The Colonel's Daughter (12 page)

A medic approached Michele. “Ma’am, I’d like to check your vitals and see how you’re doing.”

“I...I’m okay.”

“Yes, ma’am. But it’s a good idea to let us make sure your stats coincide with how you feel.”

Jamison’s hand rubbed against her arm. “Dawson and I will be outside.”

“My mother?”

“An MP is with her,” Dawson said. “I’ll tell him she can come in now.”

Michele nodded. She didn’t want Jamison to leave her. As she watched him walk away, she felt empty, drained, unable to think of anything except the urge to call him back to her.

Had she made a mistake by leaving him ten months ago? As much as she wished everything was different, she knew there was no way she could change what had happened. She had left Jamison for a good reason, or so it had seemed at the time. Now she wasn’t sure of anything.

* * *

Once the signal was given, the military policeman allowed Mrs. Logan into the house. “Michele’s in the kitchen,” Jamison said as she rushed past him.

The two agents stepped outside. “How’d Michele end up with the killer?” Dawson asked.

Jamison explained about the tote bag and Michele and her mother trying to be Good Samaritans.

“Was he waiting for Mrs. Rossi to return home from the briefing? Or was he going through the house for some other reason, and she surprised him?”

“Nothing was disturbed, Dawson. He was there for one reason and one reason only. He targeted Yolanda Hughes and Alice Rossi. We need to find a tie between those two women. From what Michele said, he would have killed her if Mrs. Logan hadn’t pounded on the front door and scared him off.”

Jamison thought of the cemetery. Surely it was too much of a stretch to think the killer on post was the same person as the hit-and-run driver. Another thought chilled him. Could two attackers be targeting the same group of women?

Dawson’s cell rang. He raised it to his ear and nodded. “Keep searching.” When he disconnected, he turned worried eyes to Jamison. “We set up roadblocks as soon as you called. Teams are canvassing the surrounding area on foot. No sign yet of anyone suspect.”

Jamison pointed to the area behind the house. “The woods lead to the vast training area. If he headed that direction, he could be anywhere.”

Dawson’s gaze narrowed. “Plus, he could exit the post from one of the back roads. If what he said to you on the phone is true, he’s prior military. Anyone previously stationed at Fort Rickman would know the post as well as the outlining ranges and training areas.”

“He loves the military, but claims he died when he came home.”

“Maybe he was injured,” Dawson suggested.

“Or watched a comrade die.”

“Or something happened when he came home.”

“A wife left him perhaps? A family member died?” Jamison stared into the night. All around him, the crime scene team scurried to capture evidence.

“The husbands of the two victims currently serve in Colonel Logan’s brigade, but they don’t work together.” Dawson mentioned what they both knew.

Jamison rubbed at his jaw. “But they served together under Logan when he took his battalion to Iraq. The unit came home three years ago. If that’s the common thread, what would trigger the killer to strike now?”

“A relative in the battalion could have died in combat. If the killer identified with the deceased, he might start to believe he himself had served.”

Jamison slapped Dawson on the back. “Which is why we need that list of names from the cemetery in Freemont. I’ll give Simpson another call.”

Pulling out his phone, Jamison tapped in the digits for the Freemont P.D. Simpson wasn’t on duty. Neither was the other police officer, Bobby Jones, who had accompanied Simpson to the cemetery.

A third cop claimed Simpson had made some progress in tracking down the family members and would return Jamison’s call in the morning. He hung up less than satisfied and turned back to Dawson.

“You better contact the cemetery director first thing tomorrow. See if he can provide the information we need. Also, find out if anyone in the brigade has been killed during this deployment. A grieving father, a brother, even the son of a deceased soldier might want to cause problems for Colonel Logan when he brings his unit back this time.”

Dawson nodded. “I’ll check it out.”

“Keep exerting pressure. We need a breakthrough on this case.”

Again Dawson shrugged and flicked an embarrassed gaze at Jamison. “I told you, buddy. I didn’t ask to take over the lead.”

Jamison held up his hand. “Let’s just get it done.”

The blond agent shook his head. “Yeah, but the killer has struck twice. Add what happened at the cemetery and we’ve got three incidents. As far as finding the killer goes, we’re batting zero.”

Jamison stared into the darkness. His stomach roiled as he thought of what the killer had planned to do. The two of them were on opposite sides. The perpetrator wanted Michele dead. Jamison, if he did nothing else, had to ensure that Michele stayed alive.

Ten months ago, she had made it perfectly clear she didn’t want Jamison in her life, but he would sacrifice everything to ensure that she had a life to live.

Even if it meant she’d leave him once again.

EIGHT

M
ichele huddled in the passenger’s seat next to Jamison. Her mother sat directly behind her in the rear, lost in her own thoughts.

The three of them had followed the ambulance to the Fort Rickman Hospital and remained in the waiting room as Alice had been rushed into surgery. She’d come through that ordeal and was now in intensive care, monitored by a roomful of machines and a bevy of nurses and doctors who had insisted they go home. The medical staff promised to call at any change in her condition. Whether Alice would be strong enough to pull through was the question.

Physically drained, Michele knew her mother and Jamison had to be equally fatigued. On the ride home, they all seemed lost in their own worlds. Michele kept thinking about Alice and her husband and the prayer they must have said for his safety when he left for Afghanistan. It was doubtful either of them thought Alice would be the one critically injured and fighting for her life.

Overcome with the irony, Michele sighed.

Jamison turned to gaze at her, his face bathed in the half-light from the dash. Although her heart was heavy, she appreciated the concern she saw in his bittersweet smile.

“I’m glad the E.R. doc checked you out.” He reached over the consol to take her hand.

She appreciated the warmth of his touch. “Two hospital visits in one day isn’t a habit I want to continue.”

He nodded. “I agree.”

Turning her gaze toward the window, she thought of the killer still on the loose. What kind of man would attack so vengefully? Yolanda and Alice were wonderful women. Why had they been victims of such heinous attacks?

As much as she wanted to forget what had happened, the memory of the killer kept circling through her mind. She had looked into his eyes and had seen evil. Jamison had talked about bad people in the world. She was beginning to think he had sugarcoated the reality of whom they were up against.

Always considerate of her needs, Jamison helped her from the car when they arrived at her parents’ home. The effects of the stun gun had been short-lived, but Michele gladly accepted his steadying arm and the attention he showered over her.

Once inside their quarters, Roberta made a pot of coffee, which she served to Jamison and Michele at the dining room table. Despite the mug she held, Michele still felt cold and longed, once again, for Jamison’s hand to cover hers with warmth.

She stared at him from across the table. He had a string of questions for her mother, and from the intensity of his gaze, Michele realized he had slipped back into military CID mode.

“Can you recall anyone in the past that might have had a grudge against your husband, Mrs. Logan?”

She shook her head slowly. “No one who made his or her grievances known. I’m sure some of the soldiers were disgruntled from time to time if Stanley canceled their leave or kept their battalion in the field for an extended period of time. But if you’re talking about anything significant, then I’d have to say no.”

Michele wondered if he was getting too far off track. “Do you really think a person would attack women on post to get back at my father?”

Jamison sighed as if he, too, regretted the need to probe into brigade affairs. “We have to consider any situation that would make someone strike out, Michele.”

Well aware that he was the expert in such matters, Michele held back from saying anything else and sipped her coffee.

Turning back to Roberta, Jamison continued, “Did any soldiers lose their lives under your husband’s command?”

“A sergeant in his battalion died in Iraq. Stanley flew home with the body. Both of us attended the funeral.”

“He was from the local area?”

Roberta nodded. “He had graduated from Freemont High School and had been the captain of the football team. Everyone loved him. His mom had died of cancer two years earlier, and he was an only child. It broke my heart to see his father grieving. I’ll never forget him standing at the cemetery by the grave site.”

“The Freemont Cemetery where your son is buried?”

Roberta nodded. “That’s right.”

“Do you recall the soldier’s name?”

“How could I forget? Sergeant Brandon Carmichael. His father was so proud of him.”

“What about this current rotation, ma’am?”

“The Lord’s been good to us, Jamison. No loss of life.”

Michele placed her mug on the table and rubbed her fingers over her arms. “Don’t be too hasty, Mother. The brigade hasn’t left Afghanistan yet.”

Roberta patted Michele’s hand. “Your dad’s going to make it home.”

Michele stood and stepped away from the table. “You were equally sure Lance would be okay.”

Her mother’s expression clouded. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself.”

“I’m not blaming anyone except the army.”

“Accidents happen, Michele.” Although Jamison’s eyes were filled with concern, his voice was matter-of-fact, as if death was an acceptable part of military life.

She bristled and turned to gaze out the window into the night.

Her mother stepped toward her. “You still feel responsible for what happened to Lance.”

“Do I?” She quirked her head at the woman she loved but didn’t always understand. “How would you know, Mother? We never talk about him.”

Roberta held out her hands. “What can I say that would change your mind?”

“You can tell me I made a mistake. Lance wouldn’t have been in the helicopter if I had visited him.”

“But you made the right decision, dear.”

The phone rang. Roberta hesitated as if questioning whether she should answer. Checking the caller ID, she turned apologetic eyes toward her daughter. “It’s Erica Grayson. She probably has information about Yolanda’s funeral. I should take the call.”

“Of course,” Michele said, her energy drained.

Roberta stepped into the living area, phone in hand.

Michele grabbed her mug and headed for the kitchen, hoping a second cup of coffee would help clear her head.

Jamison followed. “You want to talk?”

“You don’t need to get involved with our family problems.”

“Whatever you need is what I want, Michele.”

She would have laughed except she knew why she had left him and how much she had missed him over the last ten months. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last statement.”

He stepped closer, seemingly oblivious of the real root of the problem between them. “You may not want my input, but your mother’s right. You haven’t worked through your brother’s death.”

Anger rose within her. She pointed a finger back at herself. “It’s not my problem, Jamison. It’s my mother’s problem and your problem. I keep telling everyone I’m fine, but no one believes me.”

The sound of her mother’s voice came from the living room. Roberta Logan—a woman who would have done anything for her daughter—was talking on the phone to one of the brigade wives who needed support. Michele had needed her mother’s support when her brother died, but Roberta had gone back to helping with all the wives’ activities and hadn’t been able to reach out to her only remaining child.

Michele didn’t want to talk about what had happened, yet the words spilled from her mouth as if they had a will of their own. “Remember when that last big storm hit the coast of Georgia?”

Jamison nodded. “Wasn’t it about two years ago?”

“That’s right. Homes were destroyed. People needed food and water. My insurance company wanted to provide hands-on help as well as aid with the insurance claims. We filled a number of trucks with nonperishable items, water, blankets.”

Jamison’s open gaze encouraged her to go on.

“Days before the storm, Lance had invited me to visit him for a long weekend. I planned to drive to Fort Knox, his new duty station. Then my boss asked for volunteers to help with the coastal relief, so I canceled my plans to be with Lance.”

Truth was, she had chosen to help the storm victims because she was beginning to buy into the gospel message about helping others, which Lance always said was the Christian thing to do.

“If I hadn’t chosen to help those people, Lance would have been on leave instead of in the helicopter that terrible day.”

Jamison reached for her. “You’re not to blame.”

She jerked away from his touch. “How would you know? You put yourself in danger after my father left for Afghanistan. You knew I was worried because of the Afghani strikes we kept hearing about on the news and the attack he had already been involved in, yet you walked into that ambush on post. Did you think by praying to God you could put yourself in the line of fire and not suffer the consequences?”

His face clouded. “Oh, Michele, I...”

“You what, Jamison? You weren’t thinking about the danger, were you? You probably had your Bible in one hand and your gun in the other and thought nothing could harm you.”

He shook his head. “I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? Do you know what that did to me when I heard about the shoot-out? I raced to the hospital and saw the stretcher being wheeled into the E.R. I learned later that Dawson had taken the hit, but at the time, I thought you were the one not expected to live.”