The Colonel's Daughter (21 page)

“Directly outside the terminal, sir.”

“You told Mrs. Logan I called you this morning?”

“Not a phone call, sir. You sent a text message.”

Jamison hit the text icon on his phone. Filled with dread, he read the message he was supposed to have written. Someone had accessed the cell phone he kept in his coat pocket.

Greg Yates had taken his jacket when Jamison was on the scaffold. Turning his gaze to the concession area, he searched for Rick Stallings, who had eaten a sandwich seated right next to Jamison’s jacket when he was adjusting the tarp. Would either man have been able to retrieve the cell and send the text?

Mrs. Logan grabbed his hand. “What’s happened, Jamison?”

Before he could answer, his cell phone rang. He glanced at Dawson’s name highlighted on the caller ID.

“We’ve got a huge problem,” Jamison said as he raised the cell to his ear.

“You can say that again, buddy. Ballistics called. The initial exam of the bullets shows a disparity in the markings. Although nothing is definite yet, it looks like Sergeant Kenneth Cramer may have been telling the truth.”

Jamison’s heart jammed in his throat as more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The killer was on the loose, and he had Michele.

NINETEEN

M
ichele woke with a start. For an instant, she forgot about the killer and his van and the smelly blanket that covered her.

Then her memory returned full force. Tears stung her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. She had to remain alert and ready for any opportunity to get away from him, whoever he was. All she knew was that he had killed before, and he would kill again.

The sound of his voice filled the van and made her skin crawl. He was ranting about her father, Major Hughes and Sergeant Rossi. She couldn’t make out everything he said over the hum of the van’s motor, but she heard enough to know he was delusional. As she listened, she began to understand why he had killed Yolanda and tried to end Alice Rossi’s life as well as her own.

Michele tugged at the restraints on her hands and legs until her flesh was raw. She tried to roll over, hoping to free herself from the blanket. Her leg struck against something that toppled onto the floor of the van. The crash of metal upon metal made her heart pound even harder.

He stopped his tirade.

Michele lay still, barely breathing. If not for the blanket, she would be able to see what he was doing and read the expression on his face. As it was, she was surrounded by darkness.

The van slowed. He pulled off the road and braked to a stop. Waves of nausea rolled over her. She needed to be strong, but she wasn’t. She was scared to death.

Her heart raced, and her pulse pounded in her ear.

The driver’s door opened and then slammed, sending a volley of aftershocks exploding through her head. Footfalls sounded on the pavement as he rounded the van.

She tried to scream, but the duct tape muffled her cries for help. Her throat burned, and her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. She jerked her head from side to side, struggling against the putrid blanket.

Oh, God, help me!

If he opened the rear doors, she might be able to kick him or hurl herself onto the roadway. Surely someone driving by would see her. Then she listened and heard nothing except his footsteps and her pounding heart.

A rear door opened. He grabbed her ankles and yanked her along the rough metal bed of the van that scraped her cheek. She thrashed her feet, needing to free her legs from his hold.

He continued to spit hateful words about her father and his former battalion and how everyone would pay. He talked about cutting into Lance’s gravestone and other things that didn’t make sense, but nothing made sense about a man who killed.

Then he laughed. The sound sent another round of shock waves through her body. She tried to backpedal. His fingers gripped her upper arm. Michele expected to crash onto the pavement at any second.

What she hadn’t expected was the stun gun. The violent shock caused her back to arch. Repeated spasms racked her muscles. Her legs and arms writhed and convulsed and twisted in tandem as the restraints held. Pain radiated throughout her body and sapped the little strength she had left.

Her head exploded. She saw bursts of white lightning and then, when she couldn’t endure anything more, she slipped away into darkness.

* * *

Jamison jammed his cell phone closer to his ear. “I’m leaving the terminal to search for Michele,” he told Dawson after filling him in on the text message.

“Stay where you are until I get to the airport. I’m headed there now.”

Disconnecting, Jamison pocketed his phone, feeling as if he’d been beaten to a pulp with a steel beam. Just as in his youth, everything was spiraling out of control, and he couldn’t react fast enough, or think decisively enough or have the vision he needed to get into the killer’s point of view. Where was Michele?

As a CID agent who had handled numerous investigations, Jamison knew what could happen, what might already have happened. The realization sent waves of terror through him that chilled him to the core.

His eyes turned to where Rick Stallings was working at the concession stand. Not far away, Greg Yates sipped coffee and glanced at the giant clock on the wall.

Jamison barked a number of orders into the security radio. Responding immediately, four military guards removed the two men, without incident, from the central area of the terminal and sequestered each of them in separate office rooms located toward the rear of the large complex.

Although Jamison needed to question the men, he had to inform Mrs. Logan about the current situation. When he turned to face her, he realized she was well aware of what had happened. Her eyes reflected his own fears, sending another jab of pain deep to his gut.

Looking suddenly older than her years, she took his hand and held it tight. “You’ll find her, Jamison. You have to.”

He wished he shared her confidence. “Yes, ma’am.”

She shook her head, perhaps sensing his own faltering optimism. “I don’t want the wives to know what has happened. The spouses and family members have worried enough and need this time to welcome their husbands home.”

He had to object. “Ma’am, our first priority is to find Michele.”

“That’s what I want, as well, Jamison. But the brigade needs a homecoming. Nothing should be canceled unless it specifically impacts my daughter’s safety.”

At some point, Mrs. Logan needed to put her family’s well-being before the brigade’s. “Ma’am, there’s a lounge located near the Red Cross first-aid station, if you’d like someplace to wait.”

He radioed one of the female soldiers in the military police detail to escort the colonel’s wife to the lounge and remain with her at all times.

Jamison admired Mrs. Logan’s grit, but he didn’t want his hands tied when it came to finding Michele. If he had to halt the welcome-home celebration, he would. He would do anything to save Michele.

But right now he needed to move forward. Fast.

Hastening toward the rear of the terminal, he entered the first office.

“Where is she?” Jamison demanded, leaning across the conference table where Stallings sat. Given any sign of provocation, Jamison would throw him against the wall and pound the truth out of him.

The vendor’s eyes widened, antagonism evident as he bristled. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a missing woman. And that’s on top of one woman murdered, another in critical condition and a military policeman who may have to get a medical discharge because of you.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Where were you this morning?”

“At the sandwich shop in Freemont. You can call my boss. We worked most of the night, preparing the food for today.”

“What time did you arrive on post?”

“Uh—” Stallings hesitated.

“Trying to do the math and make it all work out in your favor? Your information was captured electronically when you showed your identification to the guard at the Main Gate. Won’t take long to retrieve the time.”

“Traffic was backed up getting on post. I’m not sure when I actually passed through security.”

Jamison changed gears. “Do you like to text?”

Surprised by the question, Stallings pushed back in his chair. Jamison leaned in closer, knowing he was emotional and apt to do something he would later regret, but he needed information.

The door to the office opened. Corporal Otis motioned to Jamison. “Sir.”

“What?” Jamison demanded in the hallway, his anger on a short fuse.

“Special Agent Warner, from Afghanistan, called CID headquarters asking to speak to you, sir. He said it involved our case.”

Jamison glanced at the nearby office where Greg Yates waited. Maybe everything was about to break.

Punching Speed Dial on his cell, Jamison was relieved when Warner answered. “Major Shirley Yates appears to be squeaky clean. No involvements on this side of the world.”

“There were rumors of infidelity.”

“Rumors that got out of hand.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t some truth behind them?”

“Not that we could uncover. She was mentoring a captain, prior enlisted. The guy had run into a little problem with his report of survey. He had signed for equipment that he couldn’t account for when the brigade was getting ready to redeploy home. The captain was about her age. They spent time together and tongues wagged. You know how that is. Everyone jumps to the wrong conclusion.”

Which was exactly what Jamison had done concerning the major’s husband. Glancing at the room where Rick Stallings waited, he realized he might have been wrong about both men.

Jamison blew out a lungful of air. Right now all he wanted to do was pound his fist into the wall until it was bloodied. Somehow he needed to feel the pain he feared Michele was experiencing. “Please, God, no.”

“Jamison?”

He turned to find Dawson approaching him from the central terminal. “I’ve got military police canvassing the colonel’s housing area. Fort Rickman’s under lockdown. The only people who are being allowed on post are active duty personnel and then only after a thorough search of their vehicles and person.”

“I’m more concerned about anyone leaving the garrison.”

“No one’s allowed off at this point.”

“What about the training area?”

“The military police have been along the back roads from the Logan home to the airfield. No one has spotted her yet. Now they’re searching the ranges, one at a time.”

Which would take hours.

Jamison quickly filled Dawson in on Stallings and Yates. “I can’t stay, Dawson. I’ve got to find Michele.”

As he raced out of the terminal, Jamison looked up at the bright sky. “God, I need your help today, more than I’ve ever needed anything.”

He couldn’t rely on his own ability. He had made too many mistakes. He had to rely on the Lord so that this time his mistakes didn’t end in tragedy. If Jamison lost Michele, he lost everything, maybe even his soul.

TWENTY

M
ichele knew she was alone because of the silence. No running motor, no air-conditioning, no jumbled ramblings from a delusional killer. All she heard was her heart pounding. Then voices in the distance.

If only she could attract someone’s attention. She raised her legs and kicked the wall of the van over and over again, until her muscles ached, and her energy was sapped.

The blanket, wrapped around her face, constricted her breathing. In the closed vehicle and with the hot August day, the temperature had risen too fast. Frantic, Michele fought against the thick wool blanket around her face and felt instant elation when a portion of the covering slipped aside. Like a crazed woman, she inhaled the stale, hot air.

Sweat beaded on her upper lip and dampened her neck. The temperature rose even higher. How long could a person survive in an enclosed vehicle? She didn’t want an answer and wished she hadn’t even thought of the question.

If You’re a loving God, I’m begging You to help me. I’ve made so many mistakes. Forgive me, Father.

Michele had been wrong about Jamison. He was a wonderful man, and she wasn’t worthy of his love. If only she could tell him, but it was too late.

If Alice didn’t pull through, three women would have died because of a maniac who wanted revenge. God had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Jamison and the other good people in law enforcement who put their lives on the line to help others.

Instead of running away from Jamison, Michele should have been running into his arms.

* * *

Jamison drove like a madman, backtracking through the training area along the deserted road Michele must have traveled earlier. He had to find her.

Flicking his gaze right and then left, he hoped to catch sight of her, of her car, of something the military police had missed that would provide a clue to her disappearance. The only thing he knew was the killer had taken her. But where?

Jamison wouldn’t allow his mind to imagine what had been done to her.
Please, God, keep Michele safe.

He shouldn’t have left her alone last night. He should have checked on her this morning. He wished he had told her he loved her and needed her and would do anything to be with her.

Right now the thought of a quiet civilian existence sounded perfect, a life where Michele would be safe. If anything happened to her, he’d never be able to forgive himself.

He was a trained special agent. How could he have let a killer get to Michele?

“You’re a failure. You’ll never succeed.”

His father’s words played over in his mind. But his dad’s wasn’t the only voice he heard. Jamison was berating himself, as well.

“Think! Think!” he screamed to no one except the tall Georgia pine trees that edged the training area. “Where could she be?”

The road curved up ahead. Jamison lifted his foot from the accelerator. Before he completed the curve, sunlight reflected off something in the woods. He stomped on the brake.

Leaping from his car, he raced across the narrow asphalt roadway and pressed through the dense wooded area that opened into a clearing where he found Michele’s car. The ground was still damp from the storms two nights ago, and thick, red Georgia clay caked her tires.