Acts of Honor (28 page)

He gave her a curt, crisp nod.

Grateful, Sara got behind the chair and grasped the handles. Moving down the hallway, she chatted to keep his mind too busy to worry. Joe listened, but said nothing.

The big metal door opened, and she wheeled Joe through the opening. The woman behind the desk gasped, and before Sara even had passed the nurses’ station, she had the phone in her hand. No doubt informing Fontaine.

Sara kept going. She followed the hallway to the elevator and pressed the button. It lit up.

“I don’t like boxes. There aren’t any sounds or smells.”

Odd way of putting it, but she knew what he meant. Probably the elevator reminded him of the coffin. “I don’t like them, either. I got stuck in one once.” Another common bond. “But we have to go down in the elevator. Can’t take the chair on the stairs.”

“I don’t like boxes,” he said more emphatically. “No sounds or smells.”

“Neither do I, Joe,” she repeated. “I’ve hated anything that closes me in since a patient locked me in a closet with his pet boa constrictor.”

“Why did he do that?”

“He was suffering a flashback,” Sara explained. “Anyway, the snake was hungry, and I was in sheer terror that I’d be lunch. But I survived the closet—though, I admit, I no longer hang up my coat on emergency house calls—and you’ll survive the elevator ride down to the first floor. We will get outside and see the sun.” She pressed the button again, wishing to hell it would hurry and get here before he could work himself into a panic—or worse, a rage. “Just do your breathing exercises. And close your eyes.”

“Did the snake bite you?”

“No. It didn’t choke me either. I have no idea why. I sat statue-still, expecting the attack any second for hours. But it never happened. Finally, my patient’s wife returned home and let me out of the closet. I was lucky, I guess.”

“Very lucky, and you got over your fear of snakes.”

“I did.” Surprise streaked up her back, tingled the roof of her mouth. “How did you know that?”

No answer.

“Joe, how did you know that? I didn’t tell you I used to fear snakes.”

Still no answer.

She let her hand slide from his shoulder to his nape. His skin was cold, clammy. “Joe?”

He looked up at her, his eyes glazing. “I want to see the sun.”

The bell chimed, and the elevator door opened. “I’m taking you outside. Right now. See? We’re on our way.”

Sara rolled Joe inside and pressed the first floor button. Her hand wasn’t quite steady. Neither, she noticed, was his.

One floor. He just had to stay calm for one floor. She covertly glanced at him and figured the odds at fifty-fifty.

The door slid shut, and the elevator began its downward descent. Sara stayed quiet, monitoring Joe’s breathing. When it began accelerating, she placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Almost there. Hang tight, now.”

He didn’t respond, but his breathing did slow down.

The door opened, and Sara gave a quick prayer of thanksgiving. She rolled Joe out into a gray hallway. Along the walls hung photos of former directors. Amazing that the Foster-types allowed the display—until Sara remembered the facility directors were lifers. They came, they ruled. But they never left or went home.

Something about that niggled at her.

Then she remembered. Mrs. Fontaine and her European vacation. That didn’t make sense. But if Sara started ruling out the nonsensible, she’d rip the heart right out of Braxton.

The doors leading outside opened automatically.

Sara wheeled Joe out into the full sunlight and then stepped to the side of the chair to observe his reaction. He leaned his head back, breathed in deeply, and lifted his face to the sun. A serenity unlike any Sara ever had seen settled over him.

Her instincts had told her to get him outside. They’d been right. Taking a leap of faith, she shoved the straps off his lap. The metal ends pinged against the chair’s frame.

Joe smiled, straight from the heart. “The sun feels good, Sara.”

“Yes.” Her heart melted, and she smiled back. “It does.”

He let his gaze sweep over the lawn, the garden, the islands of blossoming flowers, and down the hedge maze toward the pond. “Look, Sara,” he whispered. “Look at all the colors.”

The wonder in his voice rivaled a child’s on seeing his first snowflake. And seeing this through Joe’s eyes—an infusion of color after deprivation—Sara shared the feelings. Dear God, that was how he’d been tortured. The box, the coffin, the confinement—no smells or sounds. Logical. And highly probable.

Fontaine didn’t want him to remember. That’s why he’d isolated Joe. Or Fontaine was trying to protect Joe, and Foster wanted Joe isolated to protect his security clearance. One of them didn’t want Joe to remember. So they had kept him sensory-deprived. But how had that worked? How had keeping him away from color kept him from remembering?

Unable not to touch him, she rested a hand on his shoulder. “The color is beautiful, Joe.”

He dipped his head, capturing her hand between his shoulder and his face. His warmth felt good, and the sense of isolation and fear she had fought and suppressed since arriving at Braxton faded.

“Can we go to the pond to see the water? I like water.” Joe let out a little self-deprecating laugh. “When I was a kid and I’d get upset, I always went to the shore. I’d look out over the horizon, and nothing seemed too big for me to handle.”

He was remembering! Sara nearly stumbled from shock. Not wanting to break the spell, she kept quiet and judged the distance between the door and the pond. Two minutes, maybe, three. Deeming that safe, she pushed the wheelchair, rolling it down the stone path toward the pond.

“I like it out here,” Joe said. “No boxes. Lots of sounds and smells.” His voice went whisper soft. “No white. No red.”

“Good.” Joe’s torture had definitely included sensory deprivation. No doubt about it.

Sara stopped near the water’s edge and stepped to the side of Joe’s chair. He smiled up at her. “I like the way the sun shines on your hair.”

A rush of pure pleasure swept through her. The guilt chased and buried it.
Don’t think or feel it. It’s not right.

It’s honest.

It’s still wrong.

“Sara.” He looked up at her, clearly worried. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She forced herself to smile. This was her problem. Not his. And she couldn’t make it his problem.

“I want to walk on the grass. I like feeling the grass under my feet.” He grinned. “My dad used to say, ‘Man wasn’t meant to walk on concrete.’”

With that banal comment, the truth hit her. Some time ago, Joe had snagged a corner of her heart. But at some obscure point since then, he’d claimed it all. She loved him. Right or wrong, professional or not. “Are you married?” Her heart went on hold.

“Not anymore. Once. But not anymore.”

Relief washed through her. “Maybe next time you can walk in the grass, Jarrod.”

He frowned up at her. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? We’re alone out here, and they can’t—”

“Because you could get confused and say it at the wrong time.” He turned his gaze from the rippling water to her. “If they know, then I’m a threat. And if I’m a threat, I die.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “God forgive me, so do you.”

She agreed. She knew why she agreed, but what made him so certain? “Why do you think this?”

“Because you’ll know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Who I am. What I do.”

So her fears weren’t paranoia or unfounded. Lucid, Joe understood how things worked, too. “I won’t do it again.”

I won’t do it again.

Jarrod stilled. Another woman’s voice sounded inside his head. A woman with long black hair and tear-filled eyes, pleading with him.
I won’t do it again.

And the memory returned. His wife, Miranda, having an affair with his best friend, Royce. A long-standing affair. And Jarrod had caught them having sex. He’d demanded a divorce, and she’d sworn,
I won’t do it again
 . . .

“Joe, are you okay?” Sara clasped his shoulder.

He stared at her. It took a moment to remember where he was, who she was. Sara. She was Sara. He knew her. No. No, he didn’t. But he had known
of
her for years. His boss, Colonel Foster, had related a lot of their clashes to Jarrod, and he’d come to half-love her—though he’d resented it—long before he had seen her.

Had he really gotten the divorce?

He thought back, glimpsed himself standing in a courtroom before a judge. Yes, he had. And he’d thrown himself into his work, volunteering for any and every mission. Foster and the other Shadow Watchers had ribbed Jarrod, saying he had steel balls. He didn’t. He just had nothing left to lose.

“Joe, may I ask you a question?” Sara stepped around to the front of his chair. “You might not be able to answer it, and if so, then that’s okay.”

“All right.” She had no idea he knew of her. And finally he knew why.

She shifted her weight to one foot, tilted her head. “Do you know a man named David Quade?”

A photograph flashed through Jarrod’s mind. A professional, military photograph. A captain with black hair and brown eyes. It was Quade. “Why?”

“He was my brother-in-law,” Sara began, and then went on to tell him about Brenda and Lisa, and how David’s death had affected them and her.

Jarrod needed time to think. Time to let the memories come without pushing too hard and arousing the rage. He needed to put all of the puzzle pieces together before he opened himself up to anyone, including Sara. “I don’t remember him.”

Disappointment flashed in Sara’s eyes. “It’s okay. I—I just needed to ask.”

Guilt stabbed him hard, and Jarrod dipped his head, capturing her hand between his shoulder and face. “I’m sorry, Sara.”

“Me, too.” She cupped his chin, squeezed, and then backed away. “Are you ready to go back inside?”

“I wish I could help you.” Resenting the straitjacket that kept him from taking her into his arms, he let her hear his sincerity. “I care about you, Sara.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, stared into his eyes, and let her breath out slowly. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

He cared, but he didn’t want to care. About her, about anyone. Caring brought memories. Memories, pain. Pain, the rage. He hated the rage. Yet Sara was different. He knew her inside. Deep. He knew the risks, and he cared anyway. “Why not?”

“Because it isn’t right.” She looked down at her feet.

“It isn’t wrong,” he countered. “I know what I feel, whether I want to feel it or not. I’m not crazy.”

“I know.” She studied the grass. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

She glared at him. “I’m your doctor, for God’s sake.”

“That’s not pertinent. Fontaine was my doctor, but I don’t care about him.”

“It
is
pertinent.” Licking at her lips, she began pacing before him. “You’re supposed to be able to trust me implicitly. There are boundaries I’m not supposed to cross. I’m not supposed to—”

“To hell with the boundaries.” Jarrod stood up, shrugged out of the jacket, then tossed it to the seat of the wheelchair.

“You’re, um, supposed to keep that on.” Sara stared up at him, wide-eyed.

“To hell with boundaries.” He circled her with his arms, pulled her to him, and kissed her hard. He tasted her surprise, her fear, and her longing. He hadn’t been mistaken. She cared. Of course she cared.

His heart thudding hard, he pulled back to look into her eyes. “Tell me, Sara,” he whispered. “I feel it, but I want to hear you say it. Tell me you care about me, too.”

She did. She shouldn’t. It wasn’t right, but she did. She backed away and smoothed down her lab coat with a shaky hand. “You weren’t supposed to take off the jacket, Joe.”

“Damn it, Sara. I just kissed you, and you kissed me back. Forget the jacket and all the supposed-tos and just damn tell me you care about me.”

Oh, but she wished she could. How she wished it. But she couldn’t do it. Not without it costing her and him. She would deny him because she had to, but she damn well couldn’t look him in the eye while she did it. “We’ve, um, got to go back now.”

“No.” He gripped the chair, stopped it from moving. “Tell me, Sara. Don’t deny the truth. Don’t you lie to me, too.”