Acts of Honor (12 page)

For the next three days, Sara watched him.

Sometimes from the window leading into his room. Sometimes on the monitor. Joe pulled at her, intrigued and fascinated her, professionally and personally. That cost her sleepless nights, where her emotions and ethics collided with no resolution in sight.

While she battled her demons, so did he. On occasion, Joe won. On others, he lost ground. But always he fought an admirable fight. At times, he knew she was there. He’d watch her as closely as she watched him. At other times, he seemed unaware, and yet there was something in the tilt of his head, in the shift of his shoulder, that warned her he was aware after all, and he too was observing.

It was a challenging means of building trust and forming bonds. Progress came slowly. But it was coming. Little by little, his hesitations were growing longer before shutting her out.

She leaned against the door outside his room, lectured herself to bury her personal feelings and to summon her professional and common sense, and then rolled her shoulder against the wall to look through the window. Sitting on the floor against the far wall, he slung his arms over his bent knees. His feet were bare, his pajama bottoms stretched tight across his thighs. When he lifted his head and looked right at her, her heart rate kicked up, beating faster and harder, and she sent him silent messages.
Trust me, Joe. Let me into your world so I can help you.
Her breath blew against the Plexiglas window and fanned back over her face.
You matter to me. Won’t you trust me enough to let me help you?

He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze searching and then skeptical. He teetered there on the edge for a full minute, torn between refusing her and taking that leap of faith.

She fisted her hands against the door, either side of the window.
Come on, Joe. Do it. Take the chance and do it!

His resolve wavered. Skepticism faded to doubt, and he frowned; a hard, grim frown that tugged down the sides of his mouth and hardened his eyes to that same flinty gray as when he’d attacked her.

Refusing to buckle, Sara stood firm, continued to hope and pray he would let her into his world.

Confusion creased his brow. He stood up, walked closer to the door, and then stopped. Sara pressed her hand against the glass, palm flat.
Please, Joe. Please!

He hesitated, stared at her palm for a long moment, and then lifted his hand to touch the glass.
Yes, Joe. Yes. Come on. Come on.

Mere inches away, he suddenly stopped.

No, Joe. No, don’t shut me out.
Panic surged through her.
Please don’t shut me out. I want so much to help you.

He blinked hard, stepped back and shrugged, shunning her. Then he turned away.

Damn it!
Disappointment rammed through her. The back of her nose tingled, and her eyes burned, then blurred.
I won’t give up on you. I’ll never give up on you.
Sara sucked in a sharp breath and backed away from the glass.

Tomorrow, she’d try again. There was solace in knowing she would, in knowing that despite his superior physical strength, she was emotionally stronger. Her will had always been her greatest asset, and she would use every ounce of it to get through to Joe. Every single ounce.

This is becoming personal, Sara. You’re failing at compartmentalizing.

The accuracy of her conscience’s warning warranted a sigh. Joe was gorgeous, fascinating, and intriguing, but none of that lured her as much as knowing he was hurting and he needed her. That mattered, maybe more than it should. But what was wrong with wanting to stop someone’s pain, with feeling needed?

Nothing. But not like this. Not by a patient. There’s nothing clinical about this. Or professional.

Sara’s stomach rumbled and roiled. Rebellion fell to virtue. This kind of involvement
was
personal
and
wrong. He might be the one, and like it or not, accept it or not, he had snagged a corner of her heart, but she couldn’t stay on as his doctor. Not feeling this way. And yet she couldn’t walk away or he would die.

What choices were left? She couldn’t go or stay.

What
could
she do?

He lay on his side
on the cloud, his knees drawn to his chest.

Doctors. He hated them all. But what had made him hate them? Why couldn’t he recall? What had the enemy done to him?

Seeking clues, he summoned the images, but they refused to come. Anger and frustration churned in his stomach, tightened his chest, stirred the rage. He stood, paced, and fought the anger, silently repeating his mantra. I’m patient. I’m not pushing too hard. I’m patient . . .

A snapshot image of Sara flitted through his mind. It calmed him, though he didn’t know why. She was a scrap of a woman with wheat-blond hair that hung straight to her chin. Maybe it was her eyes. She had remarkable green eyes that saw straight through to a man’s soul and made him damn glad they did. He still couldn’t figure that one out. Eyes that made a man see too much were dangerous. So why did they tempt him? Why did she?

She’s a doctor and you don’t hate her.

No white. No red. She wasn’t like them. No, he didn’t hate her.

So why make her afraid of you?

She had been afraid of him, yet she hadn’t cowered or run, she’d trusted him. Didn’t that prove she wasn’t the enemy? The pinpoint red beam of light ricocheted off the walls of his mind. Maybe the enemy was deliberately confusing him again.

No. He clamped his jaw and gritted his teeth, shutting out doubt. Her eyes had been clear, not clouded by deceit. She couldn’t be one of them. She really wanted to help him. When he had shut her out, hadn’t she been about to cry?

She had been, and that made him feel like hell. He didn’t let people get that close; he sensed it strongly. So why her? There must be a good reason.

She nearly cried out of gratitude because you didn’t hurt her again. You bruised her throat.

Memories of him brutally attacking her flashed through his mind. He
had
choked her. Appalled, he stilled, not trusting the images.
Couldn’t
have done that. He didn’t attack women!

You attacked Sara.

He denied it. But the images were too sharp, too clear, too vivid. He stared at his hands in disbelief, saw his fingers clenched around her throat, and his hands began to shake. He shook all over, and a sick feeling welled up in his stomach. Guilt and shame suffused him. God forgive him, he had nearly choked her to death.

He recoiled, rebelling. Never before in his life—not even when he’d walked in and caught his ex-wife and best friend having sex—had he struck a woman, much less nearly murdered one.

Whoa, wait. Wait. He’d had a wife? A best friend who’d betrayed him?

He had. But why did he remember that and so little else? Shank had said that his memory could return in snatches.

You nearly murdered Sara with your bare hands.

Shocked to his soul, he felt his stomach muscles clamp down. Cold fear fused with the guilt and shame. What kind of man had he become? What had the enemy done to change him into this—this bastard monster?

He slammed back against the padded wall and slid down into a crouch. All of his life, he had lived by his own code of honor. He must have. What man didn’t? Now, it was crumbling,
disappearing—he was crumbling and disappearing—and he didn’t know why. He didn’t know
 . . .
why.

You hurt her. Damn near killed her.

He had. And somewhere deep inside, he knew he’d killed before.

He stared at the little window in the door, terrified for her, of himself. Who—why—had he killed? Why had he nearly killed Sara?

She was sick with fear of you. But she’s strong. She came back, and she will come again.

She
had
come back. After what he had done, that had taken guts. And she had watched him. Often. Openly from the door. He’d felt her gaze at times he hadn’t been able to see her, too. God, how he’d felt it. Good and warm and strong, it stretched down, straight into his soul, and helped him fight the rage.

The enemy doesn’t help, it invades. Of course she wants to help. She’s not the enemy, Major. She’s safe.

Major? Excitement shimmered through his limbs, down his arms to his fingertips. Was he a major, then?

He strained to recall. Pressure tore at his temples.
Okay. Okay, I’m patient. I’m not pushing too hard.
He rubbed at his left temple, pulled up the warmth he felt from Sara. No
red. No white. Sara could be safe.

She is safe. You know the drill. Trust your instincts.

The drill. The drill?

Duty first. Accomplish the mission. Whatever, wherever, whenever.

Shadow Watchers. The creed! He rubbed, at his jaw, his nape. Yes. Yes, he remembered it. He remembered the creed.

He rolled onto his back on the padded floor and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the bright light that made his eyes ache, the white walls, ceiling, and floor. The creed. He was a Shadow Watcher.

But who are they? What do they do? And why does Sara want to help you?

No idea. Yet instinctively Sara seemed somehow familiar. Distantly familiar. Did she know him? Or maybe he knew her.

No. No. You never met. You knew of her.

How? Did she know why he was here? How he’d gotten here?

More importantly, where is here? And who are you?

Again, he didn’t know. And his inability to remember terrified him as much as his attacking her. If she hadn’t brought up the attack, he still wouldn’t know he had done it.

He lifted his lids to half-mast and focused on a machine in the corner, near the ceiling. Dull black. An evil shudder rippled through him, and seeing a red pinpoint of light, he blinked, then blinked again. No. His mind was playing tricks on him. Not a cone-nosed machine. No red light. A camera. They were watching him. Always watching him.

The same way you watched others.

That instinctive revelation settled on his shoulders like a heavy boulder, and his stomach sank. Had he done to others what had been done to him?

No. Please, no. The possibility repulsed him. He couldn’t have done this to someone else. He couldn’t have—not and lived with himself.

Was that why he was here? Was he in an asylum because he couldn’t live with what he’d done? People block out horrific things. Had he done things so horrific he couldn’t stand to remember them and blocked them out?

No, no, no. The enemy did this to you. The enemy.

The pressure in his head erupted. Images flashed. The chair. Exposed wires. Metal roofing. Straps, cutting into his chest and throat. Him fighting for every sniff of air, unable to breathe. The bright light. White. Red.

Rage.

Betrayed.

Oh, God. Betrayed.

“I wept.” He twisted and fell to the padded floor. Clammy with sweat, he curled into a tight ball and whimpered. “I
 . . .
wept.”

And then he began to scream.

Sara watched Joe
on the Isolation observation monitor.

He pounded on the door. “Sara. Sara, get me out of here. Sara!”

Seeing him trudging through hell had her eyes stinging, and a lump lodged in her throat. She knew she was getting too emotional, but she couldn’t distance herself. She lacked the will to even look away.

“Oh, God, Sara. Get me out.” He backed away from the door, dragging his hands through his hair, then paced the floor, counting his steps.

Little by little, he regained control. When the episode ended, he dropped to his knees, exhausted, and then rolled onto his back for a moment before curling into a fetal position and beginning to whimper.

Those whimpers tore her heart right out of her chest. He was a huge man, strong and obviously dedicated and disciplined or he never would have been trusted with Top Secret information or sensitive missions with international repercussions. And he wouldn’t have been sequestered at Braxton. This man had known he could hurt her, and he’d chosen not to do it. He’d chosen to protect her. He’d touched a part of her heart no other man had or could touch, and he was suffering. Knowing that, how could she distance herself from him?