Unquiet Ghosts Read online

  Agnes looked out at the ambulance. There were a whole bunch of ambulance providers in Knoxville. But when she looked closely, she felt a shiver in her gut. For some reason, the ambulance had no identifier number on the side. Suspicion welled up inside her.

  “Thanks,” she told the woman at Park West, and replaced the receiver.

  It sure seemed kind of strange. The two A-rabs, the security camera guy, and now the cameras not working. Her gut told her something strange was going on, but she had no idea what, except that she was having none of it. She picked up the receiver again, about to call 911, when she heard Deesha’s voice getting closer, a clatter of footsteps as she returned with the men.

  Agnes picked up her purse. Her Sig .40-caliber was in there, cocked and locked, as Kenny always insisted. She placed her purse on the desk in front of her. If Kenny was here, he’d love it. He loved all that gunfight at the O.K. Corral stuff. But all Agnes felt was fear and a throbbing headache.

  The men returned with Deesha, one of them wheeling Kyle in the chair. The men were all smiles. Agnes felt her heartbeat race. She smiled back at the men and said, “Deesha, can I see you a second?”

  “Sure. Take care, you guys.”

  “You, too,” one of the men called out.

  Deesha waved to the paramedics, and they headed toward the exit.

  When Deesha came over, Agnes shielded her, pulling her behind her, and said, “Get down!”

  “What?”

  “Get down now!”

  Agnes brought up her Sig from behind the reception counter.

  “Hold it right there. You fellas ain’t taking Kyle nowhere.”

  The two paramedics froze. A look of absolute fear ignited in Kyle’s face when he saw the firearm. It was in that split second that Agnes knew she was way out of her depth. With the practiced ease of professionals, both men tore silenced automatic pistols from under their scrubs.

  Agnes fired, the Sig bucking in her hands, the round hitting one of the men a glancing blow in the shoulder. He clasped a hand to his wound.

  The second man aimed and fired.

  The first shot hit Agnes in the chest, sending her flying back against the wall. The man fired a second time, hitting her in the head, and she was dead before she slid to the ground.

  Deesha never even got out a scream. A shot hit her in the throat, and she fell back against the wall. The man who shot her moved behind the desk and shot Deesha twice more in the chest. He shot Agnes again in the head, her body twitching as the round slammed into her skull.

  As the man turned away, he picked up the permission note from the desk and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he hurried toward the exit, his wounded companion already pushing the wheelchair toward the door.

  The young man in the wheelchair looked wild-eyed with fear. A scream erupted from his mouth, but the second it did, the shooter slammed a fist hard into his face, knocking him unconscious.

  Then both men hurried Kyle toward the ambulance as fast as they could.

  71

  * * *

  Time passed. I had no idea how long. I guessed maybe an hour. It could have been less.

  All I could do was wait, tied down on the bunk. I still felt a boiling rage, my mind a welter of confusion and mixed-up feelings. Knowing that I was about to see my children again made my heartbeat rocket, but where was Jack taking me? And why? Just to see my children, or was there more to it?

  His caginess told me there had to be more. Did he have another family? And what would happen afterward? Would he simply set me free? I couldn’t imagine that happening, unless he meant to vanish with my children all over again. And did he really kill DJ and Vera? My thoughts disturbed me.

  As I said, it’s easy to lie to ourselves. We try to preserve our illusions and not kill our sacred cows. I knew I lied to myself about my relationship with Jack, too. It wasn’t all flowers.

  It started out good, but in the last three years of marriage, our relationship was mediocre at best.

  Arguments, anger, unhappiness, bitterness, and jealousy all reared their ugly heads. A good relationship that goes sour is always harder to deal with than one that’s always been turbulent. You want the good times back. You want to be happy again and to help the boat right itself. Even if that’s nigh impossible. For the last three years of our marriage, Jack was drinking and gambling, and his bouts of paranoia were getting worse.

  It didn’t help that a neighborhood friend of ours, Bob Seege, started trying to get a little too friendly with me whenever Jack was away. Bob was kind, pleasant, divorced, lonely, and desperate for female company. He came by our home a few times during Jack’s absences but got a bit too forward after offering to help me with some jobs around the house.

  There were small signs but ones that set off the panic button inside my head. Touching my arms after we shook hands or laying a palm on my back or shoulder and letting that touch linger a little too long. Making a lot of eye contact. Twice he asked me to lunch. Once I was pretty sure he followed me to the mall and “bumped into” me, then suggested we have coffee.

  I made the big mistake of not dealing with the guy myself but telling Jack when he got home. He stormed over to Bob’s home, and right there on his front porch confronted him and beat him badly, breaking his nose, blood everywhere. It was awful, I was mortified, and it ended with an assault charge against Jack. The charge was eventually dropped by Bob, but the whole thing didn’t help our marriage.

  Or our children. We often argued in front of them, even though we’d promised never to let them witness our disagreements—a pledge few couples can keep. On those nights when Jack was working abroad with Brown Bear, I’d often let the kids sleep with me, Amy in the middle, Sean on the other side. And I’d read them a story—usually Dr. Seuss or whatever they were into.

  One night, the consequences of our marital disagreements hit me like a brick. The kids and I were lying in bed after turning out the light. Sean was still awake as he looked out through the wooden slats toward the clear starry night.

  “Look, Mom, that’s a wishing star.”

  “What do you wish for, baby?”

  And without even a beat, my son almost whimpered. “I wish my mommy and daddy didn’t argue so much.”

  That sad cry cut me to the bone. I was just glad we were in darkness, because right then I felt a tear roll down my face.

  When Jack returned from a security contract meeting in Afghanistan with Brown Bear, I told him what Sean had said. I saw tearful emotion well up in his eyes. He called Sean and sat with him on his lap. He tenderly stroked Sean’s hair and tried to explain to him that all moms and dads argued sometimes.

  “But you and Mom argue a lot.” Sean’s voice was almost a fearful whisper.

  “That may be true. But from now on, that’s not going to happen, son.”

  He called in Amy and said the same to her, and he hugged them both, and me, and then drove us all to the Tic Toc ice cream parlor in Loudon for cones. We sat on a sun-drenched bench, and in no time, Jack had us all giggling and happy.

  In the middle of it all, he looked at me, a long, deep look with those brown eyes of his, before he squeezed my hand and said, “I love you, Kath. I love you all.”

  He held out his two big palms, and we all put our hands in his, and he squeezed them tightly. He kissed us all. “OK, who wants more ice cream?”

  That was when I knew why I married him.

  But it didn’t stop the arguments.

  We fought the same old battles, month in, month out.

  But from then on, they were fought in privacy, out of hearing of our kids.

  Now, lying there alone on the bunk, I remembered those times when I knew Jack had once loved me and I knew he loved our children. I still felt I wanted to kill him. But it all was so complex and disturbing. Difficult, too. Because I was feeling an unexpected emotion. I was be
ing torn between love and hate.

  That was how it felt.

  Jack was back from the grave.

  And deep down, I knew that I still loved the man I had married and mourned.

  72

  * * *

  Kingston Pike, Knoxville, Tennessee

  Panera’s was quiet, the lunchtime crowd departed.

  “Hello, Colonel.”

  Frank Kelly looked up from his caramel latte and his copy of the News Sentinel, and his bushy eyebrows twitched with fury. Fazil Tarik stood there, wearing a dark suit and a black shirt and tie.

  Kelly put down his coffee, glanced around him to see if anyone was watching, and a burst of anger lit his face.

  “That idiot of yours called me on my way to Michigan. I thought I said no contact, ever. It’s dangerous.”

  “We both know that this is different. That the rules are broken.” Tarik looked at the newspaper in Kelly’s hand. “You’re reading about the plane wreck, I see. A strange twist, but then life is full of them, don’t you think?”

  “What I’m thinking is why are you risking your life by sticking your nose in my face? I warned you never to do that again. And I meant never.”

  But Tarik stepped in closer and whispered, “If I fall, you fall, and everyone falls. Are you prepared for the consequences if that happens?”

  Kelly said nothing, but his jaw twitched and trembled.

  Tarik said, “We need to fix this mess before someone puts the pieces of the puzzle together. If they do, then we’re all living out the rest of our lives in a federal prison.”

  He paused for effect and smiled. “And we’re all getting a little old to be playing the role of some three-hundred-pound convict’s girlfriend, don’t you agree?”

  Kelly’s reply was a silent stare.

  Tarik sighed. “I suggest you meet me outside. Five minutes. I’ll be waiting. A black Escalade, tinted windows.”

  “You son of a—”

  Tarik smiled again. “Good to hear you haven’t lost your soldier’s tongue, old friend.”

  “We’ve never been friends, Tarik.”

  “Five minutes,” Tarik repeated, and his smile faded before he turned and walked out.

  Kelly stepped out into the parking lot.

  A black Escalade was parked at the curb, its engine running. The rear passenger door was pushed open. He slid in. Tarik was already in the other seat.

  “Do you carry a gun, Colonel? A former military man like you always carries a gun, surely?”

  “What kind of a dumb question is that?” Kelly barked, and yanked the Colt .45 from inside his jacket in an instant. A soft click sounded, the hammer being cocked, and he pointed the weapon at Tarik’s face. “I just hope you haven’t got anything stupid in mind, because if you do, Tarik, they’re going to be scraping that miserable face of yours, or what’s left of it, off the windshield.”

  Tarik gave a humorless grin. “That’s what I like about you, Colonel. You’re prepared, always. I like that. It gives me confidence that you’ll do what must be done.”

  “I’m going to take a bet you’ve been smoking that hookah pipe with that funny tobacco again, you dirtbag. Because us meeting like this isn’t making a whole lot of sense.”

  “An urgent necessity. Your hands are shaking, Colonel.”

  “That’s what rage does to you, Tarik. You know, anytime I see your ugly face, I ask myself why I didn’t kill you when I had the chance. Back in Fallujah, before you sold out your own people and switched sides.”

  Tarik’s eyes lit with a wry smile. “Those were the days, Colonel. Maybe you miss them?”

  “Yeah, sure. But you were really in your element back then, weren’t you, Tarik? Death and brutality were your hallmark. Roadside bombs, executions. No wonder you’re an undertaker. Still get pleasure from seeing bodies?”

  Tarik fell silent.

  Kelly leaned in close. “Like that little flower girl who used to hang out outside our base. Remember her?”

  “I remember.”

  “Your people used to make her take ammo to your men and threaten to kill her family if she didn’t. Until one day she said no, and you personally put a bullet in her. Nice work, Tarik. Make you feel like a man, killing children? Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for an explanation.”

  “It will come in good time. Hold on to your gun, but point it elsewhere, please. I have a feeling you’re going to need it when it comes time to deal with that former son-in-law of yours. You look shocked, Colonel.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “No, but I will, and very soon.”

  And with that, Tarik touched the driver on the shoulder, and the Escalade drew away from the curb.

  73

  * * *

  The engine slowed to a dull throb.

  Finally, it growled into reverse, and I felt a hard thud as the boat hit something and shuddered. A dock, probably. The engine died. A thick silence, and then footsteps pattered across the deck.

  Words drifted down, Jack’s voice first. “Tie her up, then go on ahead. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Yes, sir.” A male voice. Was it Sean’s? It sounded young. My heart skipped.

  Feet shuffled, and the cabin door sprang open again, boots clattering down. The knife was in the sheath on Jack’s trouser belt this time. My Taurus revolver was tucked inside his waistband. The alcohol smell was stronger.

  Jack managed to untie the ropes without resorting to using the knife. I expected him to drag me to my feet, but instead he collapsed in the chair opposite. As he leaned back, the wood creaked under his weight. His gritty eyes swam a little, his focus sluggish. He was definitely drunk.

  “I’m waiting. Who killed DJ and Vera, and why would they want to kill us?”

  “We’ll get to it. There are some things I need to explain first. Important things.”

  I swung my legs out, rubbing my wrists where the nylon had scored red marks in my flesh. “I’ve waited a long time for explanations, Jack. Get to the point.”

  He gave a cheesed-off smile. “Yeah, just like the long time you waited to marry Chad.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means what it means. Twelve months a widow, and you’re seeing Chad. Twelve months later, you’re a wife again. Quick enough turnaround, babe. Can’t say you’re a time waster.”

  “How dare you? How dare you?”

  “Goes both ways, Kath.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I lost it. My rage exploded, and I lunged at him, knowing that this was maybe the only chance I’d get. He jumped from the chair to defend himself, and I landed on top of him.

  We rolled onto the floor. Jack jerked his head to the right to avoid the fist I threw. I missed him, but he cracked his head hard on the bunk. He cried out and recoiled in pain, closing his eyes tight, his body doubling up, hands covering the back of his head. I saw the gun sticking out of his waistband.

  I grabbed it.

  I backed off rapidly as Jack came to his senses the second he felt me grab the firearm. I squeezed the trigger. The gun exploded. But it didn’t stop him, and he lunged back at me from where he lay on the floor. I scrabbled back toward the stairs, clambered to my feet. Aiming the gun at him, I cocked the hammer. “Move an inch more, and I swear I’ll put a bullet in you, Jack Hayes.”

  His face contorted in pain as he massaged his skull. “You’re just making things worse.”

  “Really? My husband faking his own death and my children’s. A hole ripped out of my heart, big enough to drive a train through. Our lives destroyed. How much worse could things get, Jack?”

  “You and Chad seemed to be doing OK back in the day.”

  “How dare you?” I said again.

  He stared at me, still in pain, grinding his teeth.

  “Take the knife fro
m the sheath—slowly, and I mean slowly. Toss it onto the lower bunk.”

  He touched the knife hilt with his right hand but didn’t remove it. He seemed to be playing a game of chicken. That was when I saw the blood spots on his shirt, below and to the left of his stomach. So did Jack. He blinked up at me in disbelief.

  “You . . . you shot me.”

  He pulled up his shirt. I couldn’t see where the bullet entered his abdomen, but I saw an exit would at his extreme left side. The bullet had gone clean through. I felt relieved that there wasn’t much blood. Not yet, anyway. Jack grimaced, clasped a hand to his wound, and went to lunge at me again.

  I aimed the revolver at him. “I’ve given you fair warning. Mess with me again, and I’ll kill you.”

  He didn’t move, just kept staring back.

  “I’m not kidding, Jack.” I flexed my grip on the gun, my finger on the trigger. He must have registered the fury in my eyes, because he slowly removed the knife.

  “Throw it onto the lower bunk.”

  He tossed the knife.

  I looked at the rope. I guessed it must have been about twenty feet long. “Pick up the rope. Tie one end around your right wrist.”

  He did as I told him. We were so close in the cramped cabin it scared me. I also felt a rush of concern. Jack was wounded—not badly, I hoped. He held all the answers to what happened. If he died, I might never figure it all out. I needed him to stay alive. But I also needed to make sure he didn’t overpower me.

  “Now, tie a loop knot and slip it over your left wrist.”

  “Your old man taught you well.”

  “Slip another loop around your neck, and turn around. Keep your back to me.”

  He obeyed and turned, until I was facing his thick neck and broad shoulders. Jack was still strong and muscular, a foot taller than me. The disadvantage made me edgy, my lips dry and my finger moist on the trigger.

  “Now, put the rope between your legs, and hand it back to me.”