Forget Me Not (10 page)

One of the tools looked like a scraper for probing teeth.

Oh, fuck, no! Gabe had figured it would happen eventually. He closed his eyes and scurried toward the corner of his mind where nothing could touch hurt—except possibly through a root canal. He owed that safe place to Chief Jeffries, the hard-ass who'd done his best to ensure the failure of every trainee at BUD/S.

Hold his mouth open.

The dreaded command reached Gabe's ears, and his entire body coiled like a spring, but it would do no good to fight the restraints. It would only sap his strength, and he would need his strength to recover.

Relax,
he told himself in the voice of Chief Jeffries.

Suddenly he realized they'd forgotten to strap his left arm in place.
A miracle!
He held still, calculating the odds that he could free his right arm while disarming the two men who flanked him. Not likely. He was better off seizing a hostage first, then using the man to obtain his freedom.

Cool fingers settled against his jaw. Seung-Ki took a step closer. The instrument of torture glittered sharply while his face remained in shadow.

Gabe reacted. Moving his left arm in a lightning-quick arc, he grabbed the one who'd touched him, curved his fingers around the man's windpipe, and hauled him across his chest, so that he was held in front, like a shield.

But something didn't seem right. The Koreans were certainly smaller than he, but this man's strength was so puny that he felt like a child or a woman struggling in his arms. He'd fallen across Gabe's legs, and when he kicked and clawed, Gabe could tell, number one, that the man wore no shoes and, number two, that his nails were extremely long and sharp. His long hair spilled across Gabe's chest in fragrant waves.

Some deep-seated instinct caused Gabe to loosen his hold. He questioned the reality of what was happening and realized, with horror, that he wasn't where he thought he was.

He was lying on a deck chair on his own deck, and he'd been acting out this violence against a perfectly innocent human being.

His lingers sprang open, and his imaginary attacker slid off him. She collapsed onto the deck with a thud, clutching her neck and fighting for breath. Gabe stared down at her, not wanting to believe what he'd done.

Good Lord, he'd been strangling his wife.

H
e dropped to his knees and reached for her. "Helen! Jesus, are you all right?" He held her by her shoulders, staring at the whites of her eyes shining in the darkness. No answer. His muscles flexed as he prepared to leap up and dial 911. But then he heard a wheezing intake of air, and he went weak with relief.

"Keep breathing," he urged. "Just... breathe, slow and easy. Christ, I'm so sorry. I was dreaming. I mistook you for someone else. I'm sorry."

Sorry didn't seem to cut it. Not when Helen couldn't even speak. With his gut twisting into knots, Gabe realized he would have to call 911, after all. He couldn't tell if she was getting enough air. If she couldn't even talk...

"I'm calling for help," he said, coming to his feet

She reached for him and managed to grab the edge of his shorts. She shook her head, no. She didn't want help.

"C'mon, Helen, you can't even breathe," he argued, bending down.

She tilted her head up to implore him, and he watched helplessly as she swallowed several times. "I'm all right," she managed to whisper.

It was the most horrible whisper he'd ever heard.

"Like hell you are," he snarled. "I crushed your goddamn windpipe!"

Again she shook her head. "I'll be fine." She started coming to her feet.

Gabe lost patience with her stoicism. Bending low, he scooped her into his arms, eliciting a hiss of indignation. He carried her into me kitchen, not caring when the screen door slammed behind him. Marching to the great room, he laid her gently on the couch, then reached for the lamp beside it, snapping it on.

Helen flinched at the sudden brightness. Her throat ached so badly, it felt like she'd contracted a severe case of strep. But at least she could inhale now. She didn't think he'd crushed her windpipe, only bruised it. At the same time, she couldn't help but cringe from him when he settled on the side of the couch and lightly put his fingers to her throat.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, seeing her reaction.
"Shit!"
He shot to his feet and paced the length of the room.

Helen willed the ache to go away. She knew she'd be fine in a day or so. It wasn't the specific injury that had shaken her. It was the shock of being attacked by her husband. Despite his deadly training, Gabe had never even hinted at physical aggression around her. Being on the receiving end of his fighting expertise had been a real eye-opener. He could kill her in a matter of seconds.

Again she wondered if his year in captivity had made him dangerous.

He appeared at the side of the couch again, his face unnaturally pale, his fingers curled into fists. "I'm taking you to the hospital," he said in
the voice of authority
that no one dared question.

"No, you're not," Helen whispered. God, it hurt to talk! "Think about it, Gabe." She swallowed against the unbearable ache. "What will the doctors suppose happened?"

She saw him absorb the meaning into himself. He put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes as if they stung him.

He must be exhausted, she thought, feeling a twinge of compassion for him.

He sank down on the edge of the couch again, corroborating her guess. His normally erect posture was nowhere in evidence. He didn't touch her this time, just sat there with his hands over his eyes.

Helen hardened herself. She couldn't afford to feel sorry for him now. Not when she'd made up her mind about divorcing him, something she had more reason than ever to do.

"Ice," he said, shooting to his feet a second time.

She listened for him in the kitchen. His footsteps were still the same—utterly silent. If he weren't pressing the ice dispenser, she'd never know he was in there. She shivered at the potential threat

He returned with ice in a bag and a drying towel.

"I'll do it," she whispered, trying to take the items from him.

He ignored her, folding the towel over the bag and laying it tenderly against her throat.

The cold was soothing at first. She lay perfectly still, letting him have his way. For now. Eventually he'd be out of her life for good ... and then she could put ice on her own injuries. Boy, that was a cheering thought.

"It's too cold," she said after a while.

"Just a little longer," he coaxed, his gaze shadowed with worry as he hovered over her, his concern obvious.

She gave up trying to view him as dangerous. He'd mistaken her for someone else, just as he'd said. Everyone was entitled to a mistake now and then. Besides, it was a comfort to be coddled this way—a unique experience, actually. Gabe had never coddled her before.

But he was good at coaxing, always had been. That's what made him such a great leader. It was that same quality that had made her think he'd be an excellent father. That was before he'd transferred his attention to the team, of course. Before her feelings had cracked apart, like mud left too long in the sun.

"Talk to me now," he said, removing the ice at last. "Can you speak?"

He looked at her so tenderly that she struggled to maintain the last image. Her heart was hardened, wasn't it?

He'd just mauled her, for God's sake. He'd nearly killed her. She wasn't supposed to go soft at the sound of his concern. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine," she croaked.

He gave her a worried look. "You really should go to the hospital."

"No," she insisted. "I'm not going anywhere but to bed. I have to get up early tomorrow." She scooted to the end of the couch so she could swing her feet around him. But before they'd even touched the floor, he blocked her escape by putting an arm out.

"Helen," he said urgently.

His tone demanded that she look him in the eye. She did so cautiously, afraid of her weakness for him. "Please forgive me," he begged in a low voice.

His conviction tugged at her. She wanted to, but she couldn't. If she forgave him now, for even one of his transgressions, then she'd crumble like an avalanche, and she'd have to forgive him everything. She'd gone through too much heartache to risk doing it again.

She gave him a minuscule nod, but it didn't mean anything.

He knew it didn't. His lashes concealed his disappointment. Fixing his gaze off to one side, he said, "Don't come near me when I'm sleeping-I don't want to hurt you again."

"I heard you leave the house," she explained. She'd wanted to make sure he was all right "Did you remember something in your dream?"

"Yes," he said after a second's hesitation.

She dreaded knowing what it was, but she knew she should ask, figuring he should talk about it. "Can you tell me?"

He looked her in the eye then away. "Seung-Ki," he said, on a note that sent a chill up her spine. "He's the one who tortured me."

Visions, sharp and horrific, flashed through her mind. She watched the muscles leap in his jaw, unsure of what to say. Again, she wanted to comfort him, but Gabe had always shrugged off sympathy.

He stood up suddenly, reaching out a hand to help her to her feet. She glanced at the unexpected hand, tempted to take it, to call a truce. Only, she couldn't trust herself not to go too far, not to capitulate to his demands as she'd always done. Besides, this new Gabe was too honest, too appealing. He was a threat to the independence she'd worked so hard to attain.

Ignoring it, she stood under her own power. "Good night," she said, moving past him en route to her room. She felt his gaze on her until she turned down the hall.

Helen locked her bedroom door, throat still throbbing from the episode on the deck. Strangely, her chest seemed to ache more—not for herself, but for the violence Gabe had endured this past year. For the first time, he'd given her a glimpse into that terrorizing world, and she felt guilty, terrible for not considering that he was still alive and enduring the worst physical pains, the worst kind of fear imaginable.

Gabe sat slowly on the couch that Helen had just vacated. Her warmth had already dissipated. He shivered, goose bumps racing over his skin, despite his T-shirt. His North Korean cell must have been hot in the summer and cold in me winter. He couldn't remember, but he hadn't yet gotten used to central cooling.

Furthermore, the memory of Seung-Ki's glistening tools was now fresh in his mind, chilling him from the inside out. He could still feel the wicked edges of those tools threatening his earlobes, the tip of his nose. He gasped at the recollection of a pointed hook piercing his right nipple, raking through skin and muscle as it scored his chest.

He slipped a hand under his T-shirt, feeling the raised scar where his nipple used to be. He followed it with the tip of his finger, shuddering as the memory replayed itself.

I didn't say anything,
he comforted himself. They'd wanted to know more about the U.S. Navy's nuclear submarines. Gabe had known far more than he wished, but he'd refused to talk. They'd gotten nothing for their efforts.

And what did he get, besides a disfigured torso? The satisfaction of saving American lives, one day. Was that enough? It would have to be.

His fingers strayed to another scar, a deep indentation underneath his arm where a hunk of flesh had been torn from nun. He shuddered, quelling his nausea as another memory began to surface. He quickly repressed it. He wasn't ready for more. He had enough to think about.

Standing abruptly, he hastened to the bathroom to find his sleeping pills. He shook an extra pill into his palm and regarded it with bitterness.
Look what I'm reduced to,
he thought. Helen wouldn't want him back, regardless of his apologies; regardless of how sincerely he apologized.

He tossed back the pills and washed them down with water. Averting his gaze from his reflection, he retreated to the study and extinguished the lights. Fear washed over him, leaving him covered in sweat He reached out and snapped on the lamp by his head.

It's over,
he reassured himself.
I'm safe now.

Or was he? His heart feared otherwise.

His misadventure in North Korea wasn't over yet. He suffered the haunting certainty that a threat still lingered, and he would face death this time if he failed to remember what it was.

Just as terrifying was the realization that if he couldn't convince Helen to risk her heart to him a second time, his yearlong struggle to survive would have been for naught.

"We go left up here," Mallory panted as she jogged on the exercise path beside him.

"That's where the gym is," Gabe confirmed, remembering the way perfectly. He was discovering that he knew Dam Neck Naval Base like the back of his hand. His office had been straight down Regulus Avenue, past the Shifting Sands Club and the officers' housing. Soon he would work up the courage to pop in and say hello. He wondered at the welcome he would get, and uncertainty tugged at him anew, threatening to pull him back into the depression he'd wallowed in all morning.

Commander Lovitt hadn't called since his homecoming. Despite Sebastian's conviction to the contrary, it seemed the CO had washed his hands of Gabe.

Surprisingly, he
had
received a call from the team's executive officer, earlier that morning. It had been a long distance call from their patrol coastal craft, the USS
Nor'easter.
In a voice devoid of any real warmth, Miller had welcomed Gabe home on behalf of the team. Gabe and the XO had never been tight, their relationship based on protocol rather than mutual respect. This morning's call was no exception. But Miller had sounded worried more than apathetic, as if Gabe were a threat to his leadership. Or worse, maybe Miller thought Gabe had betrayed secrets to the other side.

What if his platoon members thought the same? That stubborn question remained: why else would a SEAL lose his memory but to forget the ignominious moment he'd been broken by his captors?