Tate’s words continued to echo as Evan lay in the darkness, more relaxed than she could remember feeling at any time in the recent past.
She had loved her life on board the Nimitz. But the noise level could be bone jarring and the continuous cycle of launch and recovery made it difficult to think, let alone sleep. With each launch, the catapult sounded like a cannon going off, while landing aircraft came in with engines at maximum power.
In the hospital too, the air had been filled with constant sounds. Helicopters routinely took off and landed on the helipad, monitors beeped, pagers went off. The ever-present hum of people’s voices, talking softly in the corridors.
As for Afghanistan…well, there was nothing peaceful about her time there.
And now—now Evan was looking forward to sleeping to the gentle song of the water lapping against the deck pilings. She just didn’t want to dream.
She deluded herself into thinking she was too tired to dream. And that Tate’s presence nearby would keep the dreams at bay. She should have known better. As she willed herself to sleep, the dreams drifted around her. She could feel them. Couldn’t stop them.
She could hear him coming.
Please, no.
And then he was there.
Khalid stood over her. He moved closer, so close she could feel his breath against her skin and his face filled her vision.
He swung out in an almost lazy arc, his fist slamming against her. Hitting her with a blow that sent her sprawling. Swimming in and out of focus, he leaned over her, smiling as he pulled out his knife. Laughing as he began to cut her. Each time daring her to cry out.
Almost instantly, her world turned red and filled with pain.
Evan lost all sense of time. She was trapped, smothered by the heat and darkness. The smell of her own blood was all around her, the air so thick with it she could no longer breathe, while the pain stole her ability to think. All she could do was feel.
Feel the pain and know she was going to die at the hands of a sadistic monster.
She accepted the knowledge there was nothing she could do to alter her fate. But she was damned well not going to give him the pleasure of hearing her scream. At least she could deprive him of that.
“I want to hear you, Commander. Do I need to remind you? If you cease to entertain me,” he said, bringing the knife up to her throat, “you will leave me with no alternative but to finish you now. And that would be a shame, don’t you think?”
At least then it would finally be over, she thought, as she began free-falling into the darkness.
*
Tate came awake instantly to the sounds of screams. They were anguished, tormented screams that shattered the stillness of the night, and it took a moment for her to fully understand they were being ripped from Evan’s throat.
For seconds, she couldn’t move. And then she was stumbling from her bed, her heart hammering fiercely in her chest as she fumbled with a light switch and ran to the master bedroom.
In the light from the hallway, she could see Evan tangled in the bedding and automatically reached out. The chill of Evan’s skin shocked her. “It’s all right, Evan. It’s just a dream,” she whispered repeatedly. “You’re all right.”
Whispering reassurances had worked in Germany. It didn’t work this time.
Evan didn’t seem to hear her. She screamed again, snarling and twisting frantically, and came up swinging. Releasing a low, feral growl she used her nails, slashing and raking Tate’s arm, and as she swung out, her fist connected solidly with Tate’s jaw.
Momentarily stunned by the strength of the blow belied by Evan’s weakened appearance, Tate found it impossible to hold on to her while trying to protect herself from further damage. She managed to move her head aside and avoided the follow-up swing, taking it instead on her right shoulder.
Her arm became instantly numb. Abandoning any further attempt to hold Evan, Tate scrambled to avoid another strike, dodging a flailing elbow as she landed hard on the floor.
Evan immediately retreated to the corner of the bed, crouched into a defensive position. She released a cry that sounded more animal than human and wrapped her arms around herself while staring at Tate with wild, unseeing eyes.
“Evan, it’s all right. You were dreaming. You’re safe now. It was only a dream.”
Keeping her distance, Tate carefully repeated variations of the words, telling Evan over and over again she was safe. She whispered phrases meant to calm and reassure. Phrases meant to drive away the darkness that held her in its grip. In a struggle not to reach for her, she clenched her hands into fists. Anything to keep from touching her.
Because she wanted to help her. Oh God, she simply wanted to hold her in her arms.
At that moment, she remembered something Deacon had said. “Sometimes singing was the only way I could reach her, get her to calm down.”
And with nothing left to lose, she began to sing.
It might have taken minutes or hours, but finally the flow of Tate’s soft cadence began to have some effect. She didn’t know whether it was the songs or just the gentle sound of her voice, something was beginning to get through, and Evan showed the first signs of relaxing.
As the nightmare released its grip on her, she shuddered convulsively then curled into a tight fetal position. And after a few more minutes, she fell asleep, her hands tucked beneath her chin, her breathing deep and regular, dark hair fanned across the pillow.
Tate watched Evan for a minute or two longer, waiting until she was reasonably certain she was safely asleep before making her way to the bathroom. She quickly took a couple of ibuprofen and splashed water on her face. She then set about cleaning the scratches on her arm and pressed a cool damp cloth against her aching jaw which would be bruised by morning.
Finally, when the sound of Evan’s screams stopped echoing in her head, she turned the light off. Letting her eyes adapt to the darkness, Tate silently made her way back toward the bed. Evan hadn’t moved and her breathing remained steady. As if in response to Tate’s presence, she groaned faintly.
Praying she was making the right decision, Tate slid into bed and reached down to pull the blankets over them both. Almost immediately, Evan’s hand blindly reached for her, grasping her hand and lacing their fingers together. Tate stared at their linked hands and then tentatively gathered Evan into her arms.
She held her. Just held her. Stroking her hair, murmuring words of assurance, her touch as gentle as her words. She felt helpless and alarmed, shaken to her core. But she continued to stroke her and watched her chest rise and fall with each breath until she was certain the last tentacles of Evan’s nightmare had loosened their grip and slid away.
Only then did she let go, giving in to the pull of exhaustion and followed Evan into sleep.
*
Evan awoke between one heartbeat and the next with the memory of her nightmare still clinging to her. The rational part of her mind told her she was safe, assured her Khalid had only been present in her dreams. But the dreams had been among the worst, the most vivid she had experienced since her release, and she swallowed to contain the fear clawing at her throat.
She lifted her head slowly. Cautiously opened her eyes and blinked several times, trying to get some sense of where she was. As she waited for the pounding in her head to settle, she pushed herself up on one elbow, suffered through an additional wave of disorientation before she was able to bring her surroundings into focus.
She realized several things simultaneously. She was in Tate’s bedroom. It was still quite early, as the sun was not yet evident through the open curtains. And Tate was sleeping beside her.
Relief edged past residual fear. She managed to draw a shaky breath and started to ease out of bed. But before her feet could hit the floor, the pounding in her head increased to match the staccato beat of her heart. Groaning softly, she froze and breathed through her mouth, willing her heart to slow down. After taking several deep breaths, she struggled to stand on unsteady feet. The room spun and her leg threatened to buckle. But her only concern was keeping one foot in front of the other, and with a concerted effort she made it into the bathroom.
Once safely ensconced behind the closed door, she sank down to the floor. She sighed with relief, dropped her head into her hands, and tried to clear the images crowding her mind.
Dr. Patterson, the navy psychiatrist who had cleared her to leave the hospital in Germany, had said it didn’t matter whether she was actually dealing with PTSD or simply experiencing an all too human reaction to trauma.
She had been advised to expect the nightmares and flashbacks. They didn’t make her crazy.
When your sense of safety and trust are shattered, it’s normal to feel crazy, disconnected, or numb.
And she had also been told not to expect to feel a little better with each passing day. That in fact, she could actually start to feel worse.
Got it.
Dr. Patterson had also stressed the importance of exploring her own thoughts and feelings about what had happened to her rather than avoiding any reminders. Her mind and body were in shock. And it was only when she began to make sense of what happened and processed her own emotions that she would start to come out of it.
Right. This is normal.
Fuck.
A hot shower would probably go a long way toward making her feel more human and remove the vestiges of the night still clinging to her skin. A hot shower, some aspirin, and several cups of coffee.
Rising shakily to her feet, she slid the sweat-dampened T-shirt she was wearing over her head and dropped it to the floor, then released a muffled laugh. After the spartan and overcrowded facilities on the Nimitz, Tate’s bathroom renovations appealed to the hedonist in her. The shower was enormous, almost the equal in size of the Roman tub. And yet it somehow managed to combine high-tech and tasteful without being ostentatious.
Turning the shower on, Evan released a heartfelt moan as hot water and steam enveloped her in a loving embrace. She made the water temperature as hot as she could physically tolerate, then stood with her head bent, letting the pulsing force of the water pound her. This was sheer bliss, and she remained with her eyes closed until some of the residual tension left her body.
It wasn’t until she stepped out of the shower nearly half an hour later that she remembered she hadn’t brought any clothes to change into. She felt a sharp jolt of panic and found herself fighting an uncharacteristic sense of desperation. Still, there was little she could do other than wrap herself in a thick bath sheet before walking back into the bedroom.
She hoped to find Tate still tucked in bed, sleeping soundly.
But luck was not with her.
Tate had obviously used another bathroom—her hair was damp from the shower and she was just finishing making the bed. She turned, and Evan could see the shadow of a bruise on Tate’s jaw, the long scratches on her arm. In the span of the next few seconds, it became horrifyingly clear what had happened.
Guilt swept through her. “Oh Jesus, did I do that to you?”
“It’s all right, Evan,” Tate responded quickly. “You had no idea what you were doing and I should have known better than to try to restrain you. But I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”
Evan closed her eyes, not wanting to see any further evidence of her own madness. “I’m so sorry. You’ve got to believe I would have never knowingly hurt you,” she whispered, aware her apology was inadequate. “Worse, I don’t remember any of it. I sometimes think I’m back in Afghanistan with Khalid, and I get a little crazy.”
Tate remained quiet. But then, Evan mused, what could she say? All the wishing and hoping wouldn’t make the evidence of her madness go away.
Evan swallowed and started to turn away, remembering in the nick of time she was wrapped in just a towel and was barely covered. Uncertain what to do, she crossed her arms protectively across her chest only to feel Tate’s eyes land automatically on the pattern of cuts on her upper arm.
“I forgot to grab a change of clothes before I had my shower,” she explained needlessly, clutching the towel and praying Tate hadn’t glimpsed the marks on her back as she awkwardly circled the room.
“Not a problem.” Tate’s eyes continued to follow Evan as she moved, her expression shifting to mild concern. “But hold off before you get dressed. Kelsey gave me some ointment before we left Germany. She wanted me to make sure you used it until all those cuts you have are fully healed. She said it would not only help the skin regenerate, it would also help the scars fade more quickly.”
Evan froze. A shudder went through her as memories crowded in from every direction, leaving her defenses in tatters. She had no choice but to meet Tate’s gaze but stalled, pushing back the hair from her face while she struggled to school her expression and keep it acceptably blank.
Tate picked up the backpack that had held the few possessions Evan had brought back from Germany and retrieved a green tube. “Why don’t you come and sit on the bed near the light,” she said. “It’ll make it easier if I can see what I’m doing when I apply the cream so I don’t accidently hurt you.”
“No.” Evan winced as her refusal came out louder than necessary. She tried again. “Really. Thanks, but I can do it myself.”
“Don’t be silly,” Tate countered and held out her hand. “I promise to be gentle and it’ll be over before you know it. Besides, you’ll never be able to reach the cuts on your back, and you said they’ve been giving you trouble.”
Evan felt her face flush and shook her head helplessly, biting her lip to keep from speaking and saying the wrong thing. Finally, from somewhere, she found her voice. “Don’t do this, Tate,” she pleaded. She stepped back and avoided contact with Tate’s hand, all the while hating herself for being a coward.
Startled into silence, Tate studied Evan carefully. She was visibly shaking. Her face was ice pale while her eyes were dark, filled with shadows and a fear so deep it shimmered. Her physical retreat was also troubling. It clearly indicated a lack of trust. An unwillingness to let her in. Emotional fatigue. Probably all of the above.
Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. Don’t turn me away.
“Evan,” she said quietly, “I don’t know what’s going on inside your head, but you are going to have to decide pretty quickly whether or not you’re going to trust me with it. As in right now.”
“Tate—”
“No, I’m sorry, but you know I’m right. Because it’s pretty obvious something is seriously troubling you and the only way we’re going to be able to deal with it is to get it out in the open. Unless you’ve decided you don’t trust me, and if that’s the case, then I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here.”
Evan stared at her for an interminable moment. She swallowed. Then, without saying another word, she dropped the towel she had wrapped around her body to the floor and went to sit on the side of the bed.
“Thank you,” Tate said. Exhaling as a wave of intense relief flowed through her, she followed Evan with her eyes, watching her as she moved. Evan’s body bore only a slight resemblance to the one she had been familiar with in the past. She was much too thin, and there were too many signs of recent physical trauma. Too many healing cuts and fading bruises.
Tate hurt just thinking about what Evan had gone through. But she was here and that was all that really mattered. She slowly approached the bed, picked up Evan’s right arm and examined the series of cuts before she began to apply the cream. She was pleased to see how well they were healing.
“Let me know if anything I do hurts you.”
“I’m not worried. I trust you.”
Tate’s throat tightened and she could feel the sting of tears. Aware of the faint tremors in her hands, she focused doubly on keeping her touch gentle.
Working silently, she tried without much success not to think about how much pain Evan had endured. Found it impossible not to think about the man who had inflicted the damage. A man whose primary purpose in holding both Evan and Deacon Walker had been seemingly driven by an inexplicable need to cause pain.
It made no sense, and she wanted to ask Evan more about what had happened to her. Wanted to learn more about the man named Khalid. And perhaps now they could talk more candidly rather than ignoring the elephant in the room.
A shift in Evan’s posture and an increase in the tension under her fingers brought her attention back sharply and caused her to freeze in midmotion. Evan’s back muscles were going to spasm if she didn’t relax, but as Tate narrowed her gaze, she could find nothing to account for the sudden change. Was she doing something wrong?
Concerned, she tilted her head to one side and glanced at Evan’s face, wishing she could read what she was thinking at that moment. “Are you sure I’m not hurting you?”
“I’m sure.” It was the only thing she said, and she clearly struggled to get out the words.
“Then try to relax, Evan.”
“I can’t—I’m sorry.”
Tate heard the near-panic in Evan’s voice, saw her shoulder muscles further tense and tighten, felt her pulse begin to race beneath her fingers. But she remained baffled about what was causing her mounting distress. She finished applying the cream to her arm and gently lowered it.
“I’m going to need you to turn to your left so I can get a good look at your back.”
In that brief instant when Evan looked up at her, her eyes so dark they were nearly black, Tate saw a flash of something indecipherable in their depths. In the next moment, Evan turned to the left as asked without saying a word.
Tate stared, looking at the series of deep cuts that had been carved close to the center of Evan’s back. At first, she was unsure what she was seeing. But then, with horrifying clarity, she recognized what she was looking at.
Letters.
Her name in bold, blood-red letters.
TATE.
“Oh God. Evan?” She looked at Evan and swore softly under her breath. Acting on pure emotion, she crouched down until they were eye to eye, and then reached for Evan’s hands. They were ice cold, but she held them anyway and wished she could somehow warm them. “What did that bastard do to you? Why? For God’s sake, talk to me.”
Evan looked away, refusing to make eye contact and refusing to answer. But after a long and interminable minute passed, she finally turned her head and looked back at Tate. There was no color left in her face and her eyes were half-closed. But for one brief moment, it was impossible not to see the wealth of pain and heartbreak now clearly evident in her face.
“Evan.” Tate tightened her grip on Evan’s hands and pulled her closer. “Stay with me.”
“I’m trying,” she said unsteadily. “Khalid…he enjoyed hurting. Causing pain. He liked to feel the blood, hot on his hands. He said it was why he used a knife. It excited him.”
She lapsed into a long silence, lost in some private hell while Tate waited. Hoping Evan would be willing to say more. Praying she wouldn’t. Wondering if she could.
When a couple of minutes passed and nothing else was forthcoming, Tate spoke. “When Khalid’s name first came up in the negotiations for your release, it turned out the CIA already knew him. Quite well, as it turned out. They had checked him out when he first surfaced in Afghanistan offering to sell them information and had a file on him.”
The calmly offered information drew Evan back from wherever she’d gone. She shifted restlessly. Her hand flexed. “He said his father was American and that he’d spent some time with him when he was a teenager.”
“Actually, he grew up not far from here. His mother’s family sent him to live with his father around the time he turned ten, and he stayed with him until his eighteenth birthday. In Portland, Oregon. But it turned out the kid was a handful. Started getting into trouble early, and his father had to bail him out on a number of occasions.”
Evan swallowed. “What kind of trouble?”
“Just truancy, initially. But then it began to escalate. He got more aggressive, bullied smaller boys. He was also suspected of killing a teacher’s dog after he was suspended for beating a much younger boy. But they could never prove it.”
“A baby sociopath.”
Tate nodded. “He got caught setting fire to a neighbor’s garage after a noise complaint and was suspected of being responsible for a couple of other fires. But his father intervened, paid all the damages, and somehow managed to get the charges dropped.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. Then, just before he turned eighteen, he beat a young female navy ensign pretty badly.” She paused for a moment. “He used a knife on her. His father’s lawyer intervened one last time, but he still did eleven months in juvenile detention.”
Evan briefly closed her eyes. “Do you know how he ended up in Afghanistan?”
“He apparently made some connections while in juvie. After he got out, he had ties to an anarchist group suspected in a number of church bombings. It’s believed they were the ones who helped get him out of the US. He later surfaced in south Asia, which was where he adopted the name Khalid.”
Evan stiffened. “His real name’s not Khalid?”
“No. His name’s actually John—John Anderson.”
“John?” Evan stared at her. “The bastard’s name is John?”
Tate shrugged. “Named after his father.” She watched Evan closely as they talked, but her expression remained unreadable. “You okay?”
Evan nodded and they both were quiet for a moment. “Sorry, you were saying—”
“Khalid, right. He apparently drifted through south Asia, then worked his way to Afghanistan where he discovered his bomb-making skills were in demand. It helped he could speak the language and pass himself off as a local, thanks to his mother.”
Evan frowned as she regarded Tate through half-closed eyes. “It makes sense. Afghanistan gave him the freedom to do as he pleased. It was in a state of chaos. A war zone. He could build his IEDs and kill or maim people with impunity. And when he wanted to get up close and personal, another mutilated body was unlikely to draw much attention.”
“But why did he—?” Tate caught her lower lip between her teeth, effectively stopping the question she wanted to ask.
Evan answered anyway. “I don’t know. I never fully understood what drove Khalid. I always thought he was damaged somehow. Or maybe he really is just a sociopath.” Her voice faltered. “I just know he was carrying a lot of old anger. Somewhere along the line, somewhere in his past, something happened to him and he became convinced all women in the military were lesbians.”
“Do you suppose it had something to do with the navy ensign in Oregon? Maybe she was gay.”
“It’s possible. Pardus maculas non deponit. A leopard doesn’t change his spots.” She shrugged her shoulders. “The truth is it was a gross stereotype on his part. He just happened to be right about me, and because of it, he intended to teach me a lesson.”
Evan fell silent, her face taking on an introspective look, but Tate didn’t press her to go on. Willing to let her tell the story at her own speed, she waited and thought about what Evan had said.
Just listening was proving to be difficult enough. She knew Evan’s wounds, both physical and psychological, were still raw, and she wished it was possible to spare her from talking about what had happened. But not talking wouldn’t prevent Evan from reliving everything in her mind. As she clearly did every night in her dreams.
“Every day…every single day without exception…he would come and get me,” Evan continued at length as if there had been no stoppage in the conversation. “For whatever reason, he kept asking me what my lover’s name was.”
“Oh God—”
“Somehow, I don’t think any God had anything to do with Khalid and what went on in Afghanistan. Most of the cuts on my arm…they were for each time I failed to give him the answer he wanted…and to teach me about pain.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him, love?”
“I honestly don’t know. For some reason, it seemed important not to. When I finally couldn’t hold back any longer—” Her voice caught and she visibly struggled to continue. “When I told him your name, he laughed. And then he said if I somehow managed to survive our encounter and ever saw you again, I should thank you.”
The room suddenly felt very cold and Tate shivered, aware only of the roar of the blood rushing to her head as she tried to breathe. She had long since finished applying the medicated cream to Evan’s back, and she realized she was still clutching the tube in her hand. She quickly set it down on the bedside table.
“Thank me?” she asked. “Whatever for?”
“For having such a short name. I think he was disappointed there were only four letters.”