The Colonel's Daughter (6 page)

Over her right shoulder, she noticed a car parked near a cluster of monuments shaded by a giant oak tree. A man stood nearby. As she watched, he raised binoculars to his eyes and stared in her direction.

The hair on the back of her neck tingled. Unable to ignore the warning, she shivered, not from the wind that whipped around her but from her own nervousness. Lightning danced across the sky followed by the rumble of thunder.

Thankful for the waterproof slicker, Michele shrugged into the thick vinyl and pulled her hair free from the neck of the coat. She felt violated by the man’s prying gaze and wrapped the coat across her chest as she hurried on to the crest of the hill.

Once there, she glanced back, relieved to see that the man with the binoculars had climbed into his car to leave the cemetery. Turning her thoughts to Lance, she approached the rear of his monument.

Instead of a small and simple military marker, her parents had chosen a larger memorial with Lance’s picture etched into the front of the stone. As a template for his likeness, they had used a photograph Michele had taken at his graduation from flight school.

She and her parents had attended the ceremony at Fort Rucker, Alabama, and had been so proud of Lance, standing tall in his uniform in front of the American flag he loved. Three months later, his chopper crashed and exploded into a flaming inferno that took his life.

Stopped by the painful memory, Michele touched the cool granite. “Oh, Lance,” she sighed, wishing she weren’t alone with her grief. Her mother never came with her, never even wanted to, which Michele didn’t understand.

She thought of Jamison. Would he have accepted her invitation if she had asked him? Probably not. He had a murder to solve.

From out of nowhere, the smell of blood wafted past her. Yolanda’s bleeding body swam before her eyes. Michele bristled, annoyed with the tricks her mind was playing.

Struggling to shrug off the frightful memory, she rounded the monument and peered down, expecting to find her brother’s likeness smiling up at her.

At first unable to comprehend what she was seeing, Michele leaned closer. Then, like an arrow to her heart, realization hit.

She gasped. The flowers dropped to the rain-dampened earth. Lightning ripped across the sky. Seconds later, thunder mixed with the roar of her pounding pulse.

Vandals had chiseled thick gashes into Lance’s image, turning his handsome countenance into a macabre caricature. The marks cut into the stone exactly where the killer’s knife had slashed Yolanda’s flesh. A dark, viscous substance covered the mutilation and dripped like blood over his name and the date of his death.

Unable to look any longer at the defacement, Michele turned and ran away. Down the hill she fled, trying to distance herself from the desecration of her brother’s grave. Fat raindrops pummeled her face and mixed with the tears cascading down her cheeks.

She skidded. Her feet slipped on the wet grass. Stumbling, she righted herself and hurried on. Michele reached the road on the opposite side of a sharp curve from where she had parked her car.

The sky opened up as if it, too, were weeping for the dead. She dug in her purse, searching for her keys, and raced around the bend, hardly able to see because of the tears flooding her eyes.

The sound of tires rolling over asphalt startled her. She glanced up. Her heart jammed in her throat.

A car loomed in front of her.

Black sedan, tinted windows. The chrome hood ornament was headed straight for her.

She lunged, trying to jump clear.

The fender and outer side panel swiped against her thigh and sent her flying like a rag doll. Hot streaks of pain ricocheted through her body. She fell to the ground, clutching her leg and gasping for breath.

Unable to cry for help, Michele lay in pouring rain enveloped by darkness.

* * *

Jamison’s heart stopped as he pulled into the cemetery. In one terrifying flash, he saw it all play out.

Michele!

Accelerating, he raced forward, taking the turns at breakneck speed.
Please, God, let her be okay.

Punching Speed Dial on his cell, he connected with the local police. “Hit-and-run at the Freemont Cemetery. Send an ambulance and police.
Now!
”

Fear clamped down on his gut. Would he get to her in time?

Halfway into the last curve, the tires lost traction. Jamison eased up on the accelerator and turned the wheel into the skid. Once the car had straightened, he put his foot on the gas and closed the distance to where she lay.

Leaping from his car, he charged across the rain-sloshed grass. His only thought was Michele.

Fingers of dread clawed at his throat. The rain eased as he dropped to his knees beside her.

“Michele, it’s Jamison. Talk to me.”

Water-drenched hair covered her face. He pushed away the wayward strands. Her skin was pale, too pale.

Please, God!

Long lashes moved ever so slightly, fanning her cheeks.

He touched her neck, feeling a steady pulse, and gasped with relief.

She jerked at his touch.

“It’s okay, honey. An ambulance is on the way.”

Sirens screamed in the distance.

“Open your eyes, Michele.”

She groaned. Her lashes fluttered, revealing cornflower-blue orbs clouded with confusion.

“You’re going to be all right. There’s nothing to worry about.” As he tried to comfort her, Jamison worked his hands over her arms and lower legs, ensuring that none of her bones had been broken.

She flinched when he gently prodded her knee, probably where she had taken the greatest impact from the hit.

Anger surged through him at the maniac who had done this to her and then had driven away, never checking to ensure that she was still alive. Jamison wanted to pound his fist into the wet earth at his own stupidity. He shouldn’t have let her leave the floral shop alone.

“La...Lance’s grave site.” She tried to sit up.

He gently touched her shoulder. “Lie still until the EMTs arrive.”

She grabbed his hand. “The m...monument was desecrated.”

Sirens filled the air. Two Freemont police cars pulled into the cemetery and stopped close to where Michele lay. An ambulance turned onto the grounds. Overcome with relief, Jamison remained at her side as the officers neared.

The older of the two made the introductions. “Sir, I’m Officer Tim Simpson with the Freemont Police Department.” Mid-forties, the guy had a buzz cut and thick brows that he raised as he pointed to the wiry, younger officer next to him. “This is Officer Bobby Jones.”

Jamison flashed his identification, gave his own name and Michele’s and quickly explained what he had witnessed.

“I saw Miss Logan when I pulled into the cemetery. She was hurrying around the curve in the road toward her car. The rain was falling hard, and she was trying to pull her cell phone or her keys from her handbag.”

“M...my keys,” she responded, her voice weak.

“The car appeared to accelerate just before it hit her,” Jamison added.

She glanced at Simpson. “I...I didn’t hear a motor.”

“Can you give us a description of the vehicle, ma’am?”

“Black or dark blue with a silver hood ornament.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure about the make or model.”

“Were you able to see the driver?” Jamison asked, still hovering over her.

“The windows were tinted. Earlier, a man...by the oak tree. He had binoculars.”

“Military binoculars?”

“I’m not sure. I thought he’d left the cemetery by the front entrance.” She wrinkled her brow. “It could have been the same car.”

The cop looked at Jamison. “Did you get a visual, sir?”

“Not on the driver. I was too far away, and he left through the rear exit. The vehicle was a small, four-door sedan with tinted windows, as Miss Logan mentioned. Late model. Dark color. Could have been a hybrid.”

Simpson pursed his lips. “Which would have been the reason she didn’t hear the engine.”

“Exactly.”

The ambulance pulled alongside the police cars, and two EMTs quickly approached. “Sir, can you step back and give us some room?”

As much as Jamison didn’t want to leave Michele’s side, he had to let the medical team do their job.

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll talk to the police while the EMTs ensure that you’re okay.”

Her grip tightened. “Lance’s grave. Someone cut into his marker.”

“I’m heading there now.”

As the EMTs strapped Michele to a backboard, Jamison turned to Officer Jones. “Can you get the names off the headstones near the oak tree? The family members need to be questioned in case one of them was the man with binoculars.”

“Good idea. I’ll take care of it.”

Jamison motioned to the older cop and then pointed up the incline. “Let’s take a walk and check out the marker.”

Having visited Lance’s grave with Michele on occasion, Jamison led the way. His stomach soured at the sight of the damage done to the monument. What kind of vicious person would do such a hateful act?

Bending down, he studied the cuts in the granite and the spattered liquid. “Looks like blood, although it might not be human.”

Simpson nodded. “A piece of raw steak could provide enough blood to cover the entire monument.” He scratched off a sample and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. “Whatever it is, I’ll have it analyzed and let you know the results.”

Jamison glanced back at where the EMTs were talking to Michele. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders.

The grave desecration was a vindictive act against the Logan family. Judging from the location of gash marks on Lance’s etched likeness, the defacement appeared to be connected to the murder on post.

Jamison’s heart lurched with a terrifying realization. The cold, hard truth sent chills along his spine. Just like with Dawson, Jamison hadn’t put the pieces together fast enough to realize Michele would be an easy target at the cemetery. That mistake had almost cost Michele her life.

FOUR

A
s much as Michele didn’t want to go to the hospital, she gave in at the insistence of the EMTs. Freemont had a modern facility with a good emergency room where she could be checked over by a physician.

“You’re one lucky lady,” the driver of the ambulance told her as the EMTs repacked their equipment and prepared to leave the cemetery.

Michele didn’t feel lucky. Her thigh ached, and she must have pulled a muscle in her back when she landed on the rain-soaked grass. Nothing serious, she felt sure, but not what she wanted today, of all days.

Jamison stood away from the circle of first responders, cell phone jammed to his ear, as he relayed what had happened back to CID headquarters. She had warned him not to call her mother. Not yet, at least.

Roberta had enough to worry her without hearing her daughter was involved in a hit-and-run accident. Once the doctor at the hospital gave the all clear, Michele planned to call home with positive news that she was all right.

Disconnecting, Jamison approached the stretcher where she lay and touched her hand. His eyes were darker than usual, his brow drawn in what seemed like a continuous frown. Jamison had laughed so often when they were dating that she considered asking him to force a smile or, at least, relax the tension that tugged at his full lips.

She remembered how he used to tease her with his kisses. In the beginning, the warmth of his embrace and the sweet gentleness of his caresses had melted the cold interior of her heart, a heart that had frozen after Lance’s death.

Jamison had been a good influence when they’d dated. His optimism had rubbed off on her. Without realizing it at the time, Michele had started to share his vision of how life was meant to be lived, in the present and with hope for the future.

After she left Fort Rickman, the light Jamison had brought into her life dimmed, leaving a noticeable void.

Jamison’s love for life seemed to have diminished, as well. Could ten months have made such a significant difference in both of their lives?

Tragedy was transforming and not necessarily for the better. The shoot-out on post ten months ago could have been the catalyst that caused the change in Jamison. Or had something else been the reason?

Something or someone?

Unable to accept that she might be to blame for Jamison’s newfound gloom, Michele fisted her hands.

Jamison leaned over the stretcher, his face so close she could feel his warm breath against her cheek. “What’s wrong, Michele? Did you remember something?”

She remembered his kisses. “Did you tell Dawson not to call my mother?”

“I said you planned to notify her once you arrived at Freemont Hospital.”

The EMT tapped Jamison’s shoulder. “We’re ready to transport.”

He squeezed her hand and smiled, not only with his lips but also with his eyes. For a brief moment, his gaze bathed her in a warmth that took away the chilling fear that had blanketed her for too long.

“You’ll be with me at the hospital?” she asked, needing assurance he wouldn’t leave her.

“Ah, sir,” the medic interrupted. “You can drive your own vehicle and meet us at the E.R.”

Releasing her hand, Jamison took a step toward the surprised EMT and jammed his finger into the guy’s chest.

“Let’s get this straight. I’m riding in the ambulance with the patient.”

The medic’s eyes widened for a moment before he shrugged. “Whatever you say, sir.”

True to his word, Jamison hovered close to her side not only during the drive to the hospital, but also while she waited in the exam room to see the doctor. Once the physician appeared, Jamison moved into the hallway. He stood guard outside her door while the doctor completed his assessment and ordered a battery of laboratory tests and X-rays.

“You can come back in here,” Michele said to Jamison through the half-opened door after the doc had moved on to the next patient.

“Thanks, but I’ll stay put.” Jamison’s stance, his pursed lips and the tight pull on his square jaw were outward signs he was in full bodyguard mode. Had something else happened that had put him on high alert?