Secondary Targets (15 page)

CHAPTER 23

BY the time they arrived in Knoxville, Tennessee, Cherilyn had run out of reasons not to pump Marcus for more information about Grace Hendricks.

Why was he so intent on protecting her? She didn’t buy the friendship card he was playing. No way. She wanted answers and she intended to have them, but getting them in front of Grace was out of the question. Cherilyn didn’t want to come across as some jealous hag.

Nope. A good night’s rest was in order.

Cherilyn took the next exit off the freeway and headed for the brightest roadside motel sign.

Eric sat up quickly and leaned toward the front seat. “What are we doing?”

The guy was so damned jumpy. And distrustful. Cherilyn was going to have to find a way to neutralize his nerves. “We’re stopping for the night.”

“I’ll drive,” he insisted.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m tired and I need to think. I need to figure out what to do next in case we can’t find your general’s clue at Grace’s house.” Cherilyn caught a glimpse of Grace in the rearview mirror. Eric needed to be more like her, the woman was still sleeping.

Whatever induced Eric’s resolve, it’d split, leaving him with a blank face. He slumped back against the seat, clearly having no argument left in him. Thank goodness.

She parked the car at the lobby entrance and Marcus withdrew a bundle of cash from Cherilyn’s duffle bag and peeled a few twenties off the top. “I’ll go in and get us a couple of rooms.” He opened the car door and stuffed the cash inside his pocket as he stepped out of the sedan.

While he was gone, Cherilyn filled the time, and avoided the pangs of uncomfortable silence, with directional-type questions about where Grace lived. Which area of Cleveland did she live in? Which freeway system provided the simplest route? And, how well she knew her neighbors. Would they talk to any strangers who might come calling?

After waking, Grace answered Cherilyn’s questions with short, simple answers. South side. 90 and the 14. Not well. And, who knows.     

Marcus returned and directed her to pull around to the far side of the motel. After a few brief exchanges, Eric and Grace disappeared into one room and Cherilyn followed Marcus into the one next door.

She struggled with the urge to delve right into interrogation mode, and instead went for the area restaurants brochures fanned out on the dresser’s top. Grabbing a handful, she headed for one of the queen sized beds, plopped down and relaxed against the headboard.

After a quick scan of each, she decided on a place that offered delivery and a standard American-Italian menu. “Hey, you want some pasta?” she asked Marcus, but kept her eyes on the leaflet.

He sat on the foot of the bed she was lounging on. “Sure. Why not?” he said without much enthusiasm.

Cherilyn wanted to get him out of his funked-up mood. She needed information. Information she wasn’t likely to get if he remained in low spirits. “Ravioli still your favorite?” She hoped to infuse enough zeal in her tone that it’d induce a positive reaction from Marcus.

He looked at her, and for a moment she wasn’t sure what his reaction might be. But slowly, an expressive smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Ravioli is still a favorite,” he said with a wink.

Cherilyn ordered two ravioli dinners, and waited until they’d been delivered and she and Marcus had began eating, before daring to converge on the subject of Grace Hendricks. 

“So how long have you known Eric and Grace?” she asked, picking at her food.

Marcus paused with his fork hovering above his disposable plate. “I’ve known Eric about fifteen years, and Grace, maybe twelve.”

“What’s up with them, anyway?” she asked as if she were gossiping with her best friend.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are they pretending they don’t care about each other?”

Marcus’s brow wrinkled. “It’s a long story,” he said, and dropped it at that.

He didn’t like gossiping about his friends, and she totally got that. But Cherilyn had to have access to every explorable avenue, or this mission was doomed to fail.

“Look, I know you don’t want to betray a confidence,” she said. “And I’d never ask you to, but I need to know everything there is to know about them, especially Grace, if I’m going to help.”

Marcus seemed to be struggling with what he thought was right and what he knew needed to be done. Finally, his expression melted into surrender. “Whatever we discuss in this room stays between us.”

“Absolutely.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters...what’s the deal with them?”

“Look, all I know is that, eleven years ago, it was really looking like Eric and Grace were going to get married.” The frown twisting his face told Cherilyn he wasn’t comfortable with the conversation even though she’d convinced him it was necessary. “Then the General died. And Grace had a hard time dealing, so she took some time off. She was only supposed to be gone a couple of weeks, but she never came back. Until now.”

“Did Eric try to find her?”

“Oh yeah.” Marcus snorted a laugh and then cut it off. It wasn’t exactly appropriate for the conversation. “But, ah...if anybody knows how to disappear, it’s Grace Hendricks.”

Good lord, that girl had made an art out of the act of disappearing. Not even Eric and his military contacts had been able to find her. Marcus had been aware of the many times Eric had tried over the years but had come up empty-handed.

“Why do you think she vanished like that, without a word?” Cherilyn asked.

It took Marcus a moment to decide to respond, but when he did he voiced what he saw as the truth, the real root of Grace’s problem. “I don’t think she ever got over her mother’s death. And then, when her father died it all culminated in a massive blow to her psyche.”

“Her mother’s dead, too?” A light of pity skimmed across Cherilyn’s eyes, lasting only a second. “Bummer.”

“Well, that’s one way to look at it.” If only it were that simple, but Grace had spent years in useless therapy. None of it helped. None of it had taken away her pain—until she was old enough to indulge in alcohol.

Once she reached the legal drinking age, she spent her evenings drowning her sorrows into oblivion. That was when he and Eric entered the picture.

Marcus knew all about numbing inner pain with booze. He’d been doing it for years when Eric introduced him to Grace, and that’s the thing on which they bonded. Luckily, Marcus and Grace had Eric to look out for them and to always keep them from making a huge mistake by drinking and driving.

“So, what happened to her mother?” Cherilyn pulled Marcus out of a dangerous place in his past.

“She died in a car accident,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “I think Grace was about thirteen or fourteen when it happened.”

“That’s tough.” Cherilyn winced and shook visibly.

“From what I understand, Eric’s about the only person she ever talked to about her mother’s death. But I don’t think the scope of their conversations about it were extensive or deep.”

She didn’t say anything, just peered at him with one of those looks that asked for more details, and he felt compelled to comply.

“From what Eric said.” Marcus paused to make it clear, all his information was second-hand. “She bottled her pain up inside and refused to let it out to anyone, even the psychiatrist the General sent her to for weekly visits throughout her teenage years.” In a way, Marcus felt sorry for Grace...having to sit in some shrink’s office, week in and week out, with them constantly asking her how she felt. It had to be a constant reminder of the tragic event that had caused her so much pain.

“So, I guess that probably made things worse,” Cherilyn said as if she understood.

“Yeah, I think...pretty much.” Marcus pushed the near-empty disposable serving tray toward the center of the small corner table, forced his chair back and stood. Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, he strolled to the other side of the motel room. “I think, personally.” He pivoted around to face her and withdrew one hand from its hiding place, resting it against his chest. “By the time I met her, she was not only trying to anesthetize the pain of losing her mother, but also years of ineffective therapy.”

And just when Marcus thought Eric might be getting through to Grace—helping her heal—the General shot himself. Supposedly. But now, it looked a whole lot like murder.

Losing her father had been a bigger burden than Grace Hendricks was capable of bearing.

What would finding out he hadn’t committed suicide after all do to her already fragile psyche? Would it hinder or help? Would it cause her to disappear from Eric’s life again? Without a word? Without even a simple goodbye?

That act was unforgivable from where Marcus was sitting, and in light of their current situation it qualified Eric for sainthood. Marcus wasn’t so sure he’d be so gracious in Eric’s shoes.

At least Cherilyn had told Marcus she was leaving him, and why.

Eric deserved the same but what he got was shafted, pretty much at the altar, for his troubles.

Grace’s actions back in the day just didn’t make sense, and someday soon, Marcus was going to ask for answers.

CHAPTER 24

THE prospect of stopping for the night pleased Eightball. He was half-starved and coveting some R and R.

A local restaurant had delivered his order, a burger, fries and a large coke, in a timely manner. Eightball handed the driver a twenty and closed the motel room’s door and headed for the bed. He appreciated the opportunity to sit back, prop up his feet and enjoy his meal while watching a little television.

The cigarette he’d laid in the ashtray on the nightstand when the knock came at the door still burned in the receptacle. Smoke swirled up into the air but Eightball concentrated on nothing other than consuming his food.

The Honeymooners were on TV. He munched on a handful of fries and laughed exuberantly at some silly little thing Ralph had said.

His cell phone lay at his side on the bed, and jingled with his usual Michael Jackson ringtone. He’d chosen the tune because he, like the object of the song, was “bad”. Without any forethought he grabbed it and answered the call. “Talk to me,” he said, chewing and swallowing the fries in his mouth.

Eightball listened intently to what the caller had to say, then asked, “Do we know where that is?” He was hopeful, but knew the odds weren’t good.

Having no concern or regard for his colleague on the other end of the line, he popped another fry into his mouth and started chomping on it. He relished the savory flavor by smacking loudly. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much...” His voice trailed off into laughter.

Eightball couldn’t contain his amusement any longer, and felt no remorse for his short-coming. Nor had the irony of the situation escaped him as he was well-aware that he was located just a couple of doors down from Michael Hendricks’s daughter and her friends. They were all lodging at the same roadside motel in Knoxville, and he was certain that she and her friends had no idea of their close proximity.

That simple fact gave Eightball the edge. As long as he knew about them but they were oblivious of him, then he held the advantage. When and if he ever lost it, he’d gladly eliminate the threat.

CHAPTER 25

MARCUS sat perched on the edge of the bed opposite the one Cherilyn had sprawled out on. She’d said she was going to rest her eyes for a moment, but that was nearly an hour ago. Good. Maybe she was asleep. He wanted to take a shower, but didn’t like the idea of parading around the room in front of her in nothing but a towel.

Oh sure, they’d shared a bed, even recently, but knowing something’s there and having to look at it were two entirely different things. Now was not the best of times for her to dwell on his scar.

He eased up off the bed and crept into the bathroom. Only after he’d guided the door shut and turned the doorknob’s lock, did he feel comfortable removing his shirt.

The abrasion sprawled across his side and around toward his back, much like an old-school kidney operation scar. If only that’d been the case.

One of Marcus’s assailants had taken a three inch pocket knife to him after the gang had attacked him mercilessly—his punishment for marrying outside his race.

The scar remained a constant symbol of what Marcus had done wrong, and the reason Cherilyn had chosen to leave the marriage.

He ran his fingers over the abrasion and tried to push the unwanted memories aside, opting to turn on the water. As usual, Marcus hoped the shower would wash the ghastly images from his mind. Maybe someday that’d work, but he doubted this would be the day, anymore than it had been yesterday.

The shower’s mist rained down over Marcus, cleansing his body and filling his thoughts with images from the past. One particular day, above all others, was the bane of his existence.

It wasn’t the memory of the assault that was a constant irritant for Marcus. That day was easy in comparison. The source of his misery was the day he woke up in the hospital and found his wife draped over his hospice bed.

There wasn’t a single spot on his entire body that didn’t hurt. Even his eyelids were encumbered with agonizing pain when he opened them. Reality was hazy at best, and it took a few seconds to realize where he was, and why.

Cherilyn was sleeping, but her eyes looked reddened and swollen shut. They, along with her pallid face, gave away her damaged state. The worn and crumpled Kleenex clutched loosely in her hand confirmed that she’d been crying.

Panic ricocheted through Marcus and he tried to sit up. Pain ripped through his chest, side and back. He relented to the pressure, sinking back into the bed with an escaping moan.

Cherilyn sprang up like a pop tart. “Marcus...?” She addressed him in a weakened voice that matched her fragile appearance. Her scrutinizing gaze scanned him quickly. He knew the look well. His wife was surveying the damage.

“What’s up, baby?” The words raked over his hoarse throat. He’d practically kill for a drink of water.

“Honey...?” Her tone held a more hopeful pitch, now that she’d obviously realized he was awake and in possession of his mental faculties. “How do you feel?”

As if sensing his thirst, she reached for the hospital issued pitcher and cup. Iced water speckled and splattered the bedside tray as she filled the plastic receptacle.

“Probably as bad as I look.” He grasped for the cup but hadn’t anticipated the weight of his hand. Glancing down, he was stunned to see both his arms wrapped in bandages. Marcus closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. He needed to think, but wading through all the haze was proving difficult.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked and paused, her face slipping into a mask of regret. “Here.” She set the cup down on the tray. “Let me help you.”

Marcus’s eyes were swollen and, while it was true, he felt like he was peering at the world through thin slits, he had no trouble seeing Cherilyn’s pain as it slid down her cheeks in trails of silent tears.

She found a straw, ripped the wrapper off and stuck it inside the cup before guiding both the siphon and the vessel toward his mouth.

Marcus sucked but got nothing. Maybe try a little harder. He called every muscle to action and ignored the pain that accompanied his feeble attempt at getting a drink of water, but still nothing.

Tired, he turned his head away and closed his eyes.

“Marcus...?” she said in a gentle pleading tone and draped her hand warmly over his. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he mouthed the word, but couldn’t be sure if any sound came out. His head pounded and he felt himself slipping back toward the darkness.

He didn’t want to go back there, into the slumber of nothingness, but it mattered little, and he couldn’t be sure how long he’d stayed when he woke again.

But, true to form, the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again was Cherilyn,
looking like she’d lost her best friend.

Seeing him awake, she forced a smile over her rigid face, leaned over and brushed her lips against his forehead.

“How long was I out?” he asked, thinking his voice sounded heartier than before. He felt stronger.

“Not long.” She cleared her throat and choked back her concern, but it escaped in her brittle tone. “How are you feeling?”

She forced a smile and he knew it was nothing but a bid at misdirection. “Much better now,” he said, just to let her think she’d succeeded in her as of yet unidentified goal. “How long have I been in here?” he asked, fleeting images filling his head of the attack that had brought him
to this place.

“It’s been a while.” Cherilyn eased into the chair at his bedside, still clinging to Marcus’s hand, and gave him a forced smile, as if that’d stop the tears soaking her eyes. “But the doctors have assured me that you’re getting better every day.”

“Good,” he said, feeling like he was thinking clearer than he had in a long time. “I’d like to go home.”

Finally, his mind was no longer draped in cobwebbed confusion. Clear thoughts of why going home was such a good idea filled his psyche. It’d been too long since he’d relished the heat of her naked body against his. Having those thoughts come to life, literally, filled him with a smile.

Damn, he must be getting better
.

Wrapped in carnal thoughts of Cherilyn, the realization came slowly that she wasn’t nearly as happy about his potential release.

“What?” he asked, trying to put his budding anxiety under lockdown. “What is it?”

She shook her head slowly and her expression hardened. “We can’t go home.” Tears pooled around her beautiful, clear-blue eyes.

“Why not?” What was he missing? Had something happened at the house?

“They almost killed you, Marcus!” A terrified look accompanied her desperate plea, and he almost forgot he was the victim.

He drew a deep breath and instantly regretted it when his lungs twisted in agony. “And they’ll pay for that, too,” he said, holding his breath, hoping the pain in his chest would soon subside.

“We don’t even know who
they
are.” Cherilyn wasn’t arguing with him for argument’s sake. That wasn’t part of her makeup.

Suddenly, Marcus was more concerned about his wife’s intentions than the identity of his attackers. “What are you saying?”

“We have to face facts.” She kept her practiced smile plastered on but it didn’t mask her torment, not from Marcus.

The facts? Was she serious? The facts were that they loved each other and she was his wife. “What facts?” He got the feeling that she saw
the facts
as something entirely different.

“The fact that you and I—” She’d gotten control of her tone but it did nothing to keep the tears from sliding down her cheeks. “We were kidding ourselves.”

Damn. Times like this, Marcus hated being right. They weren’t on the same page at all. “We’ll leave here,” he said. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

“Where would we go?” Her hopeless tone suggested she didn’t consider that an option. Not a viable one anyway.

“I don’t know.” He shuffled through the wild thoughts and practicalities alike, looking for an answer. “We’ll get transferred,” he verbalized the thought as it crossed his mind. Making it up as he went along, he continued on, “considering what happened, we won’t have any trouble getting new orders.”

Cherilyn shook her head slowly and it seemed to reinforce her belief that they’d come to the end of the road. “You think a transfer will keep you safe?” From the look on her face, sheer doubt, she didn’t think so. “You think the Marine Corps is going to keep you safe?” A sense of neuroticism had set a definite shrill in her tone. “The Marine Corps isn’t going to keep you safe. They can’t keep you safe.”

“Cher...” Marcus objected even though he knew he was losing ground, “you’re my wife.”

“And I always will be.”

But that hadn’t been the case, at all. A few months later, Marcus had received the divorce papers. He’d signed them and mailed them back to the attorney in question, mainly because he’d figured if she was serious enough to make the gesture, then she must want the disconnection.

Marcus shut the water down and dried off with the plush towel hanging over the shower door.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Cherilyn had lived to regret her decision to dissolve their marriage. He didn’t imagine that her stance had changed much over the years, but he regretted it. He just hadn’t realized it until now. Clearly, he still had feelings, strong feelings, for his ex-wife.

After drudging up the past, Marcus foresaw a night of tossing and turning. And, he’d dream about it too, no doubt.

The next morning, he was still tired after a restless night. He was thankful when Cherilyn said it was time to leave. Maybe, once in the car, he’d finally get some sleep.

Several dreams later, at daybreak, he awakened fully recharged, but with the attack from so long ago weighing heavily on his mind.

The memory of that night haunted him still. He’d tried therapy over the years, to no avail. He’d never been able to completely drive out his troubling demons. Eventually, he’d found a way to shove the nightmare toward the back, darkest corner, of his mind, and only occasionally did it creep back into his thoughts, reminding him of all he’d lost.

Marcus’s judge, jury and executioners had never been identified. And, even though he’d told himself many times that he was over it, deep down inside he still hated
them
for what they’d done. They’d taken away everything good in his life. His wife. There was a small part of him that hoped they all burned in hell.

His recovery from the near fatal beating was slow-going. Cherilyn wouldn’t have been able to divorce him so easily if not for that. But, once Marcus was adequately recovered, the Marine Corps opted to order him to a new facility where no one knew his history, and hopefully he could move on with his life.

Years later, when Marcus was ordered to Cherry Point and placed under the command of General Michael Hendricks, Marcus had convinced himself he’d moved on. At least he was safe—physically anyway. The General was the only person at Cherry Point that knew Marcus’s history and he’d never shared it with anyone.

General Hendricks had been appalled by what had happened to Marcus. He’d also made it his personal crusade to see to it that nothing like that ever happened to anyone while under his command. That was his personal promise to Marcus.

The General had kept his word. Marcus felt he owed it to him to find out what happened to the man, and to make sure nothing happened to his daughter in the process.

No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he couldn’t come close to contemplating a guess as to what was going on with the General. His analytical legal mind was usually able to get inside the inner workings of the criminal’s head. Marcus had defended too many of them, and had learned to read them quickly. By now, he got what made them tick. But here, right now, he couldn’t begin to grasp these unknown individuals’ illicit motivations. There had to be more than one person involved. How did one person make a high profile grave in a National Cemetery disappear?

That took connections. And guts.

If Cherilyn was even close, these people were way out of Marcus’s realm of firsthand knowledge. Everything he’d ever heard about secret, covert operations was merely hearsay. When it came to standing against the myth, he was at a clear-cut disadvantage. Marcus was acutely aware that there was nothing he could do about it, and that made him nervous.

He glanced over his shoulder at Eric and Grace leaning against each other, sleeping.

Marcus’s heart pounded and chased the anxiety up his chest, and he drew a deep breath to quell its mischief. Finally, gaining some much needed control over his emotions, he looked at Cherilyn.

She had both hands on the wheel and was staring straight ahead, singing softly along with the radio.

What was that song? He knew it, but couldn’t recall the title. Damn. He hated it when that happened, which seemed to be all too often these days.

Cherilyn glanced at Marcus and winked. “Have a nice nap?”

Nap?
I don’t nap
. Babies nap. “I was just resting my eyes.”

“Okay.” She snorted one of those laughs that reeked of doubt.

“Do you think anybody’s on to us yet?” His voice held a degree of optimism even though it was futile. If they were, that wasn’t good. And if they weren’t—how could that be? How did the people who made the General’s grave disappear not know about them?

Cherilyn shrugged. “Well, you and I may be as of yet undiscovered,” she said provisionally, “but...your friends? That’s another story.”

“If that’s true,” Marcus said, “then they’re not far behind.”

“Grab my duffle, please,” Cherilyn said, pointing to the bag at his feet. He did as instructed and held it in his lap. “I know you’ve got that shotgun in the trunk.” She paused and, using one hand, unzipped and dug around inside the bag. “But this is probably easier to conceal.” She pulled out a 9-mm handgun.