Reckless Endangerment (2 page)

Once a Marine, always a Marine.  That’s what people said, but for the past five months he hadn’t felt much like a warrior.  He didn’t know how to feel anymore, what to be, how to act, or what to say.   He had no idea how to stop the downward spiral. 

“Where is Hope?”  He needed to know, instinct cautioning him that all hell was about to break loose.  “She isn’t here, is she?  I mean, she’s not going to walk in the door any minute…is she?”  He looked at the wooden box he held in his lap.  She had written him every day.  Postcards. Notecards.  Backs of napkins and receipts.  Whatever she could find, she had written on and mailed.  Every day until about six weeks ago when she must have given up. He had written back, but never mailed his responses because they had been filled with too much pain, too much self-pity.  “Is she in Afghanistan?  Did she go back?”

“She isn’t in Afghanistan, Colonel.”  Becky chewed her lower lip, arms folded across her chest as she studied him. 

“No? South Korea? Tell me she didn’t take that assignment.”  His thumbs tapped on the box. “It’s too dangerous over there, unpredictable.”

“She didn’t go to South Korea.”  Becky studied him with those too-similar eyes and frowned.  “How close are the two of you?”

“Did she have anything to do with me being transferred here?  You’re her sister…that’s too much of a coincidence.  Hope and I…” He shook his head, finding it impossible to describe who her sister had been to him.  “I think it’s too much of a coincidence, that’s all.”

“No, Michael, we thought it would be best. This was our decision, especially after Callie filed for custody of Dalton.  Ms. Shane did send us the information, even recommended Ms. Shane-McGill, said she’d call in a few favors to move you up the list, but we made the decision.”  Gwen glanced at his father who hovered uncertainly behind everyone else.  “Like I said, your father and I—”

“I know what you said, but I also know Hope.  She always gets what she wants.”  A familiar swell of dread sloshed in his gut. Not that she would want him anymore, not like this...damaged beyond repair. 

“We brought up some family pictures and some other things to make this more comfortable for you…” His father faltered and looked toward his mother.  “We plan on getting up here as often as possible.  Dalton’s in school and doesn’t have a break until Thanksgiving, but we’ll try to make it up as many weekends as possible until you can...”

He glanced at his father as his words trailed off.  That summed it up right there--uncertainty.  Until he could what?  Go home?  Where was that anymore?  With them?  On his own?  Where?

“I started playing hockey this year,” Dalton said with a cautious look at him.  “I suppose you can’t come see me play, huh?  Do you have to stay here all the time?  Grandma said you were gonna be home now.”

God, this sucked.  He wished his life had a rewind button. 

“We’re driving back to the Springs tomorrow.  Dalton can’t miss too much school.  We want to give you time to get settled into the routine before we start pestering you too much.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Dalton said, taking a step toward him.  “Grandma and grandpa said we’re going to stay in a hotel that has a water slide this weekend, isn’t that cool? Can you come see me there?”

He nodded, afraid he no longer knew the right things to say to his family. 

“Captain McGee from your unit is in town.  He said he was discharged a few months ago, has a job driving between San Diego and Denver.  He’s been good about keeping in touch.”  Gwen hugged him again and lingered.  “We’re all so happy to have you here, Michael, so close to home again. It’s a miracle.”

He fingered the lid of the box resting against his thigh.  Hope’s letters had been postmarked everywhere from Pakistan to Libya.  All with her PO box in New York as a return address.  She’d written about the mundane observations of her day, just as if they’d been lying in bed together like they used to do.  He’d read them at all hours of the day and night until some of them had torn at the creases.

“If Hope’s not in Afghanistan, where is she?” he asked.

“She’s in Denver, working at Channel 9 news.  She moved back a little over a month ago,” Becky answered, her grin slipping. “Would you like to call her?”

“God, no.”  The thought of calling Hope Shane--technically Hope Cedars—his estranged and apparently still secret wife, crippled him more than his injuries ever could.  “Does she know I’m here? Tell me what to expect. I don’t want to be ambushed.”

“Ambushed?  I doubt it.  Since returning to Denver, she’s been working non-stop.  You know how she is, always chasing a story.  I don’t see her much.”  Becky looked at his family for support but they still wore their strained, awkward smiles. “Your move here came about rather suddenly.  I don’t know how she’d know about it.”

It was obvious from her sister’s blank expression that Hope had kept their secret.  Of course she had.  A woman like that didn’t need to be saddled with a disabled Marine as a husband.  Maybe she had never filed the marriage certificate.  Maybe she had finally given up but hadn’t been able to tell him in the letters.  Maybe she had already found someone else.  Maybe that’s why the letters had stopped. 

He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, punch something, throw something; instead he turned his chair and stared out the window.  

* * * *

“Are you sure this is the right place?”  Devon asked, peering over the steering wheel of her Prius. 

Hope looked at the address scrawled on the back of the picture that had been sent to her office.  “Yep, this is it.”  She flipped the picture over again and winced at the sight of illegal immigrants piled into the back of a van like pellets of produce.  “I’m going to snoop around, you stay here.”

“No way I’m staying here.”  Devon wrapped her brown hair into a quick ponytail. “This neighborhood gives me the heebie jeebies. We’re going to stick out like flamingos in Alaska.”

“Flamingos in Alaska?” She fumbled inside her messenger bag for a stone she always touched for luck.  The white stone fit into the palm of her hand.  Smooth.  Flat. She rubbed her fingers over it before slipping it back inside the zippered pouch. Flashing Devon a smile, she opened the door. “I love flamingos, all pink and balancing on one leg. I need a vacation.  Key West would be fun, wouldn’t it?  Are flamingos wild down there or only in the state parks? Or zoos?  They’re not cooped up in zoos, are they?”

“Focus, Hope.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m focused.  You’re the one who brought up flamingos. Can they fly? I need to Google that later.”  She tapped her fingers on her messenger bag while her gaze scanned the block.

Every building had bars on the windows.  The sidewalk played out like an amusement park fun ride, all ridges and crevices.  One house in particular kept her attention: its stone façade reminded her of an old whore, used up and neglected.  The note that had arrived at her office a few weeks ago claimed a human smuggling operation was trafficking through Denver, all going through this neighborhood. The leads she’d followed since had turned up some interesting twists and created some threats.  She grinned. Where there were threats, there was a story. 

“I have a feeling this is going to be a big one, Dev.”  She exited the car and strode toward a corner store.  “Just hopefully not too big, if you know what I mean. I’ve had enough of dangerous situations to last me a lifetime.”

“Yet here we are skulking around one of the worst neighborhoods in town,” Devon complained, keeping pace.  “I never knew Denver’s seedy underworld until you arrived.  You bring out the worst in people.”

“High compliment, Dev.”  She grinned at her friend, feeling the zap of adrenaline pulse through her veins at the prospect of breaking open a conspiracy. “We’ll get a feel for the place before we decide where to begin, I’m thinking we can do a few feature stories about the neighborhood—”

“No one’s going to believe that you’re doing feature stories—”


“That way we can build up some trust while we do the real digging.”  Her grin turned into a toothy smile when she noticed Devon’s frown.  “Where’s the faith, Dev?  I can blend.  I can be charming.”

Devon snorted her answer. 

“Let’s have lunch,” she said, spotting a diner.  “Mingle.  You know, we could find some great stories here.  People trying to better their community, stuff like that.  I bet we can find some real gems while we sniff out the bad guys.”

“Sniff out the bad guys?  Right.  Got it.  But do we have to eat?  I just had breakfast,” Devon protested. 

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”  She stopped, mind jumping with ideas.  “We’ll do a feature on the diner to begin with, make nice with the locals, smile a lot.  People like being on television. They’ll be flattered. The more we hang around, the easier it will be for us to find out what’s really happening.”


“And you think Marion will go for the feature series?”

“Of course he will.  He’s thrilled to have me as part of the 9 News team, remember? He loves me.”  She laughed at the doubt twisting Devon’s face.  “And I’m adorable...charming...the list is long.”

“Gee, I forgot.” Devon rolled her eyes.  

“Maybe our source will surface.” Energy pumped through her veins like an out of control freight train.  “We’re being noticed.  People like to talk.  This is a good thing.  Excellent.”

“You never should have left network.  Denver will bore you.  Did you know there’s a bet at the station about how long you’ll stick around?  You’re a danger junkie, meant to cover wars and other major catastrophes around the world.”  Devon motioned to their surroundings.  “You had the glamorous job, the prestige of being a network war correspondent.  I don’t know how you could have left it all for this.”

Her smile faltered at the memory of being caught in the crossfire between insurgents and the US military, the memory of her best friend Peter’s head exploding in front of her, the memory of crawling into an overturned jeep with corpses at her feet and picking bits of Peter’s skull from her hair, the memory of dragging a wounded Marine to safety while hell erupted around them.  Not so glamorous.

Now was not the time for memories. 
Focus, focus, busy, busy.

Inside the diner wasn’t much more appealing than the outside. Tile had been bleached more than once and the damage was irreparable. Orange booths lined the walls; some ripped, some not, a cliché of mundane.

“You were the It Girl, the reporter destined to be a network anchor one day or to at least have your own show like Anderson Cooper.   You were so close to having it all, the golden ring that every journalism student dreams of and you walked away. Don’t you ever miss it?”

“Let’s see what’s on the menu, Dev.  I need to eat,” she said.

She feigned interest in the choices while her peripheral vision took in the room.  She had been in worse places than this, eaten worse food. Hands shook on the menu as she remembered sharing a protein bar with Michael as they hid in a bombed out shell of a home.  She’d stitched up the gash in his head with the thread in her bag, the same bag she carried now.  He’d given her that stone then, told her that they would be leaving and taking that with them as proof of survival.  And she had prayed that he wouldn’t die…she had prayed and prayed and prayed.

“Hey, Hope, what’s clicking away in your brain now?  You look far too serious.  What were you thinking about?”

She shook the images from her mind, folded the menu and struggled to regain focus.  Sighing, she rubbed the center of her chest with a closed fist.  “An old friend and a shared dinner, if you could call it that.”

“The war?  How come you never talk about it?”

“I was a war correspondent, Dev, I talked about it every day.”  She exhaled a long breath. “Think I’ll have the veggie skillet.”

“This idea of yours is going to mean a lot of work.  Feature stories, investigative reporting, research…lots of work.”  Despite her words, Devon’s face flushed with shared excitement.  “So when do we start oozing charm and good will?”

“Now,” she answered through a smile as she looked up to greet the waitress. 

Hours later, and one feature story on the diner done and canned, she rested her elbows on her desk and closed her eyes.  The newsroom buzzed around her with tip tapping on computer keyboards, ringing of phones and loud conversation.  She preferred noise to silence.  Couldn’t handle silence. 

“Hope, there’s a Marine in the lobby asking for you.”  Devon tapped her on the shoulder.  “At least I think he’s a Marine--looks like one, but dressed like a civilian.”

Marine.  Her heart stopped at the word.  It couldn’t be him.

“That’s the second time today you’ve disappeared on me.”  Devon propped her hip against the desk.  “What’s going on with you? C’mon.  You’re off.”

She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand and ripped her gaze from the doors. “What’s his name?  Is he in a wheelchair? Who did he ask for?  Hope Shane or…Cedars?”

“Cedars? I said he was here asking for you.”  Devon glanced over her shoulder before leaning close to her.  “Do you have another name I should know about?  An alias or something?”