cross provided first-aid stations. The Army Community Services carried in cases of bottled water they chilled on ice and handed out as needed. Morale Support personnel distributed small American flags that children waved as they played near their mothers.

Some of the families dressed alike in T-shirts bearing their hero soldier’s picture. Others had buttons that read Proud Army Wife or I love my soldier husband. A few of the women wore stiletto heels and fancy dresses eager to welcome their returning loved ones with more than a kiss.

The army band warmed up their instruments in a corner of the large arena, adding to the growing excitement. Jamison knew the crowd would swell when the doors opened and the men and women in uniform marched into the terminal. He tasked two military policemen to rope off a central area large enough for the unit to stand in formation during the general’s welcome.

Following the speeches, the dividers would be dropped, and a huge lovefest would ensue as families and soldiers united. Tears of joy would mix with laughter. Proud parents with beaming faces would embrace their returning sons and daughters. Babies born during the deployment would gaze with blank stares at the soldier dads they had never seen before, while older children squealed with delight and reached for parents who had been out of their lives for too long. Wives would scramble to find their husbands in the throng, and men would open their arms to the person they had dreamed of holding tight for the last twelve months. All of that would play out later today at the homecoming and would be the best part of the celebration.

The worst would be when Major Hughes and Sergeant Rossi were escorted off the plane ahead of the others. Military sedans would be waiting on the tarmac. The chaplain would be part of the transport detail. One van would drive the newly widowed major to the VIP quarters on post, where he would reunite with his children and sister-in-law. Alice’s husband would be taken directly to the hospital. Although her condition had improved slightly, the homecoming would be bittersweet for both men.

The news media had requested to be on-site to film the welcome-home ceremony. Returning soldiers sold airtime, and the TV stations wanted to capture the event for the nightly news. Owing to the need for security, Jamison had recommended they remain off post. Chief Agent in Charge Wilson and the commanding general had agreed with his assessment.

The sound of raised voices came from a side entrance to the terminal. Jamison hustled toward the commotion. A vendor wearing a shirt with the Freemont Sandwich Shoppe logo was growing increasingly antagonistic toward an MP guarding the door.

“Look, I’ve got cases of sandwiches we plan to sell today,” the bulky civilian complained. “Why do all of them have to be searched?”

The MP stood his ground. “Sir, we need to check everything that passes through these doors.”

“Is there a problem?” Jamison asked as he approached, flashing his identification. He glanced at the vendor’s name tag. Rick Stallings.

Jamison’s presence had a calming effect, but the vendor continued to state his case. “Here’s the thing, sir. I’ve got cases of sandwiches we’ve been authorized to sell today. They’re wrapped and crated.” Stallings pointed to the MP. “This guy tells me he needs to check everything.

“Every case,” the MP explained. “Not every sandwich. If you’ll give us a little cooperation, we’ll have you through the checkpoint so you can set up your concession table.”

The vendor hesitated, then sighed. His body language shifted from confrontation to acceptance.

Still concerned by the outburst, Jamison took the guard aside. “Do a thorough search of Mr. Stallings and his merchandise.”