Acts of Honor (5 page)

“What I know is, I’ve had it. Grandma West won’t even talk to us anymore. Grandpa says she’s disgusted with Mom and she’s taking it out on me, too, but she’ll get over it. I don’t think she will. And Grandma Quade just cries all the time.”

“Your Grandma West was born disgusted, and your Grandma Quade has lost her husband and her son. She’s hurting, Lisa. Seeing you and your mom going through this and not being able to help only hurts her more.”

“It hurts me, too,” Lisa shot back. “Can’t we commit Mom, or something? Gwendolyn Pierce told me her mother said Mom ought to be committed, and Aunt Shelly committed Uncle Steve.”

“Because she was angry, and the law is asinine. Your Uncle Steve wasn’t mentally ill, and neither is your mother.”

“Can’t prove it by me. You’ve got to admit she’s acting nuts, Aunt Sara.”

“No, honey, she honestly isn’t,” Sara disagreed. “Your mother is reacting to trauma. She doesn’t need to be committed. Gwen’s mother doesn’t have a clue what she’s talking about.”

“Whatever,” Lisa interjected. “All I know is I’m about to explode. You’ve got to do something.
Please!”

What was left to do that Sara hadn’t already tried?

Foster’s offer flickered through her mind. She stared at his card, still untouched where he’d left it on her desk. She shouldn’t do it, and she knew it. He was hiding something vital from her. But he had promised she’d find her answers about David, and from the panic and desolation in Lisa’s tone, Sara had better find them fast. Before she could stop the words, they tumbled out of her mouth. “I have a plan, Lisa. Just hang in there a little while longer, okay?”

“How much longer? The kids are laughing at me and calling Mom ugly names. It’s humiliating. Even Taylor Baker is giving me flack.”

“Who is he?”

“Only the coolest guy in the world. I’ve been trying to get him to notice me since fifth grade. Now he has, and it’s awful.”

Seeing the potential to lift Lisa’s thoughts to something less depressing, Sara picked up on the Taylor Baker thread. “Is he
the
one?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“If he were the one, you’d know it—first sight.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Sara thumped a pen against her blotter. She prayed it. Regularly. “That’s how it was with your mom and dad, and with Grandma and Grandpa West.”

“Well, I guess he’s not, then.” Lisa let out a resigned sigh. “But he’ll do until the one comes along.”

Sara smiled. “So you’ll give me more time to figure things out?”

“Just how much dirt am I supposed to eat on this? My gut’s full, Aunt Sara.”

Sara understood Lisa’s belligerence and her outrage. Her own patience was about as thin as film. “You shouldn’t have to eat any dirt,” Sara said. “But the way things should be and the way they are—”

“Trust me, I’ve got a grip on reality versus fantasy. Mom’s seen to that.”

Sara frowned, wishing that weren’t true, and snagged an orange from a basket on the credenza behind her desk. “Can you stand it for just a couple more weeks?” She dug her thumbnail in and started peeling. Pungent juice squirted out. Tugging a tissue from the box, she dabbed at the juice droplets on her desk.

No answer.

“Lisa?” Real fear gripped at Sara’s stomach, and she stilled. What did she do if Lisa refused? “Please.”

Lisa hesitated. “If you convince Mom not to marry H. G. or G. H. Williamson, I’ll try. But I won’t promise. Right now, all I want to do is to get away from here and away from her. Five years is waiting long enough—and being patient enough. She’s broken, and she’s breaking me, too. It’s not fair.” Her voice cracked. “It’s not, and I’m sick of this stuff.”

“No, it isn’t fair. It’s hard.” Sara closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer. “But you’re stronger than she is right now, and I have a plan. So give me a few weeks, and I’ll talk to your mom about holding off on the wedding, okay? I’ll talk to your Grandma Quade, too.” Sara didn’t bother extending that promise to include Grandma West. They both knew Sara’s mother was a lost cause.

“Okay. But that’s it, Aunt Sara. If Mom marries the stuffed shirt, I’m outta here. I can’t stomach another quickie marriage and divorce. I won’t.”

Two references to running away in one conversation. This was not good. Yet, Lisa had agreed. “Fair enough, provided you give me your word that if you do decide to leave, you’ll talk with me first. I can’t stand the thought of not knowing where you are and that you’re okay, Lisa. Please don’t put me through that.” Or Brenda. She would come unglued at the seams.

“All right. If I go, I’ll call you first,” Lisa promised, then hung up.

Sara grabbed a fresh tissue from the box at the corner of her desk and dabbed at the sweat beaded at her temples. She understood Lisa’s frustration. Oh, but did she understand it! And she was furious with her sister for dragging Lisa through this with her. Almost as furious with her as Sara was with herself for not knowing how to get Brenda beyond this self-destructive—and Lisa-destructive—behavior.

Sara did all she knew to do. She read the latest available information, scoured and studied new findings and treatments until she swore her eyeballs were going to bleed, and yet the key to Brenda’s mental health—which held the key to Lisa’s—still eluded Sara. What was she missing?

And what can you find out in a few weeks that you haven’t been able to find out in five years of intense searching?

Dear God. What had she done? Lisa expected results, and Sara had promised them without knowing she could provide them. She hadn’t intended to promise or to lie. She’d been desperate, afraid Lisa would run away, and then Brenda would lose what grip she had on her sanity—though honesty forced Sara to admit that, aside from the marriages and leaving Lisa on the sidelines while pursuing them, Brenda seemed normal. Baffling situation. Hair-pulling baffling. One not covered in any textbooks or professional journals.

A few weeks. That’s all the time Sara had to produce results. Without Foster, she didn’t stand a chance.

The arrogant bastard had won. He’d known he would. And which Sara resented more—his winning, or his knowing he would—she couldn’t honestly say. Not that it mattered. Bottom line, only two things mattered: her family, and the life of that operative.

Ever since Foster had left, Sara had been fighting a heavy-duty dose of guilt about condemning that man to death. And she might as well admit it, if only to herself. Even without the potential for learning about David, she still would have ended up calling Foster. She couldn’t not call him, knowing he would have the operative murdered. Though, for strategic advantage, she might have waited another day to make the call. Now, she couldn’t afford to squander a day’s time.

Sara lifted the card and then dialed the handwritten number scrawled on the back of it, hoping she wasn’t making a monumental mistake. Every instinct in her body screamed this was dangerous and could get her killed. But something rating the highest priority screamed far louder than her instincts: Lisa’s despair.

The phone rang in Sara’s ear, then rang again.

“Foster,” he answered, sounding calm and confident.

Irrationally angry that he sounded relaxed while her emotions were in riot, Sara swallowed an urge to snap at him. The knot of fear in her throat slid down and settled squarely in her chest. He needed a favor from her, and she urgently needed one from him. If successful, she would help Brenda and Lisa and save a man’s life. If not
 . . .
No. Failure was
not an
option. She
had
to succeed. “It’s me,” she said, certain he would know who was calling. “Meet me at Molly Maguire’s pub in an hour.” Her hand trembling, her stomach pitching and rolling, she braced the office phone’s receiver between her hunched shoulder and ear, clipped her cell phone to her slacks’ waistband, and broke into a cold sweat. “I want to make a deal.”

The pub was cramped
and crowded.

The cloistering smell of so many foods and patrons’ perfumes nearly knocked Sara to her knees. Why she had suggested coming here, she had no idea. All the dollar bills hanging down from the ceiling and taped to the walls made her feel claustrophobic, and she had deliberately avoided claustrophobic situations since a former PTSD patient, suffering a flashback, had locked her in a closet with his pet boa constrictor, Rudy. She had squelched forever her fear of snakes, but she’d hated closed-in places ever since. And Foster’s boxing her in on this deal already had her feeling closed in enough.

A perky hostess wove through a maze of wooden tables, leading Sara to a quiet corner where Jack Foster sat waiting for her. He’d ditched the uniform for a pair of beige slacks and a yellow golf shirt, and he was smiling. At least he wasn’t gloating. At this point, she’d take solace wherever she could find it.

Sara sat down and frowned at him. She wasn’t happy about this situation, and it was just as well she let him know it right up front. “Here’s the deal, and none of it is negotiable,” she said, diving in to get this over and done. “I want access to all information—regardless of its security classification—on David Quade and on other PTSD patients like him. I also want all of the undisclosed statistics and data you’ve compiled on successful coping strategies for PTSD family members. In return, I’ll treat your five patients—provided that during my absence you have a doctor I consider acceptable to work with my current patients using my methods.”

Foster glanced at her as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d spoken. “Would you like something to drink?”

Glimpsing their waitress’s approach, Sara nodded. “A beer. Anything on tap.” If she intended to become a covert operative of sorts and to survive, then she had better start honing her observation skills and being more discreet. “No, make that a Southpaw.”

“Southpaw?” Foster looked at her, clearly perplexed.

“It’s a beer.” She shrugged. “I want to give it a try.”

Foster smiled at the waitress. “Make that two Southpaws.”

As soon as the waitress departed, Sara rushed him. “Well?” She had to rush him, or she feared she’d listen to her instincts, back out of the proposal, and run like hell. Foster often had infuriated her. Now, he terrified her. She resented that, and him. Her life was chaotic enough without him dragging her into AID intelligence matters that she knew nothing about, and then dropping “no knowledge” bombs on her head if she fell short of accomplishing the required mission. Not to mention his threatening to ruin her and making her responsible for the life of his operative.

Foster waited until the waitress stepped out of hearing range to respond. “Regarding your patients, consider it done. Dr. Christopher Kale is the best we’ve got, and he’s familiar with—and approves of—your unorthodox methods. He’ll fill in for you and follow your procedures to the letter.”

A simple thrill shimmied up Sara’s backbone. She’d been meeting informally and corresponding with Dr. Kale for months. He was pushing seventy, an excellent psychiatrist, and devoted to her methods of therapy. But their contact also explained how Foster knew so much about her private life and her family. Dr. Kale was one of Foster’s men. That betrayal stung.

“Do you approve of Dr. Kale?”

“You know I do.” Forcing herself, she smiled. “He’s head and shoulders above anyone else in the field.”

“And he agrees with you and doesn’t think you’re a nut.”

“That, too.” Sara shrugged, not at all defensive. “Pioneers often aren’t appreciated until long after they’re dead, Foster. I could care less what my peers think, so long as they don’t interfere. The majority of my patients recover. That’s what matters most to me.”

“I didn’t realize you were so altruistic, Sara.” Foster’s eyes twinkled.

He realized exactly how altruistic she was, or he wouldn’t have tagged her to help him. Still, she regretted speaking freely. “We all have our moments.”

Foster smiled, causing an amazing transformation in his sharp, angled features. “Kale will meet you at your office in an hour to go over your current patients’ charts. I’ll do all I can to get you access to the information you requested.” He glanced at the two men seated at the next table and dropped his voice. “I wish I could guarantee success, but the truth is, I can’t. I will do everything humanly possible.”

“Provided this isn’t lip service, and you really do intend to follow through, your best is all I can ask or expect.”

“So am I forgiven now?”

“Hardly. And don’t push it.” On top of everything else, he had questioned her honor. That rankled. Deep.

She thumbed the rim of her water glass, wishing the waitress would hurry with their beers. She needed serious fortification. “I don’t like the risk factors in this situation.”

“Neither do I,” he frankly admitted. “My men being in jeopardy without me having any idea why makes me damned uncomfortable.”

“If it didn’t, you’d be a lousy excuse for a commander.” The two men took a trip to the salad bar. Foster watched them unreasonably closely.