1

 

Mark Graham closed the book atop his shortened podium. “That’s it for today, class. Please read chapters twenty-three through twenty-five for next week.”

The afternoon History of Civilizations lecture on ancient fraternal organizations and mysterious societies ended—a topic that never ceased to interest his students. Who didn’t love hearing about a good secret? So long as they weren’t discussing his secrets. He rubbed tired eyes. His secrets would be his undoing. The recurring dream of the ambush had awakened him last night, and he hadn’t been able to return to sleep.

Mark packed his lecture notes into his brown leather briefcase, ready to leave Riversdale Community College for the day. As he rolled his wheelchair out of the stucco building, he crossed paths with two brunette female basketball players who took his morning class. They waved, and he continued to the parking lot.

If no one else stopped to chat, maybe he could leave on time for a change, not that it mattered. At thirty-one years of age, he didn’t have much to go home to—no wife, no kids, and no prospects. Just a little black dog named Sparky.

Once outside Peterson Hall, Mark undid the top button of his dress shirt and wriggled his tie loose. With his luck, the college would finally relax the dress code a year after retirement. He folded his silk tie and placed it in his briefcase. Order had its place, but he worked alongside junior college students, not businessmen.

He ran his fingers through his hair. Ten years had passed, yet it was strange not to have the standard, Marine-issue haircut. Still, he didn’t miss it.

Mark rolled his wheelchair to the faculty parking lot and unlocked his van. New vehicle, new job. He really had made a successful new start. After using a remote to open the right side door of the van, he maneuvered onto his wheelchair ramp, into the driver’s side area, and locked his wheelchair in place. He remotely took care of the ramp then tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat.

He drove south on Pacific Coast Highway, past the naval station, using hand controls to steer the vehicle. With the windows cracked, the chatter of seagulls resonated in the distance.

Mark pulled into the back parking lot of the bait and tackle store he co-owned with two Marine buddies. As much as he wanted to forget his time in the military, Bill and Tim Wilson offered him a job in California near the base where their unit had once been stationed, at a time when he was more than happy to leave his hometown in Ohio. A wooden sign hung slightly crooked in front of Fishy Business. He’d have to get that fixed. Hints of the original brick exterior of the former convenience store peeked out from beneath the newer stucco façade.

Using his wheelchair ramp, Mark exited the van. A slight ocean breeze touched his face. Pretty rare for that time of year. He couldn’t complain, as it offered a refreshing break from the dry heat. Salty marine air pervaded as he wheeled through the back door.

Tim Wilson stared out the front window as a young brunette stepped out of an older-model sedan and walked to the pay phone.

Arms crossed, Tim glanced at him. “Who uses a pay phone?”

Mark shrugged. “Guess it’s good we haven’t had enough dough to completely remodel the place.”

“Why not use a cell phone?” Tim continued.

“Maybe it’s out of juice. Give the woman a break.” Someone that stunning had to have a good reason.

Tim stared out the window again. “Who forgets to charge their phone?”

“Some people are more on top of stuff like that than others.” The need to defend her arose, and yet Mark wasn’t sure why, except perhaps he hoped she had a good reason. And because he wanted to be the one to find out what it was.

The woman wore flared blue jeans, a white blouse, and brown sandals. The simple outfit complimented her petite frame rather nicely. Tim’s type, or so he bragged.

A brunette, eh? Mark cracked his knuckles. He’d better meet her before his friend reached her first. Sure he may be in a wheelchair, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least.

He winked at Tim. “While you stand there, I’ll go offer my assistance.”

“OK, professor, you do that.” Tim raised his voice. “Maybe you can enlighten her with facts about the history of the telephone.”

“So I’m a history buff. Big deal.” Mark went outside. “Excuse me, miss. I couldn’t help but notice you used the pay phone.”

She looked him in the eyes, as if studying his face, and stuffed her hands in her pockets. Most looked at the wheelchair and turned away, but she ignored it altogether. “Is there a problem, sir?”

He rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s what I was going to ask you. Do you need help with something?”

“Actually, yes. My cell phone’s dead, and I left my car charger in my other bag at my apartment.” She pushed her pink lips forward into a pout.

Bingo. He’d guessed right. A beautiful damsel in distress. Time to do something about that.

The woman continued. “I needed to make a call to AAA but couldn’t get through. Maybe I dialed the wrong number. I have it in my car…somewhere.” She walked toward her vehicle. A set of drama masks dangled from her keychain, jingling as she moved.

Thespian. Forgot to charge her cell phone and left the car charger at home. Probably a free spirit. He’d taught long enough to know the type. He followed along behind her. “Sounds like you have car problems. Maybe I can assist you?”

She turned. “Oh, that’d be great. I have a flat tire.”

“I’ll be right back.” Mark went inside, grabbed a cola, and wheeled over to the utility closet. Various chemicals lined the shelves inside. He located a can of tire sealant next to a bottle of glass cleaner. Mark shook his head. Tim’s organization of the store shelves proved less than efficient.

Tim swept a nearby section of the commercial-grade floor tile. “Looking for something?”

“Yeah, this.” He held up the can of sealant and set it in his lap then went outside and handed the woman the soda. “Here, enjoy this. It might be a while.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, popped open the top of the can, and took a sip.

Examining her tire, Mark ran his hands along the grooved surface. An object was lodged in a tread near the top of the tire. He pointed it out it to her. “You must have picked up a nail from the road.”

As she leaned in closer, she locked eyes with him then glanced away. “That can’t be good.”

“No, but it’s not sticking out too far, so I’ll put some sealant on it. Hopefully, that’ll give you enough time to get it to a tire shop and get a new tire.” Good thing the valve stem sat near the top of the tire. No need to ask Tim for help. Once he removed the nail and the valve cap, he injected the substance inside the valve stem. A scent like permanent marker solvent filled the air. After setting the tire sealant can in his lap, he removed a beige business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “If you have any more problems with the tire before you get to the mechanic, give me a call.” He crossed his arms. “Then again, I’m not sure how you’re going to call me if your phone’s dead. I can follow you to the nearest garage if you’d like.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be all right.”

Caution to the wind. Fine on her own. Yep, definitely an independent mind.

The woman glanced at the card then scowled as she walked away.

Or maybe she didn’t want his help. Perhaps she didn’t take kindly to strangers. “Everything OK?”

The woman stopped, held up the card, and turned around. “It says here you’re Mark Graham.”

“That’s right.” She appeared to be older than the average Riversdale Community College student—mid-twenties perhaps. But if she did attend there, that made her completely off limits. “Are you taking one of my classes next semester?”

“No.”

An attractive woman. Not a student, yet she knew him. Interesting. “Should I know you?”

She gave him a once over. “Nah.” The woman began to walk away but stopped. “Mark Graham from Beaumont, Ohio?”

He flinched. His mind searched through memories of all the pretty girls from home, but he drew a blank. “I’m sorry I can’t remember your name, though I wish I did.” He bit back a grin.

She stretched out her hand to shake his. “Beth…Elizabeth Martindale.”

The warmth of her touch jolted him, and it took a moment for her words to register. He studied her face again and factored in for age progression. Those cheekbones, that nose. Yep, a Martindale all right. Heat raced up his cheeks as he remembered his earlier thoughts. Very complicated. She might as well have been a student—definitely in the untouchable, out-of-reach category.

Beth stared at him then at the ground.

Had she noticed the look of fear that must have shown on his face?

“Anyway, thanks.” She walked toward her car.

“You’re welcome.” His mind flashed back to the last time he’d seen Private Martindale, or his sister, for that matter. The only thing about her appearance that might have given away her identity earlier was her slight Midwestern accent, which he recognized the more she spoke. What was she doing here?

Beth rested one hand on the door handle before entering her car. She turned toward him. “I have a question for you. Sort of personal. But you’re here, so I might as well ask.”

Had she recognized him in front of the Hometown Café, ten years prior? He’d stopped in Beaumont for coffee on his last trip home, but as he’d left, he ran into Beth. Back then, she’d been so young, and she’d given little indication she’d recognized him. Shoot, when he’d first come home from duty, he hardly recognized himself. And she certainly had changed over the years—blossomed into a beautiful woman.

“I ran into Bob Overmeyer in Beaumont a few weeks ago. He told me you were injured trying to save my brother.” Beth lowered her voice. “Is that true?”

Leave it to Overmeyer to have such a big mouth. Mark avoided eye contact. How much did she know? His shoulders tensed.