Acts of Honor (32 page)

“Now, they’re trying to cover it up.” He laced his hands behind his back, lifted his face to the wind.

“I suspect that’s what’s happening. I know that they’ve declared all of you legally dead.”

Joe clenched his jaw, stared out onto the water. Tiny lines creased the skin beneath his eyes, and his voice sounded strained. “Does that include Colonel Foster? Is he on the right or wrong side of this?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “He brought me here to help you, but he could be on either side.” She grimaced. “One thing is certain. Fontaine is up to his crooked neck on the wrong side of this. For a long time, I thought he might be protecting the patients, but he’s not. He can’t be. You were all damaged at IWPT, declared legally dead, and then transferred to Braxton.”

Joe interceded. “Where we’ve been sequestered and, for all intents and purposes, forever forgotten.”

Fred had been here over five years. Jarrod, since June. Sara stared at the murky water. “Not by me.”

“No.” Joe swerved his gaze to her. “Not by you.” Joe chewed at his inner cheek, thinking. “This couldn’t work without Fontaine’s full knowledge.”

“I agree.” Sara stepped back, away from the water’s edge. “But he is in the military. What if he’s been acting under direct orders? Wouldn’t he have to do what he was told to do?”

“If he disagreed with the orders, he had recourse. He could have gone up the chain of command, or to the OSI or the IG. If he filed a formal report, the OSI or the IG would investigate. With an informal phone call, the OSI would have monitored the situation.” Joe shoved at a rock with the toe of his sneaker. “No, Fontaine’s involved. And this is definitely a high-stakes conspiracy.”

“But who is in it with Fontaine? What exactly have they done to you and the others, and why?” She didn’t want to upset Joe, but more questions nagged at her. Could whatever they’d done be undone? How? Could Fontaine and his allies be stopped before they damaged more men?

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. But there are so many questions. I need help to answer them.”

“You need expertise.”

“I agree. But the only one I know with expertise is Foster, and he could be involved with Fontaine.”

“He could.” Joe frowned. “I’ve known the man a long time, and I’ve put my life in his hands more times than you can imagine. I can’t see it, Sara. I really can’t. But I don’t know for fact he’s not involved. He would be the first to tell me that until I know, don’t trust. I hate it, but I’ll do my job here.”

“So who else has expertise? Where do I go for help?”

“The obvious person is the one who’s been helping you all along.”

“Shank?”

Joe nodded. “Shank.”

The next morning,
Sara checked on her patients and then waited in the women’s rest room on the second floor. Sooner or later, Shank had to come in there. Things were getting too hot to risk signaling her near Beth, who probably had reported the med room conversations to Fontaine. No doubt, now it was wired, too.

Sara leaned against a stall, stared at the row of three sinks, then at the mirrors above them. Twenty minutes passed. Then ten more. She racked her brain, trying to think of another way to contact Shank, but the phone was out, as was calling her into any patient’s room. Inside and out, most of Braxton was wired. And more than ever before, Sara empathized with Orwell’s characters from the novel
1984.

The door opened. “You okay?” Shank barreled inside. “Beth told me she’d seen you come in here a good half hour ago, but she couldn’t leave the desk to check on you.”

“My stomach’s just a little upset.”

Before Sara could say any more, Shank pressed a shushing fingertip over her lips, warning Sara that the rest room was wired for sound. Sara ran hot water in the sink until the mirror above it steamed up and then wrote on the glass with her fingertip.
Outside. Need help.

Shank nodded, then wiped down the glass with a hand towel from the dispenser. Crumpling it, she tossed it into the trash. “Well, if you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll get back to work.”

“Thanks. And tell Beth I appreciate her concern.” Sara held up five fingers, signaling to meet her in five minutes. When Shank nodded, Sara left the rest room and headed outside, praying she wasn’t about to make a mistake that would put nails in her and her patients’ coffins.

They met at the pond.

Sara stopped beside a palmetto. “It’s okay to talk freely here. Joe says it’s a safe zone.”

“It is.” Shank pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her pocket and then adjusted them on her nose. “I take it Joe is doing some remembering.”

“Some, but it’s more haze than certainty. Coming outside has helped him enormously.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“Not yet. But I’ve deduced that he was tortured, and I’m positive sensory deprivation was involved.”

“So that’s why he’s so sensitive to colors.”

“To red and white. It’s all connected. I’m not yet sure how.” Sara shifted away from the sun. “Thanks for your help with the lab.” Sara’s face went hot. As an operative, she had failed on a grand scale—and developed a new respect for people who function in that capacity. “I didn’t think about an alibi until Mick Bush was crawling on my back.”

“You don’t think ‘covert.’”

“No, I don’t,” Sara admitted, then diplomatically let Shank know she had realized the truth. “But I’m grateful that you and Joe do.”

“I don’t think ‘covert,’ Sara. I think ‘survive.’” Shank stuffed her hands into her pockets. “So did you find anything of use?”

Here it was. The ultimate moment of truth. Did Sara admit her findings, bring Shank totally into her circle of trust, or did she lie?

She weighed the risks, and took them. “I examined the records—except for Fred’s. His were blocked. But the other patients were all transferred here from the Intelligence Warfare Psychological Training Center.”

Shank’s jaw dropped, and she whipped off the sunglasses. “I wept.”

Sara nodded. “And they’ve all been declared dead.”

The wheels turned in Shank’s mind, the facts clicked into place. “Holy cow.”

“I don’t know who to trust, or who to blame.” Sara lifted a hand. “Is Fontaine protecting the patients, or is he covering up IWPT’s screw-ups? And if he is covering up, is he doing it for personal reasons, or is he acting under orders? He could be working under the direction of the OSI.” Sara didn’t add, though she could have, that those same questions, including those regarding the Office of Special Investigations, applied to Foster. Shank had said she was helping Sara to survive, not that she was expert or involved in covert operations. And Foster’s warning about enlightening people here on his existence or on anything to do with Braxton had burned into Sara’s mind. She couldn’t carry the added risk of causing Shank to be canceled. “What do they do at IWPT?”

“I can’t say exactly.” Shank stuffed her sunglasses back into her pocket. “I know everyone in the military has to have psych-warfare training, but mine wasn’t at IWPT. I’ve never even heard of it.”

Sara weighed Shank’s remarks. No hesitation, no body language that conflicted with what she was saying. She was being honest and forthright. “Could IWPT be reserved for people in extremely sensitive positions?”

“It’s possible.” Shank rubbed at her lip. “Operatives get extended training on a lot of fronts that the rest of the military doesn’t.” A frown furrowed her auburn brow. “But judging by the cases coming to us from there—was ADR-40 a transferee from IWPT, too?”

Sara nodded.

“Then I’d definitely say more is going on there than the standard—for any military member, including operatives.”

Sara sat down on the grass and watched the water lap at the bank of the pond. “What could be going on there?”

“I’d say they want to shut these men up.”

“About what?”

“That, I don’t know. But they’ve been successful. Hell, Sara, Michael’s the least damaged, and Joe’s recovering. If they don’t know what happened to them, how can anyone else?”

This was Shank’s way of asking if Sara was withholding information. “The patients don’t know.” Sara cupped a hand at her brow to block the sun. “What happened during your training?”

Shank sat down next to Sara, tugged at a blade of grass. “It was like a survival school for your mind.”

“What’s survival school like?”

“You’re taught strategies, and what to expect if you’re ever taken POW. It’s role-playing, and you’re a POW. They put you through the paces, so you know how to fight it.”

“Fight what?”

“Torture.”

Sara’s chest went tight, and her stomach pitched and rolled. “We need to know more about IWPT. Who runs it?” Whoever was in charge had to be Fontaine’s contact, regardless of whether he was acting on a personal agenda or working with the OSI.

“Give me twenty-four hours.” Shank fingered the blade of grass. It snapped between her thumbnail and finger. “I have a friend.” She tossed the grass down. “Until we get a grip on this, stay out of Fontaine’s path. He can’t prove you hacked into the computer records, but he knows it. He’ll be gunning for you.”

He did, and he would. “I’ll be careful.” Sara stood up, swiped at the dead grass clinging to her lab coat. “I need all the research you can find on psychological warfare with military applications.”

“All of it?” Shank gained her feet. “You’re talking about mountains of material here.”

“We know from Fred’s records that this has been going on at least five years. We have to go back that far.”

“You’ve got it, but it’ll take a while.”

“Thanks.” Sara swatted at a bug buzzing Shank’s shoulder. “I appreciate all you’re doing.”

“This is important to me, too.”

Sara nodded, then turned and walked back toward the facility. Outwardly, she might appear in control. But inside she was rattled and feeling incompetent to be holding the lives of so many people in her hands.

Earlier, she’d had doubts that she was up to the task. Now, she knew she lacked the needed skills. But she did have some things working in her favor. Joe, Shank, and passion. This mattered to her, these people mattered to her, and that had to help in some way.

A short distance from the building, Shank paused. “Sara, does Joe know any of this?”

A test. Shank knew he wasn’t totally unaware, or she wouldn’t have chosen him to donate the blood to keep Hal busy and out of the lab. “Some.”

“Does he know he’s dead?”

Sara hesitated at answering. “If I tell you, either way, then I’m dragging you deeper into this. That’s not healthy for you, Shank.”

“You’ve got to tell him. How can you not tell him? He has the skills, Sara. No offense, but you don’t.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” She dragged a frustrated hand through her short hair. “Damn it, this is just too complex.”

Sara studied the edge of the concrete, then let her gaze slide out over the grass. No self-respecting weed would dare to mar Braxton’s perfect lawn. “I agree that Joe has to know the truth. So do the others—at least, those capable of understanding.” Which excluded Lou. “They’ve all been betrayed enough.”

Shank slid Sara a level look. “We’ve all been betrayed enough.”

“Yes, we have.”

Shank cleared her throat. “Under the desktop in your office. All you ever wanted to know about psych-warfare with military applications.”

Sara slid her a puzzled frown. “I just asked you for that information. How did you get anyone to gather—”

“I didn’t.” Shank sniffed. “You’re not the only one around here who’s noted irregularities. And you’re not the only one who’s been trying to figure out what and who’s hurting our men. For both our sakes, let’s leave it at that.”

That response raised a question. Was Shank working alone, or under someone else’s direction? It was a question Sara couldn’t ask without putting Shank on the spot. And since Sara didn’t want to be on that spot herself, she let it go unasked.

“I hope it gives you what you need to stop them, Sara. I tried—read every word—but I didn’t know enough to do them any good.” Regret and remorse burned in Shank’s eyes, turned the tip of her nose red, and put a tremble in her voice. “I’ve felt like a failure many times in my life, but never more so than when trying to decipher what’s going on here. I couldn’t protect them.”