Eye for an Eye, an (Heroes of Quantico Book #2): A Novel (11 page)

The door to the small sound booth opened, and Coop slipped in, taking a seat beside Mark in the cramped space.

“She’s impressive, isn’t she?”

“You were listening?”

“They broadcast the programming throughout the office.”

“Hi, Kyle.” Emily took the next call. “Thanks for waiting to talk with me. What’s on your mind tonight?” When there was no response, she looked toward the sound booth. The technician checked some dials and gave her a thumbs-up. “Kyle? Are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. We thought we lost you for a minute. What’s going on?”

“I don’t . . . I’m not sure where to start.”

“Is there a problem at school? Or at home?”

“Yeah.”

“Both places?”

“Yeah. Like, everywhere. My parents split a month ago, and my grades stink, and my brother shipped out to the Middle East last week. My life sucks. It just doesn’t seem worth it some days, you know?”

Frowning, Mark looked over at Coop. The kid sounded like he was teetering on the edge.

It was obvious Emily had come to the same conclusion. She checked the clock in the studio. They were down to the final five minutes of the program.

Signaling to Andy at the sound controls, she responded, “I hear you, Kyle. Life can throw us a lot of curves, that’s for sure.

And you’ve got a plateful right now. Can you do something for me? Can you stay on the line while I take one more caller?

We’re about to wrap up the program, and I’d like to talk with you some more as soon as I’m off the air. Will you wait on the line for me?”

“I guess.”

Again, Emily signaled to Andy, who patched through the last caller of the evening.

While Emily took the final call, Andy spoke to Kyle. It was obvious he’d been through this drill before, buying time for Emily, keeping someone on the line who she felt needed extra attention and more in-depth counseling than her program allowed.

Once Emily signed off, Andy transferred the call back in to her, shut off the sound, and removed his headphones.

Through the window, Mark watched as Emily gave her full attention to Kyle, her expression intent as she scribbled notes, twin grooves furrowing her brow.

“Does she get callers like that very often?” Coop addressed the question to the technician.

“Now and then.” He swung around in his swivel chair and crossed an ankle over a knee. With his longish, gray-streaked hair, threadbare jeans, and T-shirt emblazoned with the station logo, he looked like a heavy metal junkie. “But Emily’s cool with them. More often than not she manages to get their names and set up some counseling for them, or she’ll get them to promise to call back if they’re really down. If they won’t do that, she gives them her cell number and tells them to call anytime.” He angled his head and gave her an admiring look. “A lot of people talk about compassion and Christian charity. Emily lives it.”

While Andy shut down the studio for the night and set up the recorded programming that would fill out the evening schedule, Mark mulled over the technician’s comment as he watched Emily talk to the troubled boy. Her posture was taut, her face a mask of concern, her eyes filled with empathy and caring. Andy was right, Mark thought. She lived what she believed. And if she could be this caring, this committed, this intent on doing the right thing for a youthful stranger, how much love would she lavish on someone to whom she’d given her heart?

The thought filled him with awe.

“I’m heading out.” Andy swiveled toward them and rose. “All you need to do when you leave is flip the light switch and pull the door shut behind you.”

“Andy.” Coop’s voice stopped him. “Do you track the source of these calls?”

“No. My guess is most of them come in on cells. These kids don’t want their parents listening in on the home phone.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

With a wave, he left.

“What was that all about?” Mark gave Coop a quizzical look.

“That kid she’s talking to sounds disturbed.”

“And . . . ?”

“Disturbed people can do dangerous things.”

It was obvious where Coop was heading, but Mark was skeptical. “That could be a stretch. These are teenagers. Our shooter was methodical. Someone who knew how to handle a gun. And how to disappear without a trace. A kid like that”—he nodded toward the studio—“would make mistakes. And I’d be more concerned about him taking his own life than someone else’s.”

Coop shrugged. “It was just a thought.”

Forty-five minutes later, when Emily at last took off her headphones, Mark watched as she pushed her hair back from her face and rubbed her temples. The weary slump of her shoulders reflected a full caseload of patients today, an hour-long program with teens that required her to be at the top of her game every second, and a taxing, emotional session with a very troubled young man.

“We need to get her home. She looks ready to fold.”

“I agree. The lady’s had a tough week.” Coop rose.

Emerging from the studio, Emily gave them an apologetic smile. “Sorry about this. After most shows I’m out the door in five minutes.”

“No problem.” Mark stood too. “That kid sounded like he needed a sympathetic ear.”

“He needs more than that.”

“Did you convince him of that?”

“I think so. He promised to talk to a counselor at school tomorrow and call back next week. And I gave him my cell number.”

“Andy told us you get calls like that now and then. How often is now and then, Emily?”

Shrugging, she reached for her purse. “I have a kid like this every month or two. Some of them call me several times before I convince them to get face-to-face help or they trust me enough to give me their full names. Some call for a while, and then I never hear from them again. I had a kid like that a couple of months ago. Bryan. Several calls, each more desperate than the last, then nothing.” She shook her head, distress etching her features. “Those are the ones I worry about most.”

“Well, tonight I’m more worried about you. You’ve had a long day.” Mark looked at Coop.

“I’ll do a quick check outside. Hang tight till I get back.”

When the door closed behind Coop, Mark smiled at Emily.

“I was impressed. You’re good.”

A soft flush colored her cheeks. “For the most part, I listen.

That doesn’t take any special skill.”

“Real listening does. And giving direction and guidance by letting people think they’re reaching conclusions on their own takes tremendous talent.”

She tipped her head. “Now I’m impressed. You’ve nailed my technique.”

“It’s more than technique. What you do also takes a lot of caring and empathy. But you had those qualities way back in our Wren Lake days too. I remember the time we went hiking and you found that laminated, old-fashioned photo of a woman.

You insisted on turning it in at the ranger station because you were certain it meant a lot to someone. And you were right, based on the note the ranger forwarded to you later from that World War II veteran.”

She stared at him and shook her head. “I haven’t thought of that in years.”

He hadn’t, either. The memory had surfaced out of nowhere.

But it reminded him yet again of how special Emily was.

A coded knock sounded on the door, followed by the sound of Coop’s muffled voice. “We’re clear.”

Putting his hand in the small of her back, Mark guided Emily out into the night. Once inside the car, he leaned across to help her with her seat belt.

“I’ll be glad when I can manage this again on my own.”

Her breath whispered against his ear as he bent his head to secure her belt. “I’m not sure I will. You won’t need me anymore.” Mark had meant the remark to come out teasing. Instead, there was a wistful quality to it that surprised him. He opened his mouth to follow up with a humorous comment to lighten the atmosphere, but the words died in his throat when Emily reached for his hand and twined her fingers with his.

If he didn’t know better, Mark would have thought she was sending him a message. Telling him that even after she’d recovered, she’d still need him. Yet only a few nights ago she’d been clear she wasn’t like Monica, a woman who could overlook the absences and risks inherent in a job like his.

Mark didn’t like mixed signals. On the job, or off. They confused him.

And that was exactly how he felt now.

Confused.

About a lot of things.

11

As Emily said good-bye to Mark and Coop the next day and locked the office door behind them, she turned to find Maria watching her with a pleased expression.

“What’s with the look?”

Tilting her head, Maria folded her arms across her chest.

“He is a nice man.”

“They’re both nice men.” Emily knew where Maria was heading, and she didn’t want to go there. Turning, she moved toward her office.

“How is your arm?”

Surprised her assistant hadn’t followed up with another comment about Mark—and there was no doubt in Emily’s mind the “he” in Maria’s comment referred to Emily’s long-ago beau—she paused and looked back. “Feeling better, thanks.” Mark and Coop had taken her to the doctor again before escorting her to the office, and she was pleased that her bulky dressing had been exchanged for one much less obtrusive.

“Good. Everything heals in time.”

Her assistant was talking about more than her arm, and Emily knew it. “But scars remain. As reminders to proceed with caution.”

“Caution is fine. But proceeding is important. Otherwise you get stuck in a rut.”

“I’m not stuck in a rut.”

“Did I say you were?”

“You think I am.”

“It is not what I think that matters. It is what you think.”

“I think I’m fine. My life is perfect the way it is.”

“Life is always better when it’s shared.”

A pang of loss echoed deep inside Emily. Maria was right.

But sharing was risky. And left you even lonelier when it ended.

“Been there, done that. Once was enough.”

“I still say he is a nice man.”

They’d come full circle in their conversation. This time, Emily didn’t pretend not to understand Maria’s meaning. “I appreciate your concern for me, Maria. And I like Mark. I always have. He
is
a nice man. He’s also going back to Virginia in three weeks.

Besides, he’s in a very dangerous profession.”

“And yours is so much safer? You are the one who got shot, not him.”

“That was a fluke. An aberration. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mark had to be the target.”

“That is why you have an FBI escort, I guess.”

“It’s a simple precaution. In a few days they’ll decide it’s not necessary anymore.”

“Hmph.” Maria turned back to her computer and began clicking the keys at a furious pace. She always took her stress—and frustration—out on the keyboard. And at the rate she was going, it wouldn’t be long before she wore this one out, Emily reflected as she entered her office.

The case files for her Friday patients were waiting for her review, pulled earlier by Maria. But instead of flipping the first one open, she leaned back in her chair and glanced toward the window.

In general, she kept the mini blinds slanted, closed enough to ensure privacy for her patients, but open enough to give her a glimpse of the trees on the edge of the parking lot. Today, they were shut tight, as they had been since the shooting, restricting her view of the world. Nick had taken care of that on his scouting visit.

Nevertheless, she took some comfort in the restful décor of her office. The cream-colored walls were hung with landscapes, the cherry desk and credenza were polished and uncluttered, the small rose damask settee and side chairs striped in rose and teal in the seating area were tasteful, the dove gray plush carpet soft and nonclinical. She’d always felt comfortable here. It was a world of her own making, where she could help troubled people sort out their problems But had her refuge also become a place to hide? A place where she filled her time assisting others while dodging her own issues related to pain and sorrow and loss?

Maybe, she conceded. She might be good at helping other people see the value of admitting their own foibles and dealing with their issues, but she was far less adept at following her own advice.

At least when it came to matters of the heart.

She’d dragged her feet with Grant because she’d been unwilling to divert focus from her career.

She was dragging her feet again with Mark because she was unwilling to embrace the risk that caring for him would entail.

But perhaps caution in this case was good, she reassured herself. Mark had given no indication he was interested in anything serious. They’d flirted a little, enjoyed some lighthearted banter, had some fun and some laughs. Yes, there was chemistry.

That hadn’t faded one iota through the years. But time—and experience—did change people. Those changes might not be apparent at once. Nor were they necessarily all good. Only time would tell.

So for now, she would enjoy this interlude with Mark and expect nothing more, Emily decided.

No matter how hard Maria pushed.

“I heard an interesting rumor yesterday.”

Wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his paint-splattered T-shirt, Mark looked over at Nick and rested the roller in the pan at his feet. While he was spending his Sunday painting the ceiling, his host was focused on smoothing out the drywall seams on the far wall in what Nick claimed would soon be a formal dining room. As far as Mark was concerned, the room had a long way to go.

“Want to share it?”

“According to sources I can’t disclose, Dave Sheldon is retiring and heading west to take some cushy gig in a local police department.”

Keeping his expression bland, Mark reached for the damp rag slung over the rungs of a nearby ladder and wiped his hands. The news of Dave’s departure had leaked faster than he’d expected. He hadn’t even shared Steve’s offer yet with Coop. “Good for him.”

Nick angled a glance his way. “I thought you might be interested.” “Why?” Mark busied himself pouring some more paint into the pan.

“The SWAT team leader job will be open. As well as a spot on the reactive squad. You’ve got the credentials.”

“I have a job, Nick.”

“I know.” Nick concentrated on the seam he was disguising.

“But guys don’t stay on the HRT for more than a few years.

And Coop told me he’s leaving. I figured you might be looking around for another slot too.”

“I haven’t given it a lot of thought. Besides, when I do leave, I’ll probably look for a job closer to Tennessee. My mom’s not getting any younger, and it would be nice to see her and the rest of my family more.”

“St. Louis isn’t that far from Tennessee.”

“I have no connections to St. Louis.”

“I can think of one—wrapped up in a very pretty package.”

“If you happen to be referring to Emily, she and I are old friends. Nothing more.”

“Uh-huh.”

Aiming a disgruntled look toward Nick, Mark set the paint can back on a tarp. “Since when have you become a matchmaker?” “Hey, just trying to be helpful. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

“Who are you to talk? I don’t see you planning a walk down the aisle.”

Turning, Nick grinned. “Wow. You’re farther gone than I thought if you have marriage on your mind.”

“I didn’t start this. You did.”

“I never mentioned marriage. I was thinking more along the lines of exploring an old attraction. I see it’s already moved beyond that.”

Annoyed, Mark shook his head and picked up the paint roller.

“You’re nuts.”

“Uh-huh.”

All at once, Mark was sorry he’d accepted Coop’s offer to escort Emily to church this morning while he and Nick worked on the house. At the time, he’d considered it a blessing in disguise. He had a feeling his lack of interest in church could be a point of contention between him and Emily, and he didn’t want to risk shaking the still-fresh foundation of their renewed friendship. Plus, he owed Nick for taking Emily to Hope House for her counseling session Friday afternoon while he and Coop sat in on an HRT meeting via conference call. Putting some time in on the rehab had seemed like a good way to pay back the debt.

In light of the present conversation, however, he no longer considered Coop’s offer a benevolent gift from above.

Since ignoring Nick’s comment seemed to be his best option, he turned away and dipped the roller in the pan of paint.

“Why is it so hard for you to admit you care about Emily?”

Stifling a groan, Mark focused on the blank wall in front of him. He’d forgotten how persistent Nick could be. And how open. Unlike Coop, who went out of his way to avoid talking about feelings, Nick dove right into the emotional stuff. Mark wasn’t always comfortable with that—like now—yet Nick’s comments often prompted him to think. Especially when he didn’t want to.

“I haven’t seen her in twenty years, Nick.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Will you stop with the ‘uh-huhing’?”

“As soon as you stop denying the obvious.”

“What’s it to you, anyway?”

Shrugging, Nick set his trowel on the makeshift workbench balanced atop two sawhorses. “Friends watch each other’s backs.”

“Okay.” Mark’s tone was cautious. “But I don’t see the danger here.”

“That’s the problem.” Nick gave Mark his full attention, no trace of his customary humor in evidence. “The danger, my friend, is that unless you’re very careful, you could let a great opportunity slip through your fingers. Take it from someone who’s been looking for a while. Women like Emily don’t come along every day.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed. “What did you two talk about during your little excursion to the shelter, anyway?”

“Enough to tell me my original impression about her being a special lady was right on. And to conclude her feelings for you run a lot deeper than you—or she—might think.”

“When did you become Dr. Phil?” Mark gave him an annoyed look.

“I’m no expert on what makes people tick. That’s Emily’s specialty. But I do pay attention to feelings. And vibes. You ought to give it a try.”

Turning back to the wall, Nick resumed his work. For a few moments Mark watched as his friend applied drywall compound over the taped seam in smooth, steady strokes. Nick was good at the work, patient and thorough. After the wall was painted, it would be impossible to tell where one board ended and the other began. The two would be joined by the touch of a master’s hand in seamless unity.

Kind of like the way a man and woman were united in a good marriage, Mark reflected. One blessed by God.

Startled by that unexpected analogy, Mark applied the paint roller to the ceiling, determined to give the task his undivided attention.

But two thoughts kept intruding.

First, God hadn’t been on his radar screen in years, and it was more than a little disconcerting to find him popping up now. He supposed he could thank Emily and her trust in the Almighty for planting that seed in his mind.

And second, it appeared Nick was right, after all.

He did have marriage on his mind.

As his BlackBerry began to vibrate, Mark slid it out of its holder and pressed it to his ear. “Sanders.”

“Mark, it’s Steve. We’ve got a new development on the shooting. Where are you?”

“Coop and I were running down some leads for Nick on the bank robbery. We’re on our way back.”

“Come to my office as soon as you get in.”

The line went dead, and Mark returned the device to his belt.

“What’s up?” Coop kept his attention on the road as he negotiated the Monday lunch-hour traffic in downtown St. Louis.

“Steve’s got something on the shooting.”

Ten minutes later, when he and Coop appeared in Steve’s doorway, the senior agent motioned them in. “Take a look at this.” He handed Mark two clear plastic sleeves.

The first contained an envelope addressed to him at the St.

Louis FBI office, postmarked Saturday and mailed from a suburb in South St. Louis County. The address had been written on a label and affixed.

The second was a single sheet of paper, about six by eight, containing five handwritten words. “Next time I won’t miss.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched, and Mark sent Steve a questioning look as he handed the items to Coop.

“It came in the morning mail,” Steve supplied. “As soon as Rose opened it she called Clair. No one else touched it. We’ll get this to Quantico for analysis as soon as possible, along with the elimination prints for Rose. Clair copied it and the envelope, and I’ve couriered them to Carl in Oakdale. Here’s a set for you. I put in a call to your boss, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”