A Deeper Darkness Part 18

"I can't believe you called Felicia for help. That took b.a.l.l.s, man. What did she say?"

"To go f.u.c.k myself. What do you think?"

Hart stood with his hands on his hips. He looked like a disapproving schoolmarm.

"Fletch, you actually sound surprised. You call your ex-wife, a woman you haven't spoken to outside of custodial legalities for four years, and ask her to help you break the law?"

"Jesus, man, keep your voice down. There's nothing illegal about it. It's a shortcut, that's all."

"And now you've alerted a civilian that you're wanting to look into the private records of several troops. DOD will chew you up and spit you out before you can laugh at them. Nothing illegal, my a.s.s."

Fletcher stopped stacking papers and sat back in the chair. "Lonnie, get off my back. It was just a thought. I was trying to move things forward. I don't see you grinding out any brilliant solutions."

"Well, gee, sorry, Batman. I thought we were working on this together."

"We are, Boy Wonder." Fletcher sighed deeply. "I was just trying to play a hunch."

"He does that, you know." A female voice startled them both. Fletcher turned and couldn't believe his eyes. A gorgeous blonde stood in the conference room doorway, legs up to her chin, and obviously pregnant.

His ex-wife.

"Felicia. I thought... What are you doing here? You're... That's..."

Hart shot him a look, went to the door and gave Felicia a hug. "Come on in. Don't mind him, his a.s.s is taking a vacation day, and the rest of him doesn't know how to speak."

Felicia laughed. "Some things never change. How are you, Lonnie?"

"Better than I deserve."

"Good. Give Ginger my love. I hope she's doing well."

"She is, she is." Hart looked to Fletcher, who took a breath and shut his mouth, then back at Felicia, who was staring at the nails on her right hand. "Listen, I was just about to go get a cup of coffee. You want anything?"

"I'm good," Felicia answered.

"Uh, guess I am, too." Fletcher nodded at Hart, though he wanted to cry out, No, don't-don't leave me alone with her. Hart went to the door, ignored the admonis.h.i.+ng glare, instead smiling a bit at his angry partner. Fletcher had to restrain himself from shooting the man the bird. The door closed, and he was left alone with Felicia. He was going to fire whoever had let her in without calling him to say she was on her way up.

"So," they both said at the same time.

"Sorry. You first," Fletcher said.

"Thanks. Mind if I sit?"

"Have at it."

She settled into a chair, barely fitting in it. He remembered how stunning he thought she was when she was pregnant with Tad-glowing and ripe with the fruit of his loins. They'd barely been able to keep their hands off each other. His b.a.l.l.s shrank a little looking at her now, knowing that whatever was inside her was not his.

She saw him staring at her belly. "I thought I should tell you in person."

"Flee, you don't owe me anything."

She smiled, almost a little sadly. "I know that. But still... Did Tad tell you I was seeing someone?"

"He might have mentioned it," Fletcher said, coloring. Tad had mentioned it, and Fletcher had responded by getting head-over-heels s.h.i.+tfaced drunk and losing half his precious weekend time in bed with a vicious hangover.

"We're getting married after the babies come."

"Babies?"

She laughed, and Fletcher saw a little of the girl she'd been when they first met. "I can't believe I'm going to tell you this. Ryan, that's my fiance, had a vasectomy when he was in his twenties, thinking he never wanted kids. He changed his mind and had it reversed, but there were still problems. We did in vitro. Ended up with twins. Two girls."

She looked happy, and Fletcher was torn between raising a stink and trying his d.a.m.nedest not to f.u.c.k up the fact that she was actually here and talking to him in a tone that didn't sound like nails on a chalkboard. He stowed away all his pride, all his hurt and anger, all the animosity that had been fueling his thoughts of her for the past several years, and smiled.

"I'm really happy for you, Flee."

"Dear G.o.d, Fletch. I think you actually mean that."

"I do. You deserve better than me. You always have."

She pursed her lips and c.o.c.ked her head to the side, as if weighing his sincerity on some sort of internal scale, then started to get to her feet.

"Let me help you," Fletcher said, giving her a hand. She laughed ruefully, rubbing her back.

"If I'd known what a pain it is to carry two..."

They stood there staring at each other until she finally blinked and looked away, smoothing the elegant maternity dress across her belly. She always did know how to dress.

"So you came all the way down here to tell me you're having babies and getting married?"

Felicia reached over and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

"You think I'd come all this way just for that?" She laughed, then got serious. "I'm having lunch with Joelle."

His heart began to pound.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I never could resist your gentleman-in-distress act."

"Felicia," he started, but she put her finger to his lips.

"Thank me later, if I can talk her into doing it. I'm going to ask her to be their G.o.dmother first, soften her up a bit."

"I owe you one. A big one."

"And I'll collect sometime. Right now-" she shook her head ruefully "-I just need to pee."

Fletcher gave his ex-wife a genuine smile.

"Serves you right."

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Georgetown

Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming, because the twins were in dark blue graduation gowns, and Simon's hair was shot through with silver. He held the hand of a younger girl, a serious-faced teen who had sherry-drowned eyes, just like Sam. She watched them from afar, not a part of the day, not able to straighten Matthew's cap, where it had gone askew over his thick dark blond curls, nor retie the bow that held back Madeline's lighter blond waves, like a field of wheat in a steady breeze. Not able to touch the ghost child under the chin to make her smile. Where had they gotten such gorgeous hair? She didn't have good hair, it was thin and needed constant brus.h.i.+ng, and Simon's was straight as a stick. They were both dark-headed, too, yet they'd created two stunning blondes, and one mini-Sam.

The sight of them all together, laughing, made her happy. She wanted to join them. She started their way but ran into something, a barrier, clear and intractable, barking her s.h.i.+n and elbow so hard that tears sprang to her eyes. She hammered on it with her fists, hoping that they'd hear her and invite her to be with them, something, anything, to get their attention, but they turned away and walked off the stage. The scene became black, dark, empty.

She realized she was looking inside her own body, on the table at Forensic Medical, where she'd cut herself open to perform her own autopsy, and instead found that she'd been full of nothing but the dimmest air.

No lungs. No brain. No heart.

There were mighty red gashes up her arms and across her stomach. Everything had leaked out through the wide slices of flesh.

She was screaming.

She knew she was screaming.

But she couldn't seem to stop, and the sound swallowed her whole.

She bolted upright, eyes wide, breath coming in little pants. Her hands grasped her stomach. She could feel the rough, raised scars under the fabric of her T-s.h.i.+rt. Her subconscious was punis.h.i.+ng her. Punis.h.i.+ng her for not fighting harder. For asking too much. For not loving them all enough.

Every moment of the dream played out again and again in her head. She fought to hold on to it: the way Matthew's eyes crinkled when he smiled, and Maddy's wide grin spilled suns.h.i.+ne as she played with her father. And the last child, the one that never was, the one Sam hadn't gotten a chance to know, watching them, so serious and sad. Tears rolled down her face, and as they did, the dream faded, until she was grasping to remember the details. What color were the gowns? How tall was Matt? When did Simon's hair go gray?

She covered her mouth with her hand and bit down, trying so hard not to lose it. Not to crawl right back into the dream. It wasn't real. None of that had happened. It never would.

Despair, as bleak and unforgiving as the inside of an ice storm, rained down on her.

These were the moments she wondered why she bothered. She had no one left. No one who needed her. Her job was meaningless. Her life wasn't worth living.

G.o.d, she missed them so much.

She curled into a ball and let the tears come, hard and insistent. She tried to focus on what might have been, instead of what had really happened. That was a place she couldn't allow herself to go.

There was a soft knock on the door. She ignored it. Maybe whoever it was would go away.

No such luck. The door rattled and opened, and Sam felt the warm, soft arms of her old friend Eleanor, who crawled right into the bed and spooned Sam, holding on for dear life.

"I know," Eleanor said. "I know."

Sam didn't know how long they stayed like that, only that it felt like a great deal of time had pa.s.sed and she had finally, finally stopped crying.

Eleanor gave her a last squeeze, then sat up.

"Come on downstairs, sweetie. Let me make you some breakfast. They just called to let us know they're releasing Eddie's body today. We have a funeral to plan."

Sam stayed on her side for a moment, then rolled onto her back with a great, gusting sigh.

Oh, my darlings. I miss you so.

Sam showered while Eleanor cooked.

She'd driven back to Georgetown late last night, Susan in the seat next to her nearly asleep, afraid to stay alone in her own house. Sam hadn't blamed her a bit. She'd had that exact same reaction at the beginning, not wanting to be alone, begging friends to stay over so she wouldn't have to face the immense emptiness by herself. Only she wasn't being stalked, and her husband wasn't harboring secrets...

She was going to have to sell the house.

The thought jumped into Sam's mind so suddenly, so strongly, that she gasped a little. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it sooner. It wasn't a home anymore, but a mausoleum. A prison. One that, until this very moment, she'd wanted to keep herself in.

But her rational mind had finally poked through. She was hurting herself more staying there than selling it. As soon as she went home, she was going to put it on the market.

An inexplicable feeling floated through her as she washed the shampoo out of her hair.

She almost didn't recognize it. She hadn't felt it in so long.

Sam used to be a decisive person. Strong. Capable. Not just nominal, but forward and somewhat brash, though never forceful.

The feeling she'd had was one of decision, and with it, she felt the first tiny brick being laid, just at the bottom of her feet. A new foundation. It was small, and the structure was going to take months, if not years, to rebuild. There would be cracks, huge, gaping holes, but there would be mortar, ready mix, wattle and straw. Somehow, she would hold the miniature slabs together.

She toweled off and blew her hair dry. Put on her fresh clothes, grateful that Eleanor had done the wash for her unasked. She'd forgotten how nice it was to have someone take care of her.

She could hear the delighted screams of Susan and Eddie's children down the hall, some game that they'd devised to keep themselves amused. They all needed to keep a closer eye on them, just to make sure they were managing. But children were resilient. They would never forget, but they were young enough to actually heal.

How Susan would cope, Sam had no idea. She didn't know what the relations.h.i.+p between her and Donovan was really like. He'd been unhappy, that much was clear from his journal, but whether that stemmed from his work, his time overseas, PTSD or his home life, she couldn't be sure. She'd lay bets on the military issue, but it had been so long... . Donovan was always so gung ho, it would have taken something huge to change his feelings.

An act of G.o.d.

As she brushed her teeth, she thought about the entries in the journal she'd had trouble deciphering. They were misuses of the Latin language. In someone less versed, she'd call them mistakes. But for a scholar of Latin like Donovan, little mistakes were a red flag.

What looked on the surface like mistakes were, she felt sure now, codes. Messages meant to be read.