Catherine Palmer - Thread Of Deceit

“It’s what we thought. Busted. They caught him. All the papers have the story. TV, too. It’s everywhere.”

Swirling his martini, he watched the olive rotate at the bottom of his glass. “Do they have any idea if anyone else is involved?”

“No leads. At least that’s what they’re saying.” The silence on the other end broke as Stu cleared his throat. “Uh, the Feds…they’ve taken his computer. And his file cabinets.”

“But there won’t be any trouble with that. You set things up the way I told you, right?”

“I did what you said.” Heavy breathing. “Look, I’m getting nervous. I can’t have anyone poking around here. My wife…she wouldn’t understand at all. She’d leave me, and I couldn’t handle that. She’d take the house and the car. I’d have nothing left. I mean…I just wouldn’t want to go on, you know?”

“You want me to have a pity party for you, Stu? If you did what I told you to do, you don’t have to worry. Everything will be fine. You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“No, no.”

He took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat. Of course he shouldn’t have relied on Stu to do things right. He ought to have set up the whole thing himself instead of trusting someone else to help out. This was exactly what happened every time he counted on people to keep their end of a bargain. They let him down. They lied to him.

“Look, Stu, I’ve been thinking about moving the operation,” he said. “I might even retire. I could use a break.”

“Retire?”

“This whole thing is beginning to bore me. Besides, I don’t need the stress.” He took another swallow of the martini and wondered when the alcohol would kick in. His head was killing him, and he’d had stomach problems the past couple of days. Of course, he’d hardly been able to eat, so it wasn’t surprising.

“What about the clients?” Stu asked. “We’ve got six on the waiting list.”

“I don’t care about the clients,” he snapped. “I care about clearing out my house, because I don’t believe a word you said about setting up the safeguards in Springfield.”

“I did! I swear it.”

“Good. Then you won’t have any problem taking the product that’s in storage here. Drive down tonight, and I’ll meet you at—”

“I can’t do that! What if someone’s tailing me? What if they’re watching my house? They could follow me.”

“You idiot. You didn’t set it up, did you?”

“I tried, but—”

“You’d better be here tonight to take these things off my hands, Stu.”

“Don’t talk to me that way. Please. I can’t handle your threats. Ever since this started, I’ve been really down, okay? I mean today…this afternoon…I got out my gun. If things get too hot, I don’t think I can take it.”

“Look, Stu, can you get here tonight or not?”

He heard a sniffle on the other end. “I’ll check with the client. I have to make sure I can work the transfer. I’ll do my best.”

“You owe me, Stu. You owe me everything.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll call you later.”

Fool! He dropped the phone into his pocket and slammed his fists on the arms of the chair. This was so typical. Stu was just like all the others—clients and colleagues—thinking only of themselves and what they could get out of him. If trouble erupted, it would be Stu’s fault, that pathetic liar.

No one understood how hard it had been to set everything up. The whole process functioned like clockwork, and all because of his careful planning. He had figured it out, he had put it in place and he ought to reap the benefits.

Instead, he was spending every waking moment watching his back. If the Feds tracked him down, it would all be over. They would make an example out of him, as they had before. Holding him up like some kind of monkey on display. As though what he did was wrong. They had no idea the service he provided. The good that came of his efforts. It wasn’t only his clients who benefited. Certainly not, but you couldn’t explain that.

It was an economy, and he played the role of the middleman. The producer reaped a huge harvest. And the client gained immeasurably. He was only doing his part to facilitate the process.

He downed the final mouthful of his drink. Time for another trip to his special closet. It was the only way he would get any peace.

Sam stepped out of his office and glanced at the small child nestled in the far corner of the recreation center. Flora. Somehow Ana Burns had gotten the little girl to speak. To give her name. How many times had Sam looked at the child, one of so many he couldn’t reach? Across the room, her dark eyes studied him, pinned him.

Accused him.

Like a bullet fired from an assault rifle, the memory of another child’s brown eyes shot into his mind and tore through his heart, wrenching and twisting it. Unable to shield himself from the onslaught, he saw the girl’s thin fingers reaching for him. Smelled the dust on her soft skin as he lifted her in his arms.

He could hear own his breath, heated and heavy. He heard her cries as blood dripped from a bullet wound in her abdomen. The pain he had caused. The terrible, inconceivable, unthinkable thing he had done.

“Oh, God, help me!” The strangled words wrenched from his lips. Sweating, clenching his fists, he swallowed against the knot of pain in his throat. “Forgive me!”

Propelled by the agony in his chest, Sam strode toward the front door. He passed Duke and the dog’s caretaker without a word. Bursting through the metal detector, he stepped out onto the searing pavement.

“Where is she?” he demanded of the youth at the door.

Raydell straightened. “Who?”

“The reporter? Which way did she go?”

“Down the street. Must have parked around the corner. You okay, Sam?”

He started in the direction Raydell had pointed. “Tell T-Rex I’ll be back.”

“What’d she say to you? What’s she gonna do to Haven?”

Unable to explain, Sam broke into a run. As he rounded the corner, her tan Chevy was pulling away from the curb. He leaped in front of it, slammed his palms on the hood, forced her to stop.

Ana braked, threw open her door and jumped out. “Hey, that’s my car you’re beating on, you jerk!”

“The little girl. Flora. She talked to you? Where’s she from?”

“I don’t know. She speaks Spanish.”

“Spanish.” He let out a breath. “Where does she live? What does she need?”

Ana frowned at him. “Why?”

“I have to know.” He struggled to find a plausible reason. “Maybe I can help her.”

She crossed her arms. “What’s going on, Sam?”

He dropped his head, rubbed his eyebrows, fought the tide of emotion that threatened. “It’s nothing,” he managed.

“You chased me around the corner. I nearly ran over you, for pity’s sake. It’s not nothing.”

He nodded. “Okay. All right.” Filling his chest with air, he forced out the words. “Iraq, ’03. The start of the war. I was there. The girl reminded me of someone.” He paused. “Something happened there. In the desert.”

Ana was silent. Her car engine hummed. People passed on the sidewalk. Staring.

Sam tried to make himself move. Return to his normal life. But he knew if he went back into the center, she would be there. Sitting. Looking at him. Gazing with her brown eyes as if she knew.

“Listen, do you want to get something to eat?” Ana asked. “It’s early for supper, but I’m hungry.”

He considered her offer. A kindness, because she saw his obvious struggle. He didn’t much like the woman, didn’t care for what she was doing, the threat she posed to his dream. But for now, she was better than the memory. Better than going back into the center and facing the demon that wouldn’t let him go—no matter how many hours he spent with a counselor, no matter how hard he prayed.