It was almost five o’clock when Mark wrapped up at the office. As he’d anticipated, his computer search for recent prison releases from his field days had been a wash. Though he’d been less diligent about monitoring them after joining the HRT, he did check on a periodic basis. It paid to watch your back.
Standing, he clipped his BlackBerry onto his belt and snagged his jacket off the chair beside his desk.
“Ready to go?”
At the familiar voice, he turned. Coop stood at the entrance to his cube, one shoulder propped against the partition, arms folded over his chest. Tall, dark, and imposing, Evan Cooper still looked every bit the Division I quarterback he’d been in his college days. But it was his keen judgment and team orientation as much as his athletic prowess that had earned him a coveted spot on the HRT. Mark always felt lucky to draw him as a partner on missions.
“When did you get here?”
“I walked in about ten minutes ago. Looks like my timing was perfect.”
“Sorry about the bodyguard gig. I tried to talk Les out of it.”
“Not a problem. I don’t mind a little easy duty on occasion.
And Monica sends her thanks. She’s glad there won’t be any deployments of unspecified duration to unknown destinations in my immediate future.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Beginning to get uncomfortable. If it was up to her, she’d have gone straight from four months to birth.”
Grinning, Mark slid his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.
“Have you talked to Les about taking some time off after the baby’s born?”
“We’ve had a few discussions.” Coop pushed away from the partition. “Where are we off to?”
“I want to stop by the hospital.”
“Steve said you know the woman who was shot.”
“Yeah. We go way back. But I haven’t seen her in twenty years.
And after a reunion like this, I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see me again.” A muscle clenched in his jaw.
“If you hadn’t been there and reacted as quickly as you did, she might be dead.”
“If I hadn’t been there, the shooting might not have happened.” “I’ve been thinking about that.” Coop shoved his hands into his pockets and regarded Mark. “You’re guessing this is related to the convenience store incident. That you were targeted.”
“It seems like a logical conclusion. A random shooter doesn’t pick a deserted park and fire just two shots.”
“Do you jog there every day?”
“No.” He’d been indoctrinated to avoid patterned behavior.
“But I do go there a couple of times a week. If someone was after me, they could show up a few days in a row and wait.”
“That would raise the risk of detection exponentially.”
“We may not be dealing with a rational person.”
“I’m not sure I buy that. From what I’ve gathered, the shooting sounds like a very deliberate, well-thought-out attempt to take somebody out. And according to the latest update from the crime scene, the shooter managed to disappear without leaving much evidence. That suggests he didn’t want to be caught and knew how to avoid detection. Sounds rational to me.”
“Then how do you explain the risk he took, hanging around maybe several days in a row, waiting for me to show?”
“I can’t. It doesn’t make sense. But neither does the random theory.” A beat of silence ticked by. “Tell me about your friend.”
Mark paused in the process of sliding his Glock into the holster on his belt, momentarily thrown by the change of subject.
“Emily?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s a clinical psychologist.”
“Any enemies that you know of?”
The question jolted him. “She’s not the kind of person to have enemies.”
“How do you know? You haven’t seen her in twenty years.”
“I talked to her this morning. Trust me. She’s still not the kind of person to have enemies.”
“Steve’s running a background check on her.”
“That’s a waste of time.”
“I’d do the same in his place. You would too, under normal circumstances.” Coop gave him a speculative look. “Maybe you’re too close to this one, Mark.”
Taking a deep breath, Mark secured his gun in his holster.
“Okay. You’re right. Every possibility does need to be looked at—dead end or not. You ready to head out?”
“Lead the way. I took a cab from the airport. I didn’t think I’d need a car, since Les’s orders were clear that I was to be your shadow until this thing gets sorted out.”
“You realize that may not happen overnight.” Mark wove his way to the rear of the building.
“Yes. That’s why I reminded Monica as I left that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“I bet she loved that.” Mark reached for the door, only to feel Coop’s restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Hand over the keys and let me go first.”
Frustration tightened Mark’s features as he turned toward his partner. “This is going to get old really fast.”
“Understood. But humor me, okay? If anything happens to you, my neck’s on the line.”
With a disgruntled look, Mark fished the keys out of his pocket and stepped aside. Coop disappeared through the door, returning two minutes later to motion him outside. “We’re clear.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Coop’s sarcasm matched Mark’s.
The drive to the hospital was quiet. Mark knew Coop was checking for tails—just as he was. If this kept up, he was going to be more paranoid than he already was.
They stopped once, at a florist shop, and Coop insisted on the same security drill. But at least he didn’t comment on the oversized bouquet of roses Mark purchased. Unless a raised eyebrow could be construed as a comment.
In any case, Mark ignored it.
At the hospital, Coop parked near the service entrance in the back to avoid the press vans staking out the main entrance.
Again, Mark waited until Coop did a sweep of the area before he got out of the car. Deciding humor rather than anger or frustration might be the easiest way to deal with the awkward situation, he grinned as he stepped out of the car and leaned back in to retrieve the flowers.
“I could get used to this. It makes me feel important.”
Coop gave him a dry look. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
With a chuckle, Mark headed inside.
They found a fellow agent sitting outside Emily’s door, and Mark did the introductions as Coop flashed his credentials.
“I’ll take over for a while if you want to stretch your legs,”
Coop offered.
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” The man turned to Mark. “Steve said to let him know if you think she’s up to an interview. Oakdale would like to get a statement today.”
“Okay, thanks.”
As the agent disappeared down the hall, Mark turned to Coop.
“I won’t be long.”
“Don’t rush on my account.” Coop settled into the chair. “In light of the fact that I’ll be sleeping in a construction zone, I’m in no hurry to leave.”
“I take it you talked to Nick?”
“Yeah. I ran into him in the office when I arrived. He hasn’t changed much since you and I were in Richmond with Monica a year and a half ago. Anyway, he warned me about the house.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It is if you’re allergic to drywall dust.”
“Seriously?” After four years working in often too-close quarters with his partner, he thought he knew all of Coop’s idiosyncrasies.
“Don’t worry. I came with some heavy-duty medication. I’ll live.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel even guiltier, it’s working.”
“Good. You’ll owe me.” Coop grinned and eyed the flowers.
“Now go see the lady.”
Shaking his head, Mark turned and tapped lightly on the door, cracking it a few inches. “Em? It’s Mark. May I come in?”
There was a rustle of sheets before she responded. “Of course.”
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The top of the bed was hidden from his view, but he confirmed with a quick glance that the agent protecting Emily had drawn and closed the vertical blinds. It was a standard security and privacy measure. Reporters would do almost anything to get video for the evening news, and a plate glass window wouldn’t stop a sniper if he could get a clear line of sight.
The latter scenario didn’t sit well with him, and he pushed it aside. Forcing his lips into a smile, he moved into the room.
To his relief, Emily’s pallor had been replaced with near-normal color, and her eyes were alert. Strain had tightened her features, but considering the sizeable bandage on one arm, the IV in the other, plus her multiple abrasions and bruises, that didn’t surprise him.
“We have to stop meeting like this, you know.” She managed a weary smile as she greeted him.
“I don’t know. I kind of like those pajamas.” Grinning, he moved beside the bed and gave the pink satin top an appreciative inspection.
Warmth tinted her cheeks. “You’ve gotten pretty bold since the old days.”
“More flush too. As I recall, a bouquet of daisies was about all I could afford back then.” He leaned over to set the vase of pink roses on the nightstand, moving a worn Bible aside to clear a space for them.
“Could you let me smell them first?”
“Sure.” He switched direction. She attempted to sit up, but when she stiffened and drew in a sharp breath, he put a hand on her shoulder and pressed her gently back.
“I have a better idea.”
Setting the vase on the nightstand, he withdrew a single long-stemmed pink blossom and handed it to her. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled, closing her eyes as a contented smile softened her lips. “I love the smell of roses. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He drew the side chair close to her bed and sat. “Tell me how you’re doing.”
“I tried to convince them to let me go home.”
“I heard.”
“They said my blood pressure was too low.”
“I heard that too. You lost a lot of blood.”
“Is there anything you haven’t heard?”
He grinned. “Being with the FBI has its advantages.”
“I’m beginning to realize that. And I hope that means you can fill me in on what happened. No one’s told me a thing.”
“There isn’t much to tell yet. The incident is being investigated as we speak. We think it was a single shooter. He was gone before the police arrived.”
“Who would do a thing like this?”
“We aren’t sure.”
“Was it someone trying to make some sort of statement, like you hear about on the news once in a while?”
“It’s possible. But not likely. Those kinds of shooters tend to pick crowded places and try to inflict as much damage as possible. He only fired two shots, and there was no one around except you and me.”
Some of the color left her cheeks. “You think he was shooting at us specifically?”
“That’s one of the theories we’re considering.”
“Why?”
He debated how to answer, choosing his words with care. “In my line of work, you make enemies.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
“No. But we have some ideas about where to start looking for one.” He hadn’t planned to bring up the convenience store debacle, but he saw no reason to keep it from her. Once his connection to today’s shooting was discovered by the press, she’d hear about it anyway. “I was involved in an incident several months ago that generated national press—and a lot of hate mail to me and the Bureau.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t remember seeing anything in the media. I would have recognized your name. When did this happen?”
“Early May.”
“That explains it. I was in Europe for a conference. I must have missed the coverage.”
“Just as well. The media frenzy died down in a few days, but the public reaction continued for quite a while.”
She fingered a velvety petal. “Is that why you’re in St. Louis instead of Quantico?”
“Yes. The powers that be wanted to let the dust settle. And I needed a few weeks to recover.”
“Is that new-looking scar on your leg a souvenir of the incident?” “You were looking at my legs?” He tried for a teasing tone, hoping a touch of levity would ease the tautness in her features. “It seemed fair enough. You were looking at mine.” A smile whispered at her lips.
He chuckled. “Guilty as charged. And not the least bit repentant.” “You have changed. Whatever happened to that shy boy I knew once upon a summer?”
“He grew up.”
“I noticed.” A dimple flashed in her cheek, but before he could respond, she shifted the conversation back. “You haven’t answered my question about that scar.”
“Yes. It’s a souvenir. I was shot.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
In truth, he’d rather forget the whole thing. And her gentle question suggested she wouldn’t press the issue if he declined to talk about it. But he’d learned that refusing to discuss it wouldn’t make it go away. And that forgetting wasn’t an option.
“My partner Coop and I were on our way to work very early one Monday morning. We stopped at a quick shop for some coffee. I went in, and while I was filling the cups, a guy pulled a gun on the teenage clerk and demanded the money in the cash drawer.” He swallowed. Cleared his throat.
“I was one of three customers. The others were an older man and a pregnant woman. The gunman had the clerk in a choke-hold, and he told us he’d kill him—and us—unless we did exactly what he said. From the way he was sweating and the wild look in his eyes, it was obvious he was an addict in desperate need of a fix. The situation was volatile, and I knew it wouldn’t take much for him to use that gun.”
Mark rested his forearms on his thighs, clasped his hands between his knees, and kept his gaze fixed on the floor as the tragedy replayed in agonizing detail in his mind. “The clerk—his name was Jason Wheeler—tried to open the cash drawer, but it stuck. That infuriated the gunman, and he put the gun to the kid’s temple and said he had five seconds to open the drawer or he’d pull the trigger. To demonstrate he had no qualms about using the weapon, he took a shot in our direction. It didn’t hit any of us, but I knew we couldn’t expect to be as lucky if he fired again.”
Mark took a deep breath. This was where it got really difficult to maintain an impassive tone.
“While all this was happening, Coop decided to grab a bagel to go with his coffee. When he opened the door and the bell jangled, the guy turned, giving me a clear shot. I drew my gun. Unfortunately, Jason chose that instant to make his own move. He jerked away from the gunman as I pulled the trigger. My bullet hit him instead of the target.” Mark closed his eyes. Waited a few seconds. Opened them. “Coop took the guy down, but not before he managed to put a bullet in my leg.”
“What happened to the boy?”
At Emily’s soft question, Mark stared at his hands. “He didn’t make it.”
The silence in the room was heavy, mirroring the burden that weighed down his soul. When he felt a touch on his shoulder, he forced himself to look up.
“I’m so sorry, Mark.”
“Yeah.” The word rasped out, and he cleared his throat. “I am too.”
“I can tell the physical wound is healing. What about the emotional one?” The question was soft. Caring.
He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t cooperate. “You’re being a psychologist.”
“No. A friend.”
Nodding, he accepted that. With gratitude. “That’s taking a little longer.”
“Have you talked to anyone?”
“A psychological assessment is required after an incident like this. The counselor didn’t think I was ready to rejoin the team.
I didn’t argue.”
“What team are you referring to?”
“I work in a division of the Critical Incident Response Group.
We deal with large-scale, high-profile crises.”
She searched his face. “You’re on the Hostage Rescue Team, aren’t you?”
“You know about that?” His eyebrows rose in surprise. Most civilians had never heard of it.
“I read a book a few years ago by a former HRT sniper. It was . . . eye-opening.”
“I’m not a sniper. I’m on an assault team.”
“That’s just as dangerous. Maybe more so.”
“We’re well trained, Emily.”
“Grant was too.” Her eyes grew distant, and a flash of pain echoed in their depths. “Training doesn’t eliminate danger. Or risk.”
In silence he reached for her hand and laced her cold fingers with his, unable to refute her statement.
With an obvious effort, she refocused her attention on him.
“Sorry. We were talking about you. Tell me about the letters and calls.”
Shrugging, he tried to downplay them. “Some people have long memories, and Waco and Ruby Ridge didn’t engender a lot of positive public sentiment for the Bureau. We do everything possible to avoid the use of excessive force, but even in a situation like the convenience store—where a tactical resolution is justified—we get beat up.”
“It sounds like you took the appropriate action, given the circumstances.”
“That’s what the review board concluded.”
“But it doesn’t bring back Jason Wheeler.”
“No.” He should have figured Emily would zero in on the guilt that had been gnawing at his gut for close to three months. Even before she’d become a psychologist, she’d had good insights.
“He was seventeen. An honor student. He had a great future ahead of him.”
She thought about that for a few moments. “Would you do anything differently if faced with that situation today?”
It was a question he’d asked himself many times. And he gave her the answer he’d memorized. “No. I did what I had to do, despite the tragic outcome.”
He knew in his head that was true. But his heart was still struggling to accept it.
“How did his family react?”
“I don’t know. They were fully briefed on what happened by senior people in the Bureau while I was in the hospital. And I sent them a letter, carefully vetted by Bureau lawyers, who were convinced we’d be sued.” A mirthless smile twisted his lips, and he shook his head. “But we never heard a word from them.”
“Not everyone is litigation-happy. Perhaps they recognized that you did your best.”
“It’s possible, I guess.” He knew his disheartened tone suggested he didn’t hold out much hope of that, and he gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to get into all of this today.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
He was too. But it was time now to talk about the present.
“Do you feel up to giving a statement to the police?”
“Yes. Although I doubt I can tell them much.”
“That’s okay.” He pulled out his BlackBerry as he spoke. “They won’t expect a lot. I couldn’t help them much, either. Except to suggest that the shooting might be connected to the convenience store incident.” He punched in Steve’s number. It was answered on the first ring. “It’s Mark. I’m with Emily. She’s ready to talk to the police.”
“Good.” Steve sounded relieved. “Oakdale is pushing. I’ll let them know they can send someone over.”
As Mark said good-bye and slid the BlackBerry back into its holder, a nurse entered to offer another round of pain medication. “Is it going to knock me out again?” Emily asked.
“That’s a possibility.”
“Can I wait a bit?”
“Sure. Press the buzzer whenever you’re ready.”
Watching the woman exit, Emily wrinkled her nose. “I hate medicine. Besides, your visit is far more effective than a pill in distracting me, anyway.”
“I’m flattered. And the feeling is mutual, by the way.”
She smiled. “You always were a charmer.”
As he looked at her across the bed—and across the years— Mark suddenly couldn’t remember why they’d lost touch. “How come we didn’t stay in contact after that summer?”
“We did for a while. But a serious relationship wasn’t on our agenda in those days. We had other priorities.”
“The foolishness of youth,” he murmured.
Giving him a quizzical look, Emily asked a question of her own. “How is your family? Do they still live in Tennessee?”
“Yes. Dad died a few years ago, but Mom’s doing well. My sister has three kids now and lives close to her. I get down as often as I can.”
“Tell me about them.”
She plied him with questions, and he was able to conjure up a few stories about his nieces and nephew that elicited some much-needed laughter. When he ran out of those, he turned the tables on her.
“How about you, Em? How’s your dad?”
She’d had little family, he recalled. The summer she’d come to visit her grandmother, a few months after her mother died, it had been just her and her dad, a military officer. She’d spent her youth moving every few years as her father’s assignments took him all over the world. Six months after her visit to Tennessee, her grandmother had suffered a fatal stroke. The last time he’d seen her was at that funeral.
“He died ten years ago,” she told him.
Meaning she was alone. Emily had told him once that with all the moving, she’d never had a chance to build long-term friendships. He wondered if she had fared better on that score after settling in St. Louis. Good friends would have helped sustain her through the loneliness and the losses.
He took a back-door approach to that question. “We’re going to try to keep your name out of the media, but we may not be successful. Is there anyone you need to notify about this before they hear it on the news?”
A slow shake of her head answered his question before she spoke. “No. I’ve already called my secretary and my pastor, who has my medical power of attorney. There’s no family. And Evelyn knows.”
“Evelyn?”
“My neighbor. A wonderful widow lady in her seventies who’s like an adopted grandmother. She took me under her wing when I moved into my condo after . . . when I lost Grant. She’s the one who brought over my pajamas.”
No mention of close friends her own age, he noted. Why not?
A knock on the door interrupted them. And as Mark rose to admit the detective who had come to question Emily, he realized he had a lot more questions of his own.