CHAPTER Twelve

 

 

“Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.”

The sound of her brother quoting Benjamin Franklin tugged at Emily.

“Lost time is never found again.”

She listened to the quotes on his voicemail, already having committed them to memory.  Where was he? Was he safe?

“Colin,” she pleaded after the beep.  “Dammit, answer.”

Emily shot a frantic glance at Nate.  His eyes met hers, and she hated to expose vulnerability, but there was no pity or impatience in that gaze, only compassion.  His hand crossed the front seat and squeezed hers.

“Nothing?”

“No,” her tone was desperate.

“We’ve got a little over an hour to go.”

“You drive too fast,” her voice was tight.

“Want me to slow down?”

“Hell, no!”

“Don’t worry,” He eased up on the gas.  “It’s not as icy as it was that night.”

The recollection subdued her.  Images of his engaging grin in the hospital bed melded with recollection of his brooding concern even as he sought to jail her inside the Lake George cabin.  Vivid memories of the taste of his lips, and the texture of his chest as it pinned her to Edelweiss’ downy mattress.  If anything happened to him because of her stupidity—

Emily flipped her palm up and entwined her fingers with his.  Chaos reigned, with desperation over her brother’s safety, and worries of her own fate.  But here, in this isolated car, one of many plowing through channels of slush on I-95, she clutched onto Nate’s hand and sincerely believed all would be alright as long as she never lost this connection.  Still holding his hand, she looked at the car to her right where a woman gesticulated, either on a speaker phone or singing along with the radio.  Ahead of them, a Mayflower moving van threw up a dirty mist on their windshield that Nate tried to counter with the wipers.

Does anyone else on the highway feel like me?

The alarming invasion of the cell phone jarred her.

Nate released her to grab the phone out of his pocket.  He glared at the flashing monitor and snapped the receiver to his ear.

***

“What?”  Nate barked after identifying the caller ID.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Nothing about you piques my curiosity, George.”  In his periphery he saw Emily swing anxious eyes his way.

Barcuda drew a deep breath, and a fine nasal whistle shrilled through the connection.  “Of course. But I’m sure you’re wondering if your coworker made it home safely.”

Nate nearly lost control of the car as his hand clutched into a fist around the steering wheel.  His foot reached to tap the brake and bring it under control.   “What have you done? If anything happened to him—”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk.” Barcuda fell into silence, purposely goading Nate. “You know, Morrison,” he continued. “You were the best. Perhaps too good to be true.  I wanted someone who was going to be discreet and protect NMD with the shrewd resources that you’ve exhibited in the past.  I have connections—well, hell, you know that.  I know about your time in the Persian Gulf.  I know about most of your exploits, and I wanted you.”

Nate’s thoughts turned black.

“And when I want something…”

“You got to Herman,” Nate’s voice sounded dead.

“I’ve had several occasions to rely on Naval intelligence.  Kolchek owed me a favor.  He paid it in you.”

Damn.  Herman Kolchek was someone Nate had revered.  A veteran and a father figure when Nate’s own father had passed away in the early stages of the Gulf War.  Herman was readying for retirement, having fallen short of that Admiral status that Nate’s father achieved so swiftly.  There wasn’t a corrupt bone in Herman Kolchek’s stout body. He was a loyal friend to Walter Morrison, and that loyalty was extended to his teenage son upon Walt’s death.  

Herman Kolchek was the strongest influence in Nate’s move from fieldwork to a civilian job.  When Nate returned from Iran, Herman pointed out that this was the perfect opportunity for him to reemerge as a private. With no family left, Nate’s mother having passed away while he was just a child, Herman observed that there would be no one to miss him.  He needed to change his life, drastically.

Nate could not blame his mentor for offering up information to Barcuda, a man who would seem esteemed and credible to those who did not know him was esteemed enough to seem credible when extracting information from Herman.  Nate could not blame his mentor, but . Still, he seethed with could seethe with resentment towards NMD’s corrupt controller.

“Cut to the chase, Barcuda.  Where is Phil?”

Across the connection, Frank Sinatra crooned Tony Bennett’s melancholy voice crooned hollowly.  “I would imagine—” Barcuda turned down the volume, “—that he’s in the ICU at East Haven Medical Center.”

“You son of a bitch,” Nate roared.  “What did you do to him?”

“It’s not my fault Pulkowski was so busy looking for bugs that he forgot to check the brakes.  It’s not my fault,” Barcuda’s voice faded into a sinister threat, “that you involved him.  All you had to do was bring me the engineer and the drawings.  You screwed up.  No wonder the Navy didn’t want you.”

It was hard to concentrate on the congested highway when red starbursts of rage pulsed behind his eyes.  With blood pressure this high, it felt as if the stitches on his forehead were about to burst. Vaguely aware that Emily had shifted towards him, his sudden flinch stopped her advance.

“Are you in your office, George?”

The quiet edge to Nate’s tone made the breath on the other end of the phone hesitate.  Barcuda cleared his throat.  “Of course I am.  I’m sitting here waiting for you to bring Emily Brennan and her brother’s drawings back to me.”

Emily.  Nate swept a glance at his passenger.  Her lips were parted on a question but they thinned with fear at the expression on his face. Emily was the reason he was here.  She was the reason Phil was in danger.

If the accident had never happened that icy night—if Nate had simply caught up with her after witnessing her crime on the monitor, would they be in this position right now?  Would he feel the same gut-wrenching attraction he felt towards the angel that saved him from the encroaching darkness?  

When it came to Emily, his emotions were in a state of turmoil.  A cyclone of passion, indecision, and dare he say, something possibly more significant?  One thing was for certain—he would never turn her over to George Barcuda.

Never.

“I’m coming for you, George.”

Through the phone, the squeal of a tilt-back chair clicked into place. “Don’t show up alone, Morrison.  If you do, Pulkowski’s right under our nose now.  His injuries can turn life-threatening if you don’t bring me what I want.”

Nate’s fists nearly wrenched the steering wheel from its shaft.  He fought not to growl.  “The brother, do you have him too?”

A whirlwind of motion by his side had Nate clamping his hand on Emily’s arm to keep her steady.

“Interesting,” Barcuda snickered.  “I thought you had him.  No trouble though.  You bring me Emily, and I’m sure he’ll be close on her tail.”

Beneath his hand, Nate felt Emily trembling, but an angry horn let him know that he couldn’t risk taking his eyes off the road again.

“You said that you knew about the Gulf,” Nate spoke evenly.

“Yes.” A hint of interest weaved over the phone.  “You were erased from the books that day.  In the eyes of the government, Nate Morrison died two years ago.  Needless to say, I was intrigued.”  The squeak of a hinge.  “A man with secrets can be controlled.”

Like hell.  

“A dead man has no fear of dying.”  Nate declared.

He dropped the cell on the seat, and reached for the painful twinge above his eye.

“Nate?”

The despondent appeal invaded his dark thoughts—thoughts of tossing aside an exemplary career in favor of bringing George Barcuda to justice.  The most troubling notions, though, were of self-condemnation for ever having let Pulkowski get in that Jeep.

“Nate,” Emily repeated.

He was aware that she had stopped trembling beneath his touch and instead, sat stoic.  He risked a sideward glimpse and expelled an oath at the dark glare of fear in her eyes.

“Yeah.” His tone was harsher than planned, and to soften it he tried to reach for her.  Emily snapped her hand back.

A sense of dread tore at him, because he knew by the staunch look she gave him that her newfound trust was in jeopardy.

 A dead man has no fear of dying.  But he did fear that look of suspicion.

“Colin?” her voice cracked.

“No, they don’t have him.”

Almost imperceptible, her slim shoulders relaxed.  “Phil?” she continued.

Breathe, Morrison, just breathe.  You aren’t going to help Phil or the young engineer—or Emily for that fact, if you go off all half-cocked.

“An accident.  The fuel line.”  It started, and he had no way to stop it.  A moan of fury and anguish scaled up his throat and rushed out in a fierce roar as he smacked the steering wheel and thrived off the pain.

“Dammit, Philip.”  He yelled at a mental picture of Phil watching a football game with a Pittsburg Steelers beer mug affixed to his lips.  “Why didn’t you check the fuel line?”

Emily’s hand settled on his arm. Nate stared at that connection and felt the red cloud of fury vaporize.

“He’s okay?”

He nodded.  “Yes.”  For now.

She let long breath loose and then prompted, “The Gulf?”

The tone of her voice was soft, but in those innocent words she packed one hell of a punch. She had to be questioning who or what he was. She had to be concerned as to whether she was safe with him or not.

“Emily,” Incredibly, he wanted to tell her his tale. He wanted to talk about his past, and have his history shared with someone. He didn’t want Herman Kolchek’s words to become prophecy. There will be no one left to miss you.

“My past has been covert. It’s had to be. But I want to share it with you−. But for now—we have to get through this, and then we can talk.”

The fingers on his arm withdrew, and he already missed their warmth.  That motion should have been an indication, but he doggedly watched her face, hoping for a sign of faith.

“When we get through this, I will be in jail,” she recited lifelessly. Her head pitched up. “Pull over.”

“What?”  He almost thought he didn’t hear her correctly.

“I said pull over.”

“What do you mean, pull over?”  Was she going to run? “We’ve only got an hour to go.”

“Nate, you’re exhausted. And you’re distraught.  Neither of us got any sleep.”  She gave him a tentative smile. “Pull over and let me drive for awhile.”

When he made a motion to protest, she quickly inserted, “I know what it is like. You are worried about your friend, and that concern is only going to manifest itself into anger. Trust me,” she shook her head, “that’s not going to solve this.  Only our collective minds are going to settle this.”

And just like that, though apprehension and fury over Phil’s fate raged inside his head—a genuine grin rose to Nate’s lips.

“Is that so?” he goaded.

Emily Brennan was a remarkable woman.  Perhaps his subconscious had already concluded that.  But at this moment, with the setting sun reflecting off the Sound to highlight her hair in ethereal shades of gold, Nate realized that he had underestimated his angel.

Her body was sleek and feminine in frayed jeans and a sweatshirt. The aesthetic aspects were undeniable, but her source of power was her intelligence and zeal.  She was a strong woman, and that energy drew him like a dehydrated man to a well.

“You’re as run down as I am, Em.  If not more.”

“I’m not recovering from a car accident.”  She crossed her arms. “Nate, please, I need you.  I’m not going to deny for a minute that I’m intimidated by the things I don’t know about you.” Her glance flicked down to her lap, and then dragged back up.  “But I can’t do this alone. I snuck in there once before.  Apparently I blew it.  This time around, I’ll have you by my side, and I want you rested.”

A mile-marker indicated that the next exit was a mile away.  Nate maneuvered the Impala into the right lane.  That admission of need and vulnerability tugged at him.

“Alright, I’m going to say this now so that we don’t argue about it later when we get to NMD.  You’re not going inside, Emily.”

Ah hell, there was that resplendent burst of conviction in her eyes. He knew what was coming and turned the blinker on to take the next exit.

To his shock, the flames abated.

Maybe that worried him even more.

“We’ll see.”

“Emily,” he warned.

“Look, pull into that truck stop.”  She fished in her purse for the cell phone, scanning the monitor to see if by some absurd chance she had missed Colin’s call.

Nate remained stoic behind the steering wheel, his fists wrapped around the nicked vinyl, his arms locked in inflexible lines.

“Out.” Emily commanded, already launching through the passenger door.

Exasperated, he streamed out of the car and studied her over the roof.  “I don’t think your brother manipulated you at all.”

Emily’s progress around the hood came to a halt.  She snapped her eyes up and leveled a hand out against the warm metal to heat up her cold palms.

“Excuse me?”

His arm slipped off the roof, and Nate approached her.  “You heard me.”

Standing before her, he raised a hand to secure an errant strand of hair that lashed across her cheek.  “I don’t believe anyone can manipulate you, Em.”

And with that he brought his mouth down on hers for a gentle kiss. She responded immediately which made him feel like the most virile man in the world.

“Okay,” he whispered, “you drive.”

***

Taillights glowed on the Interstate.  Beyond them, the eastern skyline dimmed into the same murky shades that consumed the ocean trenches.  The rearview mirror revealed a pale rose line hugging the horizon. In a matter of moments it would be swallowed by night.  At her side, Nate slept with his dark hair matted against the headrest.  Restless in slumber, his latest shift cast his arm against her thigh, where his fingers draped warmly.

She smiled as she reached over to brush a bang from the wound on his forehead.  It was healing, but the man needed rest.  No ordinary individual would be up and about as swiftly as Nate Morrison had been thrust into action. But he was by no means, ordinary.

So many questions volleyed inside her head, like a bunch of demanding students with their hands raised.  There was much more to Nate than she had been made privy, but how could she demand knowledge?  This was not a man that needed to answer to her…and who was she to interrogate?  She was nothing more than a criminal he was supposed to apprehend.  Instead, he abetted her, and threatened the safety of his friend in the process.

He might have tried to mask it, but Emily saw the raw pain when he learned of Phil’s accident.  She prayed with every ounce of religion she had left in her that Philip would be okay.  If not, she could never live with herself.

Her hand returned to the steering wheel, but after a brief assessment of the quiet black highway, she was drawn to his face again.

In repose, the line of Nate’s jaw was tense, as if he ground his teeth during slumber.  The forehead she had just brushed her fingertip across slackened some of its wrinkles.  He had a rugged look, with a nose that might seem large on someone else, but fit him proportionally, and lips that were full and enticed her with memories of their texture against her own. Maybe to others he was not so handsome. Maybe his look was harsh enough to be considered intimidating.  But when she looked at Nate Morrison strange things happened to her stomach.

Why had he kissed her?

“Take a picture, Em.” he murmured.

Emily jolted.  “I, uh, you’re eyes are closed, how did you know I was looking at you?”

With her gaze fixed on the highway now, she heard the rustle of him shifting upright.  Gone was that warm presence on her thigh and she desperately missed the contact.

“I felt you.”

“Oh.”

“Thanks,” he added.  “I needed that.  I just wish you would rest too.”

“Adrenaline.” She tried for a flippant tone, and with a twitch of her neck, ground her hands tighter around the steering wheel.  “We’re almost there.”

“I see that.  You made good time.”

When he fell quiet, Emily thought he might have nodded off again, but that husky voice resumed.

“Your adrenaline will not hold out much longer.”

“It has to,” she whispered.

She felt Nate’s hand on her shoulder, then winding under her hair, the strong fingers gently wrapping around the back of her neck, where they worked the sore muscles.  The effect was so pleasant her eyelids dropped shut.  With a snap, she hauled them open, hoping that the Impala hadn’t veered out of its lane.

“I’m fine.” she affirmed.

Nate only chuckled from the passenger seat.  “You know what’s going to happen?”

“No, what?”

“We will get through all of this, and we will find your brother, and we will turn Barcuda over to the authorities, and then—” He paused.

Emily turned, desperately needing to know what his next words would be.

“Then,” he said. “When we’re finally alone, I’m going to be too tired to do all the things I want to do to you.”

The laugh that bubbled out of her lips was so spontaneous she couldn’t stifle it.

“Those are the breaks, Mr. Morrison.”  As mirthful as her tone was, the effect of his words made her hands tremble.

Beneath the Impala, the tires lumbered a different cadence.  They were crossing the Gold Star Memorial Bridge, where she could see the lights of the New London Naval Base a short distance away.

The laughter died.  Beside her, Nate was rubbing at an ache in his chest.  Solemnly he nodded.

“Don’t take this turn, take the next and circle back.”

She obeyed, but her mind was roiling with anxiety as she tried to form a strategy.  Nate planned on keeping her away, and she knew there was no way in hell she was going to sit in the parking lot while the two men she—

She hiccupped.

“Em, are you okay?”

Whoa, no she wasn’t okay. She was scared to death.  “Yes.”

“Just remember, if Barcuda knew where your brother was, he wouldn’t be so interested in us.” Nate shot her another earnest look, but she avoided his eyes.

“Colin is safe,” he asserted.

He was trying to put her at ease.  And on some inherent level, she appreciated that. But right now she wanted to avoid him altogether, lest she do something irrational and toss out a wild declaration of love.  He would probably give her a sympathetic once-over, and remind her that her feelings stemmed only from panic.  Perhaps he would be right.  But she didn’t want to chance a look in his eyes right now and be proven wrong.

“I have to make a phone call.”  His voice was muffled as he lifted the mouthpiece to his lips.

Nate cleared his throat, “Yes, I’m calling to inquire about the status of one of your patients.  Philip Bartholomew Pulkowski.”  A pause, and then, “Yes, I’ll hold.”

Alright, maybe she didn’t want to make eye contact, but there was nothing wrong with a show of moral support.  She reached over and touched his hand, and reflexively his fingers linked with hers.

“I see. And is the doctor addressing that right now?  Do you need me to send somebody in, I mean, Phil—Mr. Pulkowski only has his wife, there are no family members in the area, so if it’s a matter of expenses—”

Emily felt the tension in his grip, but she sustained it.

“Let me leave you my cell number.  If there is any change, will you call me?”  Almost indiscernibly those fingers relaxed.  “Thanks. Thank you, and well, please just take care of him.”

As he slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket, Nate turned towards her.  The churn of pain and despair made his gaze so bleak she nearly pulled the car over so she could reach for him.  

It wasn’t so much that she witnessed vulnerability in his normally tenacious glance−it was the fact that she could have been looking into a mirror.

Guilt, anguish, revenge—a kaleidoscope of despair.

And with that one defining glimpse, she proved herself right.  She knew that by looking into Nate Morrison’s eyes one more time−that she was falling in love with him.