Make Mine a Marine (73 page)

He lay down another solitaire hand on the table and blindly considered which would be the greater torture—succumbing to sleep and facing the nightmares, or staying awake and spending every moment thinking about Emma.

His mind replayed the message that had been waiting on his answering machine when he got home from the airport after saying goodbye to her. "Hey, Drew." It was Jack Tucker from the district attorney’s office. "Got the fingerprint match-ups you wanted. Four clear sets. Clayton Scott and Stan Begosian, like you suspected. A local thug named Arnold Jackson. The fourth was a little harder to track down. Took your suggestion and found it on the military database."

Drew echoed the name the technician had given. "Jonathan Ramsey."

Jack had gone on to ask if there were any loose ends on Drew’s missing-persons case he'd like Jack to wrap up for him. Drew had called back to thank him, but
forgot
to mention that he had stepped outside the law a bit to retrieve Ramsey himself. Besides, he wasn't quite sure how to explain the colonel's prints being found in Kansas City when he supposedly was being held hostage in the Caribbean.

Drew didn't like the possible explanations at all.

The fourth man in that room at Lucky's had been the boss, not a prisoner. Emma had recognized something familiar in his voice when he'd given the order to take care of Begosian. But she hadn't identified him then because those weren't the sort of words she was used to hearing from her husband.

And where were Moriarty's prints? Nowhere. Because there was no Moriarty. That fourth man had to have been Jonathan Ramsey. He'd bet his life on it.

What kind of man played such cruel games on his wife? Drew didn't see anything heroic in putting her through that kind of hell.

Jonathan had the means and opportunity to terrorize Emma and take over large chunks of her company. But he didn't seem to have a motive. As her husband, he'd already have rights to the company. Even without owning stock, he'd have the benefits of her wealth. Without a motive, Drew had no case to take to Jack Tucker, the D.A., or anybody.

And he surely had no right to take his story to Emma. Hadn't she suffered enough?

He flicked a card across the table with frustrated fury. "Hi, Em. It's Drew," he said mockingly to himself. "Say, that man who had you so scared? It's your husband." He shot another card with pin point accuracy. "You know that hero you worship? He's changed a bit. Remember how he used to save lives?" He tossed a card and missed the pile. "Now he takes 'em."

He wondered if Emma or any of Jonathan's friends had noticed a difference in his personality. Torture or hypnosis could do that to a man—make him different inside, make him sick. The man may have been abused recently, but he hadn't been misused over an extended period of time. His muscles were strong. He stood straight. There had been no outward, lasting indication of severe trauma. "Why the masquerade?"

The scattered cards held no answer.

Drew leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his face, shielding his eyes from the light above him. Was he, Drew Gallagher, really so different? He was a changed man from five years ago. He now played a role. Maybe there was something unique about Isla Tenebrosa, some frightening convergence of evil spirits and false hopes that altered a man's personality—like Jonathan Ramsey—or robbed him of his personality altogether—like Drew himself.

With the beer still close enough to reclaim, Drew reached out for it. Maybe tonight was the night to break his rule. He could get wasted and not have to deal with torturous thoughts about himself or Ramsey or Emma. But before he grasped the bottle, it tipped over into the sink and broke.

He left his hand outstretched and watched the golden liquid run down the drain. He glanced up, then down at the broken glass and grimaced.

"I know. Now the voice is going to talk in my head and tell me it's saving me from being my own worst enemy."

But no voice came.

Instead, the phone rang.

Drew considered letting it roll over to the answering machine. After all, the good people of the world would all be asleep by this time of night. But a sixth sense, an instinct more profound than any voice in his head, propelled him across the room.

Something was wrong.

He snatched up the receiver on the fourth ring. "Gallagher."

"Drew?"

Emma.

A wave of longing crashed through him. Just hearing her voice calmed him, soothed him, made him want to be near her. A second swell of guilt followed closely behind.

She didn't belong to him.

She never had.

She never would.

"What's wrong?" he asked, in lieu of polite conversation that might prolong the sound of her voice. Besides, he didn't want to ask how things were going for her. Any answer would be crushing.

"It's Kerry."

A stab of fear replaced any selfish concern he'd been feeling. "Is she hurt?"

"No." Her terse response lessened his immediate worry, but he knew there was something more. "I can't get her to sleep. I've fought it for two nights, but I'm afraid she's going to make herself sick."

"Has she seen a doctor?"

"Dr. Klein said it's the adjustment to having Jonathan home. I've tried to put familiar things around her, keep her to her routine. But she clings to me constantly. When I let her go, she cries until exhaustion claims her."

Drew swore. Of all the people to be hurt by this mess...

Emma waited for his outburst to subside and went on. "She's asked for you. I know you don't want to have anything to do with me. But if you have some time, I… she… would appreciate it."

He scraped his hand across his scraggly beard. He looked like hell and felt even worse.

But Emma needed him. Kerry needed him. "What about your husband?"

"He wants to do what's best for Kerry, too."

Is that why he'd kept his distance from her at the airport? Because it was best for Kerry?

"Drew, will you come to the house? I know it's late."

"All right. For the pistol."

Despite his best intentions, despite the heartache, saying no to those two ladies was a thing he could not do.

* * *

To Drew's surprise, Jonathan answered the door. The two men evaluated each other like rival stallions vying for supremacy of the herd. Understanding that this was not his territory, Drew glanced away first. Only then did Jonathan invite him in.

"I realize it's late," said Jonathan. "Don't worry, though, buddy. I'll pay you for your time."

"Don't insult me. Helping Kerry isn't a job. And I'm not your buddy."

Jonathan's lips thinned into an understanding smile. Neither man needed to endure the pretense of friendship. Jonathan didn't bother to take Drew's coat; he simply turned and walked down the hall, speaking as if he expected Drew to follow. Perhaps a man of his military rank expected others to fall in line like that. Drew tamped down his irritation and followed, anyway.

"I'm glad you're here," said Jonathan. "The kid won't leave Emma alone. They're both exhausted."

Drew buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, restraining the urge to flatten the man in his own house. But he didn't curb his tongue. "The
kid
has a name, you know."

Jonathan halted at the base of the stairs. From here Drew could hear Kerry's low, keening moans. Her weeping sounded like the cry of an injured animal. Emma must be beside herself with worry.

Drew put his foot on the first step, but Jonathan braced his arm across the balustrade and blocked his path. "Don't presume to tell me how to run my family. Kerry won't let me near her. Think how that's hurting me. My own daughter."

Drew understood how Jonathan must feel if Kerry had rejected him. Maybe he'd judged Jonathan too harshly. Perhaps his suspicion and dislike for the man had more to do with jealousy than with any more noble motivation. "That must be rough."

"It is." He headed up the stairs once more, and Drew fell into step behind him. The closer he got, the more heart-wrenching Kerry's cries became. Her voice cracked with hoarse overuse.

When they entered the master bedroom, Drew forgot the reason for this late-night visit. Emma sat in a rocking chair with Kerry curled in her lap. Angelica and that lavender blanket were part of the mix, too. Kerry's face was pink and puffy, her eyes nearly shut. But Emma...

Her skin glowing white as milk in the dim lamplight, she rocked back and forth, humming a soft, patternless tune. The fine blue veins normally visible beneath her closed eyes had darkened like smudges of eye shadow. Yet her face was scrubbed clean, telling him those shadows were real.

A tug on his sleeve stopped him mid-step. Jonathan whispered a command in his ear. "You're here to see Kerry, not my wife. Remember that."

Had he betrayed so much in a single look?

Drew simply nodded and waited while Jonathan spoke to his wife. "Emma." Her eyes snapped open. "Look who's here."

"Drew." The hope she gave that one word cascaded through him, stripping him of his armor, leaving him feeling raw and exposed—and hopelessly in love with this woman he could not have.

Kerry roused a second later. Too weak to climb down, she simply stretched out her arms to him.

"Hey, punkin." Unable to resist her silent plea, Drew spared Emma a glance and scooped the girl up in his arms, blanket and all. "Will you let me tuck you into bed tonight?"

She nodded and clung to him, tiny fingers fisting in the leather of his jacket as he carried her into the hall. She turned her face away from Jonathan as they passed him and whimpered against Drew's neck.

Drew said nothing. He simply carried her to her room and closed the door behind them. "So. What are you doing to get your mom so worried?" he asked, taking her to the bed and tucking her beneath the covers. He sat on the edge beside her, folding the lavender blanket in half and tucking it with equal care around Angelica.

She rolled onto her side to face him. "The b-bad man f-from my dreams is here."

The nightmare again. What kind of unjust world let a little girl be terrified by dreams as frightening to her as his were to him? He shrugged his shoulders, unsure why Kerry or Emma or even Jonathan thought he could help with a situation like this. "Your dad is here now. He'll protect you and your mom."

Kerry shook her head, agitating herself and the covers around her. "Uh-uh. He's the b-bad man. Mom's g-gonna leave me now, and Faith and Angelica will never g-get their wings."

Drew frowned. He put the sheet and bedspread back in order, searching his brain for the right reference for seven-year-old logic and coming up empty-handed. "Your dad loves you a lot." He figured this explanation was as good as any. "But since he's been away, he hasn't had much practice taking care of little princesses."

Kerry sniffed and widened her puffy eyes beneath an arched brow reminiscent of her mother. "You m-mean he doesn't 1-like me b-because he doesn't know how?"

Didn't like her? Kerry's observation stabbed through him with a surprising force. What must it be like to be a child and think a parent didn't like her? He gave a brief thought to the child or children he might have unknowingly abandoned. But that prick of guilt gave way to a much more real sense of injustice that this bright little girl should feel so unwanted.

He unzipped his jacket and settled more comfortably on the bed, meeting the question in her gaze with an equally serious look. "Maybe you have to teach him, the same way you taught me how to read a story. You have to be brave and work hard, and help him be a good dad."

She sat up. "B-but you're my daddy."

"No, punkin I'm not." He took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. She felt so fragile and delicate in his hands. Her trust felt equally fragile and precious, and the responsibility of living up to it humbled him. He must have done something worthwhile in one of his past lives to receive such a gift from her. "But I will be your friend. And I would be honored if one day you give me a kiss and turn yourself into a frog, and we can hop off and live on my lily-pad together."

A tiny laugh snorted through her nose. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, looking remarkably grown up, and making Drew smile. She tilted her focus up to a point beyond his left shoulder. "You see? He doesn't know how the story goes."

Drew released her and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Emma. But the door was closed and the light from the bedside lamp didn't reach that part of the room. The evenness of her speech registered. He turned back to Kerry. "You're talking to your friend Faith again, aren't you?"

She nodded. "She says I should 1-listen to you and be brave. Sh-she says it will work out." She looked to that unseen point again, then back to Drew. "She hopes."

He didn't know whether to attribute this sudden capitulation to her conscience, his reassurance, or
blind luck. But he'd take this calm, confident little bundle of beauty over the teary-eyed girl who'd seemed so miserable any day.

Drew pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fished out one of his business cards. He pressed it into her small hands. "This has my phone numbers and address on it. I want you to work really hard to get to know your dad. Teach him about Angelica and hugs and bedtime stories. I want you to try, because your mom needs you to. She loves you more than anything." He replaced his wallet and noted that his rapt audience hadn't moved. "If you get scared, talk to your mom. Or you can call me."