Finding Grace (22 page)

“You know damn well what. You’ve been doing exactly
what I asked you not to do and it’s making things a hell of a lot
harder.” Paul let out a sigh of deep frustration and sat back down.
“Look, I know you think you’re just—”

“All I did was lean on a couple of guys a little
bit, Paul.”

“Exactly. Only your idea of leaning might be
considered life-threatening to someone who didn’t know you very
well.” Paul’s eye was twitching again. “Scratch that last part. You
know as well as I do how intimidating you are, even when you’re
not
trying, when you’re not emotionally—”

“You can’t expect me to just sit around here and do
nothing while that bastard has her.”

“That’s
exactly
what I expect you to do.
You’re closing doors, Dagger, not opening them. Please, let me
handle this. I don’t want to have to bail two of you out of this
mess.”

When he looked up again, the doorway was empty.

* * * *

The days before Christmas dragged on. Every morning
Dagger would come in and ask for news about Thorne. Every morning,
Paul had to tell him about hitting another brick wall or two. Every
evening, it was the same.

Every day Dagger seemed wound just a little tighter,
just a little more volatile—and, conversely, more lethargic and
withdrawn. Paul was losing him.

Part of the problem was that, while Dagger seemed to
have accepted him allowing Darmfelder to take Thorne, he clearly
blamed himself for not being there.

Paul had no problem admitting he was glad Dagger
hadn’t
been there that morning. There were no good endings
to any story with Dagger in that scene.

* * * *

Dagger was pretty sure he was losing his mind. Paul
was right, of course—damn him anyway—so he hadn’t taken any action
since their discussion. But it was killing him. He knew Paul was
worried about him, but not as worried as he was about himself.

He missed Grace more every day and even more every
night. He was having trouble sleeping again, like he had before
he’d shared her bed. Only now it was worse. He tossed and turned
and when he did sleep, he dreamed about her; his imagination
working overtime for once in his life.

He wanted to break everything he saw into tiny
pieces, but couldn’t even find the energy to lift a bottle of Jack
to his lips.

Oddly, it was Jefferson who distracted him best. He
tended the old man faithfully, but didn’t tell him what had
happened to Grace, only that she was out of town. There was no
point in stirring the crazy pot. Not that he was fooling Jefferson
completely, though. Jefferson had said only yesterday that he’d
seen livelier corpses floating in Vietnamese rice paddies.

Dagger didn’t need Jefferson to tell him he looked
like death warmed over. He felt like it, too. Hell, all of
Blackridge had a pall over it. The place was too damn quiet, for
one thing, and even though almost everyone was around these days,
it seemed empty, too.

Three days before Christmas, he went into Grace’s
office. The window was fixed, the chair replaced. It still felt
like a goddamn war zone after the fact.

He flipped the stereo on and stared out the window.
The music throbbed to the rhythm of the driving sheets of sleet.
Right at him, it seemed. At least the sun wasn’t shining and there
weren’t any birds singing—none of that bullshit. No, this was just
about right.

When his eyes dropped, they landed on a box under a
table in the corner.

Grace wasn’t what anyone who’d ever been in the
military would call neat. She was well on the other side of
excessive clutter. But she was organized. All of her stuff had
purpose, everything belonged where it was, if you asked her, and
could always be found where it belonged. The box didn’t belong.

It had to be the Christmas presents Farley had
mentioned.

He lifted the top layer and was almost blinded as
the bright colors of the tissue wrappings and ribbons inside lit up
the gray room. Each package he could see sported a neatly-written
tag with someone’s name on it. It was the first time he’d ever seen
Grace’s handwriting. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, it took
his breath and made the next one hurt.

* * * *

Before everyone went home on Christmas Eve, Dagger
handed out each of the packages. He may not have looked like any
elf of Santa’s he or anyone else had ever seen, but somehow he felt
just a little bit of the magic, a hint of the warmth.

Most of the guys got wool scarves. Farley’s was the
fanciest, he noticed with a twinge of jealousy. Paul got a pair of
socks, Markham and Hawks got matching watch caps with their names
embroidered inside, and Mills’s scarf—you could have knocked him
over with a feather—appeared not to be wool. How she’d known he was
allergic was anyone’s guess. Katherine informed everyone that it
was silk noil, whatever the hell that was. Her own scarf was lace,
and by her reckoning, made of mohair and silk. She remarked happily
that the color was perfect and went with half her wardrobe.

Dagger just sat looking around at everyone and at
his own unopened package.

“Jack, I really think you should open it. Wouldn’t
you feel better wearing something Grace made for you with her own
hands? You’ll feel closer to her, we all do. Go on, at least open
it.” Katherine smiled encouragingly.

He looked around the room. Everyone nodded. He
wasn’t sure, but he thought Mills might be crying. Shit.

It was the nicest sweater he’d ever seen. It was
crazy soft, dark green and covered in small twisting ropes that
Katherine called cables. She also noted with a sigh that it was
cashmere. Dagger wondered when Grace had knit it. It was true, she
was always knitting, but he’d never paid attention to exactly what
she was knitting. He swallowed and realized everyone was looking at
him.

So he did the only thing he could do. He pulled the
sweater on. Katherine was right; he could feel her all around him.
There was even a hint of her unique scent.

He used it as a pillow that night and every night
after that. He slept better, and the nightmares, the few he still
had, no longer seemed so real.

* * * *

New Year’s Eve came and went. No one felt much like
celebrating. There was still no word.

Finally, a few days into the new year, in the middle
of a rare January snowstorm heavy enough that some might call it a
blizzard, Paul hit pay dirt. It had been a long, twisted path. He
never did find out where Darmfelder had stashed her, but she was at
the naval hospital in Bethesda now, had been admitted on Christmas
Day. What she was doing there, Paul really didn’t want to think
about. He was unable to discover her condition but it had to be
serious for her to have been there that long. How had Darmfelder
gotten a civilian into Bethesda? He didn’t know how to tell Dagger
or what his reaction would be. Before Thorne, Dagger had always
been predictable, calm, even-tempered, if not good-tempered. All
bets were off now.

Paul wasn’t sure how to take it when Dagger barely
let him finish before laying out his strategy. They would take the
company jet. Mills would pilot since he was good and knew people
who would get him clearance even if no one else could in this
weather. Markham and Hawks were reinforcements and Farley would
hold down the fort. Paul would get Dagger blueprints for the
hospital. Paul could only agree. Mills may not have been the
sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a hell of a pilot and took
direction well. He also seemed to feel the worst about how he’d
treated Thorne. Hawks and Markham owed her their lives. For a
variety of reasons, Farley was best left here. It was a good plan.
Dagger was a great tactician, if a lousy politician.

If this were anyone but Thorne they were going
after, he’d have nothing to be nervous about. As it was, Dagger’s
calm
made
him nervous.

He felt perversely better when they met at the
airport and he saw how heavily armed Dagger was. The man looked
ready to take on the entire U.S. armed forces. And he was wearing
that cashmere sweater Thorne had knit for him like it was armor.
They’d managed to get around going through security, but there was
such a thing as overkill. Dagger only grunted when Paul told him
so. He could only hope he had enough time and the ability to talk
Dagger out of the rifles before they got to the hospital.

By the time they had refueled at Chicago Midway and
Dagger had reduced his personal arsenal to weapons that were more
easily concealed, Paul felt a real victory. What still had him
concerned, though, was Dagger’s continued lack of visible
emotion.

He listened quietly while Dagger outlined the rest
of his plan to the team.

“Darmfelder’s probably got her in Bethesda for the
security. They’re set up to handle all the top brass. Must have
pulled some big strings to get a civilian in there, for all the
good it’s going to do him. Paul’s going to meet with General Ross.
Trying to run interference with that should keep Darmfelder busy.
He’ll have at least one guard at her door, if not two. I’ll handle
them. Mills, I need you to take their place outside her door, keep
everything quiet. You two”—he gestured to Markham and Hawks—“will
be floaters. See, what makes this tricky is not knowing her
condition. You’ll need to get in the supply room and get some
scrubs so you won’t stick out anywhere in case she’s critical and
we need to go to Plan B. I’ll be in touch.”

They all boarded the rented SUV for the drive to the
hospital.

Chapter Fifteen

Farley had hammered away at the Bethesda database
until he could pinpoint Grace’s room. He’d bitched about being left
behind, but filled them in on the intricacies of the third floor
ICU because he’d been a patient there once. Dagger thanked his one
lucky star that the location wasn’t particularly secure. Not that
it would have stopped him.

Mills chatted with the nurses while Dagger silently
dispatched the guards outside the door and dragged their prone
bodies to a corner inside the room. Once they were gone, Mills took
their place. Hell, even without a uniform, he looked more like a
guard than either of them had.

Coming in from the brightly lit hall, it was hard to
see at first. The blinds to the nurses’ station were closed and the
day was cold and gray, leaving the room dark. The walls were stark,
and a dim pallor painted the woman strapped down to the bed amid a
tangle of tubes and wires. At first, he thought he was in the wrong
room. Hoped, really.

When his eyes adjusted, he made out the dark color
on the ends of the short shaggy hair. Purple.

Torn by fear and anger, and something stronger he
didn’t want to identify, Dagger fought to remain in combat mode.
The first thing he needed to do was ensure the injections had done
their job. He didn’t need any surprises.

He checked the two men closely to verify they were
truly unconscious and recognized one of them as the driver of the
SUV that had soaked him while speeding away with Grace on that
horrible morning. The other’s eye still showed the effects of her
elbow; the man who’d hit her.

Bitter rage leaked through the dam he’d placed on
his emotions. He bent down and gripped the hand that had struck his
Grace, squeezing until he heard a satisfying crunch. Once healed,
it would probably only hurt if the man was dumb enough to hit
someone again. Probably.

A disturbance outside the door ended Dagger’s moment
of satisfaction.

“I don’t care what you say, I need to check on my
patient. Now get out of my way.”

A large woman in a nurse’s uniform bustled into the
room and switched on the light. Dagger moved behind the door and
watched Mills gesture helplessly to him through the small panel of
glass. He splayed his hands and signaled Mills to continue to guard
the door. He backed further into a shadow.

So much for no surprises.

The nurse didn’t see him because she went straight
to the bed and bent over her patient, giving Dagger a moment to
study her profile. She was an ample woman with a creamed-coffee
complexion, salt-and-pepper hair styled simply. He guessed her to
be in her early sixties. She fussed over Grace with true care.

Dagger wanted to be the one doing that. He cleared
his throat and she turned, taking in him and the unmoving guards
crumpled on the floor in the same sweeping glance. She scowled and
straightened before taking a threatening step toward him.

“Young man, just what do you think you’re doing? Are
you the one who put these scars on this poor child? Because if you
are…”

Her ID tag declared her name was Florence. The hands
on her hips declared righteous anger and not one hint of concern
for her own safety.

Caught unprepared and scolded back to a boyhood long
forgotten, Dagger blanched. “Scars, ma’am? I could never hurt
Grace.” Then he remembered the last words he’d said to her and his
confession poured out, “I mean, last time I saw her, I said some
things I’d give my soul to take back, but lay a hand on her?
Never.”

Scars. The last piece to the puzzle. He looked back
at Grace, suddenly needing to hold her hand—whether to comfort her
or himself, he couldn’t have said.

* * * *

Florence followed the man’s gaze. It didn’t take
having raised four babies, or having ten grandbabies and one
great-grandbaby on the way, to see the fierce love and tenderness
that big bad boy felt for her patient. He wasn’t here to hurt her,
any fool could see that. And Florence’s mother hadn’t raised any
fools.

“What’s wrong with her? Is she going to be okay?”
The man’s voice cracked. He was moving toward her, toward her
patient. Lord, he was a big ’un.

But he was careful and slow when he sat down on the
edge of the bed. The pushed-up sleeves of a fine, hand-knit sweater
revealed tattoos that ran up forearms thick as the trunks of the
cherry trees in her backyard. Huge hands cradled the poor girl’s
face like it was a bunch of flowers. He murmured something so
softly Florence could only make out the love in his voice, not the
words, as he unbuckled the restraints at her wrists and ankles.