CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam was surprised by knocking on the door. She realized she had actually fallen asleep, despite thinking there was no way she could. She looked at her watch—it was five in the morning. A full three hours of rest. Joy.

“Just a minute,” she called. She’d slept in her clothes but taken off her bra. It took her a second to find it, on top of Fletcher’s cup of pens and pencils. He would have loved that. Last night, before he left, she had the feeling he was about to say something of a more personal nature than she was ready to hear. She was glad he changed his mind. Hurting Fletcher was the last thing she wanted to do. He seemed like a really great guy, but she wasn’t close to being able to think like that about him.

She shimmied into the lace and wire and straightened her shirt. She had a red welt on her stomach from the tape they’d used to keep the mike in place. She must have been allergic to the adhesive.

She pulled the door open. Fletcher greeted her, looking amazingly rested, with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.

“Drink up. It’s time to roll.”

She accepted the cup gratefully and took a deep sip. It was good, better than the usual police station fare.

“Did you make this?”

“Yeah. I have a stash. And a French press. Life’s too short to drink bad coffee.”

“Amen to that.” She finished the cup. “I’m ready when you are.”

She followed him out of the offices and down the stairs to the garage.

A full tactical team awaited them. Sam took one look at the group of unsmiling men bristling with weapons and adrenaline, and shook her head.

“Fletch, you’ve got to be kidding. This is going to scare him away.”

“Sam, this is nonnegotiable. Whitfield must be treated as a murder suspect. We’ve had boots on the ground up there for two days looking for him, and haven’t had a trace. The man’s a ghost. I can’t take the chance that you might get hurt. Or anyone else, for that matter. Like it or lump it, the team comes along.”

The team came with a driver. Fletcher motioned to the backseat of an unmarked sedan, and Sam joined him, glad he wasn’t going to try and be a man about things and attempt a cross-country drive one-handed, on no sleep and a gunshot wound. She would have been forced to drive herself, and damn it, she was tired.

The sky was still shadowed, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. Traffic hadn’t picked up yet. It was like they had the city to themselves, an eerily empty town of half a million slumbering under their noses.

They shot out of the city, crossed the Roosevelt Bridge and headed west on the George Washington Parkway. Sam loved this road, loved its leafy canopy sheltering the gentle curves as the Potomac River undulated beside them. It only took ten minutes to hit the beltway, then they looped around to 270 heading to Frostburg. The drive was going to take three hours. Sam settled against the door and shut her eyes. Maybe she could get a few minutes of sleep on the way.

Sleep didn’t come. After fifteen minutes she gave up and turned to Fletcher. He was staring out the window opposite, obviously lost in thought.

“Fletch. Tell me about Whitfield,” Sam said.

“What do you want to know?”

“All Susan could tell me was that he and Donovan were incredibly tight. Donovan’s journals backed that up. But who is he? Where is he from? What did he do in the Army? Did he go to school? Because I’m telling you, the way Donovan talked about him, he was a hero. Donovan worshipped him. Said he wouldn’t have made it out alive if it weren’t for Xander. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that he’s a killer. And to send us to Taranto, and the friendly fire incident … Just, who is he?”

“Sun Tzu said, ‘If you know your enemy and you know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles.’”

“Exactly. I’d like to know who we’re really after here.”

“All right. Here’s what we’ve managed to find so far. U.S. Army Ranger First Sergeant Alexander Roth Whitfield was born in San Francisco, California, and moved to Colorado when he was two. His parents were hippies, pacifists, Vietnam War activists who, after the war ended, decided they’d had enough of the world and started their own commune in the mountains north of Dillon, Colorado. His father, Alexander Roth Whitfield II, was the heir to the Roth television enterprise. He met Sunshine Rollins at a party, fell madly in love, told his parents and their considerable fortune to take a hike, dropped out and tuned in. Alexander was their firstborn. His birth name was Alexander Moonbeam, but they called him Xander Moon. He had it legally changed to Alexander Roth III when he was eighteen, right before he enlisted. Guess he figured Moonbeam wasn’t a good strong Ranger name. He has a younger sister named Yellow Sun. She lives in Modesto, California, now, runs a metaphysical shop. Clean as a whistle.

“They homeschooled the kids. Xander’s army entrance exams show an IQ off the charts. He went through Basic and caught eyes, apparently he wasn’t just smart, but a physical machine. He started specialized training—Airborne, Ranger, Snipers, the works—and excelled at everything. If there was a school, he went through it. He’s a sharpshooter, won all sorts of awards, ran marathons and was first in line when we engaged in Afghanistan. Did three combat tours before he abruptly ended his career with the Army by voluntarily separating in 2008. He was the ultimate soldier. G.I.-fucking-Joe.”

Fletcher started playing with his cell phone.

“And then what?” Sam asked.

“And then he dropped off the face of the earth. He’s in a bit of hot water from Uncle Sam, hasn’t been paying his taxes. There’s just no record for him after he mustered out.”

“Did he go AWOL? Is that why he’s in hiding?”

“No. He left legitimately. Just chose not to return for another tour. He was lucky, most of the men he served with got stop-lossed and didn’t have a choice. He managed to sneak out under the wire.”

“So why did he leave? If he’d made the military his career, gone through all that training, why walk away? Donovan doesn’t talk about it in his journal. You’d think he would. His whole team mustered out. Why?”

Fletcher shrugged his good shoulder. “I haven’t a clue. All I know is Whitfield is a highly skilled killer. He was awarded a Silver Star, that’s nearly as good as it gets, has a Purple Heart, two Bronze Stars. This man has bravery and courage to spare, apparently. Luck, too. Oh, and he plays piano. I forgot that. He was some sort of prodigy.”

“A killer and a pianist. Interesting combination. Doesn’t exactly fit with his upbringing, does it?”

“No. But we never know what goes on behind closed doors. He’s a trained soldier who disappeared off the face of the earth. No job, no accounts, no accountability. And now all the men he was close to are dead. So don’t let the romantic warrior full of valor creed get in the way here.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” she mumbled. “When do we get there?”

The driver, whose name was Kip, looked over his shoulder. “Another hour.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. She was about to ask more about Xander when her phone rang. She recognized Eleanor’s number. Damn it, she’d forgotten to call. She answered with an apology.

“Eleanor, I’m so sorry. I meant to get in touch, it’s been a busy morning.”

“Oh, Sam, it’s good to hear your voice. I was worried when you didn’t come back last night. Where are you? Are you okay? Are you with Susan?”

“No, I’m not with Susan, I’m with Detective Fletcher. We’re heading to western Maryland to see if we can find one of Eddie’s friends. I meant to call last night, things just got insane, and then it was too late. I didn’t want to wake everyone. I’m fine, though. I suppose you saw the news about the shooting?”

“I did. I’m so glad you’re all right. I couldn’t take it if something happened to you. The detectives are okay?”

“They are. Worse for wear, but they’re both going to be fine.”

“I’m so relieved.” Eleanor sounded so old. The past week had really taken its toll. “Sam, you said you weren’t with Susan. Have you talked to her this morning?”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

Eleanor sighed. “Yesterday was so hard on her. I suggested she get some air. I think she was planning to go to the house. But when I woke up this morning she wasn’t here. Her car’s gone, too. That’s why I assumed you were with her.”

“Did you try her cell?”

“Yes, and the house, as well. No one’s answering.”

Sam felt the first beginnings of fear flutter in her stomach, but tried to keep her voice steady for Eleanor’s sake.

“Eleanor, she’s probably just asleep.”

“I should run out to the house.”

“Why don’t we save some time? I can ask Detective Fletcher to have someone check on her for you. That way you won’t have to wrangle the girls or anything.”

“Can they do that?”

“Sure. I’ll ask him right now. I’ll call you back once they get there.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m just a little worried about her.”

You and me both, Sam thought.

She hung up and looked over at Fletch. “Can you have someone do a welfare check on Susan Donovan? She didn’t show up at Eleanor’s last night.”

Fletcher knitted his brows. “That’s not good.” He got on the cell and called Roosevelt, asked him to have the Fairfax County police do a run-by.

“Thank you,” she said when he hung up. “Hopefully she’s just still asleep. I know how hard it was for her yesterday.”

“You’re welcome.” Fletcher cleared his throat. His eyes flitted to hers, then away, out the window, then back. “Sam, maybe this isn’t the time …. I hate to say this, but I looked you up online. I saw the story about your husband and kids. I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

Sam froze. She didn’t want to go there with him. Nashville, the flood, their deaths, felt a million miles away, and then intruded back into her world with a suddenness that took her breath away.

She didn’t have a voice. What would she say? Yes, Fletch, they’re all dead, and that’s okay? It’s great that you were doing background on me? Instead, she opened her purse and brought out her antibacterial gel, poured some in her hands and started to rub.

“I’ve seen you do that a few times now …. You have OCD, don’t you?”

“Jesus, Fletch. What is this, the inquisition?”

She felt sorry for the outburst immediately. He was just trying to make friends. Like a little puppy who doesn’t know his boundaries and kept licking at her legs.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up. My mistake.” His voice had cooled. Now he was mad at her. She huffed and stared out the window. They were getting close, she saw the exit for Frostburg. They needed to work together, so she swallowed her pride and put the gel away.

“Yes, I have OCD. Yes, my family died in the floods. But neither of those things have any bearing on me being here now. They aren’t affecting my judgment. So don’t worry about it. Okay?”

“It’s been two years. Maybe—”

“Come on, Fletch. Am I interrogating you about your ex-wife? This is private. It’s my business. So please, just stop.”

“I’m not interrogating you, Sam. I’m trying to get to know you. Let me amend that. I’d like to get to know you. If you’d let me.”

Shit. Here it was. She knew this was coming. She thought she’d sent enough signals that she didn’t want to go there. Obviously she was out of practice. But she needed to end this right now, before he actually got interested. And keep him from booting her out on the side of the road.

“Fletch, it’s not you. I’m not in any shape to be known. Okay? Please, let’s just dangle me out as bait for Whitfield, capture him and then I’m heading home. I’ve overstayed my welcome, I believe. I have responsibilities back in Nashville.”

She didn’t realize until she said it that she meant every word. She had no business still being in D.C. She’d come to do a job: a secondary autopsy on a homicide victim. That job was well-past done, and where was she now? In a car with a smitten homicide detective on her way to try and help capture a possible murderer. This was ridiculous. She was not a detective. What in the world did she think she was doing?

The wall of Donovan’s office swam into her mind, the picture of the five men, the band of brothers, atop the words that bound them together. They weren’t forced to be strong, to exhibit their rare brand of courage. They did it because it was right, and just, and good. They volunteered to be the courage for the rest of us. They volunteered to fight so we wouldn’t have to.

They weren’t feeling sorry for themselves. They took an oath, and they lived by a creed. Never shall I fail my comrades…. Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.

Right now, Xander Whitfield was the lone survivor.

And so was Sam.

Shame overcame her. Donovan deserved better. He deserved someone who believed in him, who’d fight for him to the death. That’s why Eleanor had called her. She knew, better than Sam did, the depth of emotion that ran between them. Even apart, even in death, there was a connection. A link. Eleanor knew that Sam would find a way.

Mentally, she squared her shoulders. No, she wasn’t going home just yet. She wouldn’t run away from him this time. She would find the strength to see this through. She owed Donovan that much.