CHAPTER 20

Ben

“Who are you?”

The older, rotund guy, opening the door, looks me up and down with a healthy dose of suspicion. I guess the sight of a rough-looking, leather-wearing, unkempt biker on his doorstep, is not one he’s met with on a daily basis. Not in this high-end neighborhood of Durango. Should’ve worn fucking gloves or something, since the guy can’t keep his eyes of the tattoos on the back of my hands.

“I’m looking for Dorothy Wells,” I say, in my most polite voice. At least I think it is, but from the scowl on the guy’s face, I don’t think he notices.

“Only Dorothy here is my wife, which make her Dorothy Banks, not Wells,” he snaps, and I feel my patience already waning. That didn’t take long.

“It’s important I speak to her, it’s about her daughter.”

“Geoffrey? What’s this about Jahnee?” The wobbly woman’s voice comes from somewhere behind the man, but instead of stepping aside, he leans right into my space.

“You upset my wife, you’ve got problems,” he hisses, and I’ve got to give him props for having the balls to threaten me. I stand about a foot taller, and although he beats me out in mass, mine is of a muscular variety and I’d be surprised if this man has any of those left.

A sweet, but gaunt-looking, gray-haired lady pokes her head around her husband.

“You know where Jahnee is?” she says, deflating my hopes she might provide some answers. “Wait a minute!” She shoves at her husband, who rolls his eyes as he steps out of her way, and this time it’s the woman getting in my face. “You’re Brent!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together. “Oh my goodness—Jahnee’s going to be over the moon. She said she was off to meet you! When did you come back from overseas?”

Something is seriously wrong here. Overseas?

“I’m not sure I understand,” I start carefully, glancing at the man by her side, who is warning me with his eyes. “Could I perhaps come in and ask you a few questions about your daughter?”

“Of course.” She hesitates, only for a second, before stepping back and letting me inside the house.

“Would you care for some coffee?”

The woman can barely stand on her feet, so I quickly but firmly decline, almost relieved when she takes a seat on the couch.

“I apologize,” she says, smiling weakly. “I haven’t been well. Jahnee moved here to look after me, just the end of the summer. Then a few weeks ago, she said she had to go. That she’d received news you’d be back from your deployment and was meeting you when you arrived back stateside. I’ve been waiting to meet you for years. Did you miss her? Have you talked to her?” I notice worry creeping into her voice as she starts realizing something is not computing.

“Ma’am,” I carefully say, with a sideways glance to her husband, who looks ready to have a coronary with his wife getting upset. “I’m afraid, perhaps, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m a retired agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency. I met your daughter ten or eleven years ago in Tulsa, while working on a case. My case concluded and I left. I haven’t seen your daughter since.”

“But I don’t understand?” the poor woman mutters, grabbing the pendant hanging around her neck. “You were married right before you left for Afghanistan. She was devastated you would miss the birth of your baby. I remember she cried so hard when she found out you’d been captured.”

Dorothy’s husband wraps his arm around his wife’s shoulders, rubbing her arm with brisk strokes. I see regret and genuine care on the man’s face, as he looks almost apologetic at Dorothy.

“You warned me,” she suddenly whispers, turning to her husband. “You never believed her, did you?”

“Sweetheart,” he mumbles soothingly. “I don’t want you upset. Why don’t I help you lie down and I’ll see if I can clear this up?”

The last is said with a stern look in my direction and I nod my consent. I’d rather deal with the angry, protective husband than with his emotional, and obviously unwell, wife.

As he gently leads her out of the room, I use the opportunity to have a look around. The mantel over the fireplace holds a large collection of photographs. I’m guessing children and grandchildren, but I only recognize the people in one picture. A large frame, behind a collection of smaller ones, which shows a newly married couple. Jahnee—much as I can recall her—in a wedding dress, holding onto a large bouquet of red roses in one arm, and a tall man in a Marine Corps uniform with the other. A much younger version of my face is sticking out of the high collar.

It’s a bit surreal, looking at an image of yourself when you know for a fact that isn’t you.

“I’ve always questioned her story.” A defeated looking Geoffrey walks up behind me, taking the frame from my hands and placing it back on the mantel, behind the others. “At first I gave her the benefit of the doubt, even if her stories of you and what I knew about the military didn’t exactly mesh.” He walks heavily to the couch where he sits down, staring blankly out the window. “Dorothy was first diagnosed with cancer back in 2009. That’s when we moved here. She’d always wanted the mountains, and I’d been too stubborn to move, but I was desperate to give her everything she wanted. At least while I could. I never thought she’d beat the first round.” His red-rimmed eyes turn to me when I find my way back to the chair I was sitting in before. “This was a second marriage for both of us, and my children and Jahnee never mixed well,” he explains. “It was a relief at first, being away from the tension...” His voice trails off before he shakes his head lightly as if to clear it. “But you’re not here for that. It was probably 2014 when I knew something was up. Most of the troops stationed in Afghanistan at that time were brought home. Not that I believed all Jahnee’s reasons for never having met you in the years she claimed to have been married to you. But I never started openly questioning her about it until the clear evidence of her lies was on the news every day, as troops flew home. That’s when she gave her mother that picture.” He points at the large frame. “Dorothy had just found out her cancer had spread, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth; that the picture was a fake and that there was no husband.”

“My name is Ben Gustafson and I’ve never been married.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to clarify that, but it feels right. The old man should know exactly who he’s spilling his guts to.

“You were undercover,” he concludes appropriately.

“I was. I’m not proud of using your stepdaughter to further my case.” I snort. “Hell, I’m not proud of a lot things I’ve done in the name of one investigation or another, but it was always with the greater good in mind.”

“I understand,” he says, although I wonder if he really does, since I don’t myself half the time. Too many years undercover tends to start blurring the lines of morality, and I’m pretty sure mine were nearly nonexistent, which is why I needed to get out. Besides, it clearly had some long-lasting effects on this family. “You know she was diagnosed with schizophrenia a few years ago? Jahnee?” he asks. I clearly didn’t, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Not with what I’ve learned today. It makes it even more important to share what I know with this man.

“I have reason to believe that Jahnee may be behind some disturbing events that have occurred recently.” Geoffrey’s head lifts up, and he straightens his back like he’s bracing for impact.

I spend the next fifteen minutes outlining the events as I know them and watch carefully for his reactions. He blinks a few times when I tell him about the first image she sent, before his eyes flick over to the wedding photo. He listens quietly through my recount of the white car, nodding every now and then.

“Could be hers,” he volunteers.

When I tell him of the break-in of our house with minimal detail, he flinches. It’s when I describe the ultrasound picture that I get the biggest reaction. A great sadness settles on his features.

“It about killed Dorothy,” he mutters. “We were still living in Tulsa and she went with Jahnee to every damn doctor’s appointment. She was getting big as a house and at the end could barely fit behind the wheel.”

I know what’s coming. I’m expecting it; I’m braced for it, but it still hits me with the hot power of a bullet.

“Damn near broke my wife when she lost that baby, with one month left to go. I’m thinking that’s what broke Jahnee’s hold on reality.”

Isla

“I’m off to see that old coot, McCracken,” Uncle Al announces, walking into the kitchen where I’m cooking dinner.

Ben came home earlier, all moody, and didn’t want to talk. “Later—I promise,” he said and I didn’t push. He took off down to the trailer on his four-wheeler after putting his work clothes on. I saw Uncle Al head over to the Deville a little later, and he stayed in there for a good hour before he made his way up here.

I just killed my time with edits and checking in with Jen and Nate via email.

“You’re not staying for dinner?”

“Nope. I promised Phil a good steak, so that’s what I’m gonna get him. Heading over to Shiloh’s Steakhouse in Cortez. It’s his favorite restaurant, but he never goes there because the bastard is too cheap. He don’t seem to mind me payin’ for it, though.”

I smile, because despite the complaining and the bickering, it’s clear my uncle cares for his buddy.

“Also, you need to be patient with your man. Have a mind. He’ll tell ya, but don’t you go throwing that temper of yours around,” he says, his finger almost poking my eye as he’s waving it in front of my face.

“Better stop pointing that thing at me then,” I grit out. “Cause I’m this close to biting it off.”

Wisely, my uncle tucks the offensive finger, and the rest of his hand, quickly in his pocket.

“And for your information, I don’t lose my temper, I’m simply...spirited.” I lift my chin as high as I can get it, while trying to look down my nose at him. He shakes his head, and with his big paw, grabs me by the back of the head, tagging me closer.

“Sweet girl,” he says in that voice that makes me feel twelve years old again and believing in fairy tales and magic. “Do me a favor and just let the man talk.”

I’m still grumbling quietly when Ben comes in twenty minutes later.

“Where’s Al?” he asks, looking around.

“Off for a night on the town with Phil. Promises to be a rockin’ time.” I’m glad to see a grin break through the stoic mask he’s been wearing today.

“As long as we’re not called to come pick them up from the hospital because one of them breaks a hip line-dancing, I’m good with that,” he shoots back, and now it’s my turn to grin. “What’s for dinner?” His expression straightens out, but his eyes are still smiling, so I smile back, with full-face involvement.

“Tamale pie. With ground elk instead of beef.” I turn around to open the oven door. The cornbread topping on the meat is nice and golden, and I carefully lift the dish from the oven with a towel. “Al loves elk, I thought he’d enjoy.”

“So do I, and I know I’ll love it.”

The pleasantries continue through dinner, which we enjoy at the new dining table we picked up right here in Dolores. “Temporary,” Ben had said, since he still wants to build his own with wood from the property, but with his current project list already long enough to last him through to the spring, I wasn’t going to wait. We’ve got Stacie and Mak coming, and we need a table for the holidays, something Ben wasn’t going to argue with.

“I’ll do dishes,” Ben offers when I’ve put the leftovers away.

It’s a rare treat, since he’s not one for cooking or cleaning, but he makes up for it in many other ways. I pull out a stool and sit at the counter where I can watch him and enjoy.

“Decaf?” he asks grabbing a mug from the cupboard. He usually has a beer during or after dinner and I like a coffee. I just don’t like the caffeine this time of day, since it has me up at three or four in the morning, wide-awake.

“Please.”

I get the sense he’s building up to talking about what he found out today, so I try not to chatter like I normally might. Have a mind. I can hear my uncle’s voice in my head. And I keep having a mind, when Ben starts to tell me about his meeting with Mr. And Mrs. Banks.

Oh, there are times that I want express my anger at that sick bitch, with copious amounts of creativity, but I’m reeling it in. Mostly because I can see that however upset this has made Ben, it’s not what upset him most.

It takes everything out of me to keep my mouth shut when I finally discover what really cut him today.

“I’m so much more responsible for this whole situation than I could’ve imagined,” he says, with no small amount of defeat in his voice. That’s what finally has me let go.

“That’s crap,” I spit, immediately defensive. I ignore his raised eyebrow and forge ahead. “Well, it is. Did you make any promises of any kind to her, while you were...intimately involved?” I flick my hand back and forth with a distaste I can’t hide. One that Ben apparently finds amusing.

“Babe, it’s not like we talked much.”

“Alright, I could’ve done without that,” I point out, even more worked up now. “My point is; how can you be held accountable for anything other than flawed judgment?”

“Flawed judgment?” he parrots back at me, his eyebrows still up in his hairline.

“Clearly. She wasn’t wearing a sign that said, ‘off my rocker, back away,’ now did she?” Ben closes his eyes, drops his head and shakes it slowly, but he does it grinning. “No way you could know she had a mental illness, if she didn’t even know. And don’t even get me started on the way she lied and manipulated her parents, her mom. That’s just wrong. Afghanistan? Does she know they generally behead their prisoners, not keep them fed for fucking years, and then send them home with a pat on the back, and a ‘Please, come again’?”

By now Ben is full out laughing, and the sight of it unravels the knot of tension I’ve had since last night when he told me his plans.

“Honey,” I softly say, drawing his attention. “I know you like to take responsibility for all the wrongs in the world, make yourself accountable for every flaw and fail, but dammit—not everything is yours to carry.”

I slip down the stool and walk around the island where he is perched on his own. I slip my hips between his legs and lay my hands along his jaw before I continue.

“And that baby? That little boy? I’m sorry that she lost it, and I’m sorry it may well have cracked her mind. I’m especially sorry that all of that is painful for you, but not even that is yours to carry. Truth is, knowing what you know now about her mental state, there’s no way for you to be sure it was your child she was pregnant with.”

“The timing fits,” he counters, as his hands come up and circle my wrists.

“It may well,” I’m quick to concede, before putting my point across. “But do you know for sure you were the only one? Did you vow to be exclusive?”

“None of that,” he admits. “It was just a handful of hookups.”

“Did you ever fuck her without a condom?”

“Fuck no. I’d never go unprotected, not until you anyway,” he says with a cocky smile, before realization sets in. 

I don’t need to say anything else, I just watch his facial expressions while he processes.