Crossfire (24 page)

‘‘Shit.’’ The guy dragged an unsteady hand through long, unkempt, shoulder-length hair that didn’t look as if it had been washed anytime in the past month. ‘‘I didn’t hear anything about that.’’

‘‘Hard to watch Fox News when you’re living under the Somersett bridge,’’ the troublemaker pointed out.

‘‘Okay, dammit, that’s enough.’’

Mike Gannon’s sharp tone slashed like a bayonet. His jaw was granite. No longer looking like the soft-spoken former doctor who’d so recently worn a Roman collar, before everyone’s eyes he morphed into Captain Gannon, a military man who’d won a medal for bravery under enemy fire.

‘‘One of the few rules of any 12-step group is that cross talk isn’t encouraged, since everyone’s supposed to address the meeting as a whole. Now, I’m willing to let that slide from time to time in order to keep a dialogue going, but one more negative word from you and I’m getting on the phone to the judge who decided it’d be a great idea to send you here, and believe me, this time tomorrow, your ass is going to be grass.’’

There was a stunned silence. Then, to Cait’s surprise, while color stained the troublemaker’s cheeks, the Vietnam vet began to clap. Followed by the kid whose wife claimed to no longer recognize him. One by one, the sound spread around the circle.

Until Mike held up a hand, the simple gesture abruptly cutting off the applause, like water turned off at the tap.

Cait admired his control of the group. And the way he smoothly moved on to a discussion of this week’s step, which was led by one of the vets who, like the newcomer, had remained silent during the sharing part of the meeting. Perhaps, she thought, because he was busy concentrating on his presentation about continuing to take personal inventory and learning to admit when you were wrong.

Although the vet wasn’t going to be elected president of Toastmasters anytime soon, his speech seemed to be well received by everyone in the room.

Speaking in public was one of the things Cait didn’t like about her job. Another reason she’d been dodging Valentine’s interview.

‘‘One last story,’’ Mike said, as the vet sat back down to another strong round of applause. ‘‘This is a legend I learned during a summer spent working on a reservation in Arizona. About an elder Apache teaching the young people of his tribe about life.

‘‘He sat them down in a circle around the fire one night, and said to them, ‘There is a fight going on inside me. Right now, as I speak. It is a terrible, deadly battle, between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, lies, false pride, and ego. The other stands for peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, friendship, generosity, truth, and faith. This same fight is going on inside you. And every other person, too.’

‘‘As the sparks flew up from the fire into the night sky, the young boys thought about the elder’s words.

‘‘Then one asked the old man, ‘Which wolf will win?’

‘‘The elder replied simply, ‘The one you feed.’ ’’

With the same excellent timing that had packed the cathedral on those Sunday mornings when Father Mike was scheduled to give the weekly homily, he paused, allowing that message to sink in.

‘‘Some of you may have noticed we have another guest who hasn’t spoken,’’ he said after a long moment, his tone shifting gears. ‘‘She’s a friend of Quinn McKade, who many of you know well. And trust.’’

He nodded at Quinn, who nodded back.

‘‘Which is why,’’ Mike continued, ‘‘I also ask you to trust Special Agent Caitlin Cavanaugh, who’s part of the task force trying to apprehend this person who’s already taken three lives and sent a much beloved elderly crossing guard, who was doing her job protecting children crossing the street right outside this building, to the hospital.’’

He turned to Cait, whose palms had gone moist. God, she hated public speaking. ‘‘Cait. Would you like the floor?’’

Actually, she’d like to escape this room, which seemed to be getting smaller by the moment. And something was sucking all the air out of it.

Quinn leaned toward her. ‘‘You’ll be great.’’

‘‘Yeah. That’s probably what Butch Cassidy told the Sundance Kid just before they got the not-so-nifty idea to face down the Bolivian military,’’ she muttered.

Screwing up her courage, Cait stood and walked to the podium, all too aware of twenty-five pairs of male eyes focused on her butt.

She gave the spiel, telling the group what she could without going into detail, including why the task force thought they were dealing with a vet. From the stony faces and crossed arms, she could tell that idea didn’t go over real well.

When her eyes drifted to Quinn, he actually winked, as if she was doing great. She wished.

‘‘I understand that’s an unpopular idea,’’ she pressed on, ‘‘because it means that every man and woman who has worn or is wearing the uniform gets painted with that same wide brush. Which is unfair. But, as I suspect you all know all too well firsthand, life isn’t always fair.

‘‘So, the best way to change the perception that everyone who’s experiencing PTSD is a potential mass murderer is to stop this guy. Now.’’

She took a stack of cards from her suit jacket pocket and placed them on the corner of the table beside the podium. ‘‘The task force is, unsurprisingly, being inundated with phone calls. Some tips may prove helpful. Most probably won’t.’’

She couldn’t quite hold back a faint smile at the thought of Angetti, who’d landed in the FBI doghouse after that impromptu television interview, currently being stuck on phone duty. Her partner definitely hadn’t been happy about that assignment. Tough.

She went on, ‘‘I’ve lived in Somersett since high school, and I never had any idea so many neighbors left their trash cans out at the curb past the pickup day.’’

It was, the members handling the phones had discovered, one of the top three complaints. Along with barking dogs and loud outdoor speakers blasting music all over the neighborhood.

That drew a ripple of laughter. Which was encouraging. If only one person in the room knew something, and felt more likely to call in with information because she’d come here tonight, the time spent away from the field investigation would be worthwhile.

‘‘I’ve written my cell phone number on these cards,’’ she said. ‘‘So if any of you think of anything which might prove helpful, you can bypass all the phone hoops and call me directly.

‘‘I can’t stress the importance of this,’’ she said, her tone cracking a bit from the stress that was grinding away at her gut and head. ‘‘Because one thing I’m positive about is that this guy isn’t going away. He’s going to kill more people. The other thing I’m equally sure about is we’re going to catch him. I’d just prefer it to be sooner rather than later.’’

She let out a breath, immensely grateful that she was now coming down the home stretch. ‘‘Thank you. Both for hearing me out this evening and for your service.’’

She didn’t receive any applause, but as she returned to her seat, more than one vet met her gaze, and in those eyes she thought she saw if not friendship, which she wouldn’t have expected, at least acceptance.

‘‘You did good,’’ Quinn said as she sat down beside him. He reached over, took her hand in his, and briefly squeezed her fingers.

‘‘Let’s just hope someone knows something they’re willing to tell,’’ she murmured back.

‘‘I echo Special Agent Cavanaugh’s statement,’’ Mike was saying. ‘‘It’s in all our interests for this evil to be stopped.

‘‘I’d like to remind everyone that in order to preserve every member’s anonymity, we ask that all you see and hear here stays here. Remember, opinions expressed are personal ones. Please take whatever you find helpful, and leave the rest.

‘‘In closing, let’s all remember that no matter how deep-rooted or hopeless life’s problems may seem, we all start from where we are. By working the program one day at a time, we’ll begin to reclaim the freedom and happiness we once experienced. What may seem impossible will become a reality, and we’ll find our lives—as well as the lives of those around us— becoming richer and more joyful.’’

After the majority of group members repeated the closing Unity Prayer, the meeting broke up.

Many of the men gathered around Quinn carrying his book. Appearing a bit uncomfortable as he signed his name on the title page, he chatted briefly with each person.

‘‘He’s uneasy with the fame aspect of this new life he’s chosen,’’ Mike said as he and Cait watched the scene.

‘‘His choice,’’ she pointed out.

‘‘Some vets deal with what they’ve seen and done by coming to meetings like this. Others choose methods that work for them. Quinn McKade’s method of coming to terms with his former life is with the written word.’’

‘‘Yet the book’s fiction.’’

He gave her a ‘‘what turnip truck did you just fall off of?’’ look. ‘‘So it says on the cover.’’

In truth, she’d wondered about some of the scenes as she stayed up all night reading the gripping but violent page-turner. If Quinn had experienced even a quarter of the story he’d written, she was surprised he was as centered as he appeared to be.

After chatting with Mike a bit longer, catching up on his brother Joe’s life and pleased to learn that her former partner and Val’s current bodyguard was going to become a father in the new year, Cait was making her way through the dwindling crowd back to Quinn when a vet stepped in front of her, blocking her way, her white card in his hand.

‘‘You’re making a big mistake, Special Agent,’’ the Marine said. His tone was rough, the animosity emanating from him as dangerous as his dark, deadly empty eyes.

‘‘And how is that?’’ Cait asked. She had seen stone-cold killers demonstrate more emotion than this guy.

‘‘No one in the room’s gonna share any information with you. Even if they do know the guy you’re looking for.’’

‘‘Do you? Know the guy I’m looking for?’’

‘‘Good try.’’ His lips quirked, just a little at the corner, drawing her attention to a scar that went from his mouth up his right cheek. From a knife, she thought. ‘‘But here’s the thing. The reason no one’s going to tell you anything is because I’ll goddamn guarantee it that everyone here already knows about the snitches.’’

‘‘And what snitches would that be?’’ Cait could feel Quinn glance over at her, but kept her attention directed toward the Marine.

‘‘The ones who try to get you to share stuff.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Nightmares, feelings, things you might’ve done out on patrol. Always supposedly to cleanse the bad stuff.’’ He heaped an extra helping of scorn on the word ‘‘cleanse.’’ ‘‘Like it’s not all bad stuff. But here’s the deal. As soon as you admit to anything, the next thing you know, you’re separated on an OTH discharge.’’

‘‘OTH?’’

‘‘Other than honorable discharge. And you know what that gets you.’’

‘‘What?’’ she asked, thinking back on what Quinn had suggested about the shooter.

‘‘Squat.’’ His hands, she noticed, had curled into fists at his sides. ‘‘Depending on how the VA decides to clear the case, you can end up risking your life for goddamn Uncle Sam only to get all your benefits stripped away.’’

‘‘Is that what happened to you?’’

The flash of fury faded from his eyes. His face was still stone, but he’d gone somewhere inside himself, revealing nothing of what he was feeling.

‘‘We weren’t talking about me. I was just saying, hypothetically, why you’re wasting your time. Instead of trying to get guys who in no way are going to talk to you to spill their guts, you ought to be out there combing the streets and the marsh, looking for these guys.’’

The plural did not escape her notice. ‘‘What makes you think there’s more than one?’’

Again that little quirk of the lips. ‘‘Maybe, since the two of you seem so friendly, you ought to read McKade’s book. Because, if you had, you’d know that snipers need spotters. Which means, Special Agent, you’re talking about two guys.’’

Apparently deciding he’d shared enough, he did a military pivot turn and marched away, passing Quinn, who was headed toward Cait. But not looking at him, she noted. Instead, his eyes stayed directed straight ahead, a little above the rest of the men, who were gathered around the coffeemaker.

‘‘You okay?’’ Quinn asked.

‘‘Sure.’’ Cait rubbed her arms, which had gone all goose-bumpy. ‘‘That is one unhappy Marine.’’

‘‘I doubt you’ll find that many guys in this room who aren’t.’’

‘‘True. But he sort of creeped me out, which isn’t easy to do after all my years on the force. It was as if he could explode at any minute. I also think he had an OTH discharge.’’

‘‘Not surprising. It’s a handy way to keep veterans costs down.’’

She looked up at him. ‘‘You don’t mean that.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘Hell, I gave up a long time ago trying to figure out government-think. But I do know that there are a lot of vets, including those who came back from ’Nam suffering from the effects of Agent Orange and or the Desert Storm vets who spent years trying to get the government to admit to Gulf War Syndrome, who don’t exactly trust the people in control of the system.’’

‘‘You realize, of course, that you’re not being real encouraging here.’’

‘‘Just telling it like it is,’’ he said with a shrug.

‘‘He also said that no one here will tell me anything about my shooter. Even if they know.’’

‘‘Yeah. The snitch thing.’’

‘‘You knew about that?’’

‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘Then why didn’t you say anything beforehand?’’

‘‘Would it have changed your mind about coming here?’’

‘‘No, but—’’

‘‘That’s one reason why I didn’t. The other reason is that just maybe, if you turn over enough rocks, you’ll find the guy. This was one more logical place to try.’’

‘‘I was thinking he might be in the room.’’

‘‘Could’ve been.’’

‘‘Because if he didn’t show up for this meeting, wouldn’t people notice?’’

‘‘Not at all,’’ said Mike, who’d come over to them. ‘‘There’s a reason we keep things anonymous. We’re not the only PTSD group in the Lowcountry. People tend to go to the one that’s most convenient, or where they feel most at home. Like that Marine you were talking with. He might come back. He might not. Maybe he’ll get some help somewhere else, maybe he won’t.’’

‘‘Wow.’’ Cait blew out a frustrated breath. ‘‘You two are sure a bundle of optimism.’’

‘‘That day-at-a-time thing isn’t just a cliché,’’ the former priest said, sounding a bit as if he knew something about the subject firsthand. Which, given the brief story he’d told about his own battlefield experience, Cait suspected he did. ‘‘We can help people work the system, and we’re finding that cognitive therapy, which is what Kristin Davis has been doing with group members, guiding them through the events they’ve experienced, can take them to a safer place, but in the end, recovery, such as it is, is up to the individual.’’

‘‘I think that guy is a long way from getting over whatever’s made him so angry,’’ Cait murmured, watching through the window as the Marine climbed into a white van.

‘‘You never really get over war,’’ Mike said.

‘‘But you can learn to live with it,’’ Quinn said as he took his cell phone, which had just buzzed, out of the pocket of his jeans.

‘‘Hey, Zach,’’ he said, after a glance at the caller ID. ‘‘What’s up?’’ He listened for a moment. ‘‘Roger that.’’ He picked up one of the cards Cait had left on the table and scribbled some numbers on the back. ‘‘We’re on our way.’’ He snapped the phone shut again and turned to Cait.

‘‘They think they found the Altima.’’

‘‘Where?’’

‘‘Out in the swamp.’’

‘‘Is there anyone with it? Or was it ditched?’’

‘‘Since it’s been burned, I’d say ditched. As for anyone being with it, they’re leaving that for the authorities to check out.’’ He handed her the card. ‘‘Here’s the GPS coordinates.’’

Cait pulled out her own phone, called the location in, and said she was on her way to the scene.

‘‘Dammit, that was the only thing we knew about him. Now we’re back to zero.’’

‘‘You never know,’’ Quinn said, ‘‘Bad guys are like everyone else. They screw up. Maybe you’ll find something he left behind.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’ She did not feel all that optimistic.

‘‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help,’’ Mike said as he walked them toward the door.

‘‘Well, you can’t tell what’s going to turn out to be helpful,’’ Cait said. ‘‘I didn’t really expect anyone to raise their hand and volunteer in front of everyone. Maybe I’ll still get a call.’’

‘‘I’ll pray that’s so,’’ Mike said. ‘‘Meanwhile, I’ll probably see you tomorrow at the memorial at ASMA. Kristin has asked me to speak. And, of course, there’s your niece’s baptism day after tomorrow.’’

‘‘Oh, shit.’’ Cait slapped her hand over her mouth. Too late.

Her youngest sister, the one with the new Orphan Annie curls, had nearly died. As had the baby, who’d been born by C-section nearly two months early. This upcoming ceremony was an official reason for the entire family to celebrate. There was also the little fact that Cait had agreed to be her niece’s godmother.

‘‘Sorry,’’ she said automatically, inwardly cringing at having cursed in front of a priest. Even a former priest.

‘‘I’ve heard a lot worse,’’ Mike said with a quick, sexy grin that had been a large part of the reason for his Father What-a-Waste nickname. ‘‘Said worse, too. You know, your mother will probably understand if you can’t make it.’’

‘‘No.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘My mother will so not understand.’’ Not after all Megan had been through. ‘‘I’ll make it.’’ Somehow.

‘‘It’ll be good for you,’’ Mike suggested. ‘‘A moment of optimism during a difficult time.’’

And couldn’t she definitely use that, Cait thought as she walked with Quinn out to his car.

The shooter had parked the van at the back of the lot, far from the glare of the lights. He sat behind the wheel, watching as the pair came out of the cathedral. There was a connection there that was more than professional. They were comfortable in each other’s space. Yet at the same time he sensed a tension that suggested they hadn’t yet acted on the chemistry sparking between them.

Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh was driven. That was damn sure. He suspected that, like the Tommy Lee Jones character in The Fugitive, the woman wouldn’t stop until she got her man.

Which meant that he’d have to get her first.