Ghosts that Haunt—17
One of these days, he would learn to be more careful what he wished for. It seemed like nothing went right from the moment he stepped off the plane in Israel. Crossing into the Gaza Strip had been ugly. He spotted a Mossad agent in an Israeli army uniform on the checkpoint. He retreated, lost the two men who tailed him, and finally slipped in during the dark. Unfortunately, he found his safe house had been destroyed.
He found somewhere else to stay, checked in so his boss knew he was there and safe so far, and settled in to do his job. It was a dangerous game, given Gaza was a war zone of sorts, and the Palestinians didn't trust anyone but their own. Casey did what someone who really was what he pretended would do, but he didn't like much of what he saw. Ironically, his cover allowed him to gather photographic evidence of what was really happening there.
Normally, he thrived on the danger, and while he was in his element, he exercised more caution than he might have done before Riah agreed to marry him. He fully intended to go home in one piece, and that meant he carefully calculated the odds before he acted—not that he hadn't always done so, but this time he ran them more than once.
After a little more than a week essentially playing the waiting game he hated so much before spending his nights missing Riah, he took a risk. He called her. He knew better, but he also knew she would worry. He kept the call deliberately short as he sat at a table outside a tiny café on a back street that was more alley than street. When she answered, he said only, "I'm alive, and I love you," before he hung up.
It wasn't satisfactory, but he had heard her voice, even if it had only been a single word.
A day later, it all went to hell. He walked down another dark, narrow street after another rocket attack. He finally had a lead on the man he was supposed to meet, looked for the right place, then something crashed against the back of his skull.
When he came to, he was strapped to a chair with some kind of hood over his head. The back of his skull hurt like hell, and he supposed he ought to be glad that the hood helped mitigate the throbbing pain since it blocked any light. He also thought about the fact that his own country's policies on interrogation—policies a number of groups thought illegal or questionable at best—might mean this would go far less well than it might have before the advent of extreme renditions and enhanced interrogation as part of the American repertoire.
Pain shot through his head when the hood was jerked off. He blinked, tried to focus on the man who stood before him. He looked Arab, but Casey knew he couldn't count on that identification. Another face swam into focus, and Casey figured his luck had definitely run out.
The second man looked European, possibly American, but when he spoke, Casey heard Canada.
Surely Adderly hadn't decided to simply get rid of him? Casey didn't think Riah's father would have gone to this extreme if he was still pissed off about the price Riah had been asked to pay for him. He might decide to have a little fun at Casey's expense for seducing his daughter, but this wasn't the way V. H. would do it. All those supposed jokes about molesting Riah were much more his style. Kidnapping, a little torture, maybe, weren't.
"Major Casey!" the man said happily, for all the world as though the two of them were old friends meeting after a long absence. "You have something I want."
"Doubt it," Casey growled.
The man cocked his head, tsked. Casey noted his hard face, the nose that had been broken at least once, and the small scar high on his right cheekbone, just below his eye. He was about six-one, light brown hair, hazel eyes. He was wiry, but Casey suspected he had the rangy muscle to cause a lot of pain. The way he was strapped into his chair, he suspected there would be a lot of pain before this was done, so he prepared himself.
Most people figured getting their minds off the pain was the best way to survive it. Casey preferred to focus on it instead. That way he was unlikely to say something he shouldn't. He wiped Riah and Bartowski right out of his head, stared intently at the man before him, and prepared to be hurt.
"Oh, but you do," the man said, still in that cheerful tone, and why Casey thought cowboy he wasn't sure. Something about the accent and something about the man's posture suggested it. That made him remember Adderly's story of his torture in East Berlin when he lost the use of his left hand. Adderly had always maintained he'd been rescued by a cowboy in high heels. Most people, Casey included, had figured the pain caused by his torture had scrambled his memory, and given that for several years V. H. had been unable to recall how he got out of East Germany, Casey had always counted that a safe bet.
The Canadian leaned down on eye-level with Casey, but he was smart enough to stay far enough away Casey couldn't even manage a head butt. A lot of people made the mistake of getting too close, but this man didn't. It made Casey wonder again who he was and who he worked for since it betrayed a level of competence not always found in these situations. His money was on Fulcrum, but time would tell—if he was lucky and survived whatever the other man had in mind. "Intersect, Major."
"Not a clue," Casey returned easily. Inside, though, he thought, Holy shit. It also solidified his bet on the other man's employers.
Cowboy stepped away, and the Arab muscle hit Casey hard. His jaw ached, but his teeth were intact. He didn't test his jaw, didn't move it, just stared angrily back at the man in front of him. He was being tested, he knew. The man was looking for weakness, for his threshold for pain. Perhaps he should do a Bartowski the next time the muscle landed a blow, squeal like a little girl and make him think Casey couldn't take it. That wasn't the way he was made, though, and he figured he might get more out of the man this way than he would if he thought Casey might capitulate.
"Actually," Cowboy drawled, "they didn't call it an Intersect then."
Casey kept the angry mask in place and tried to figure out what he was after. That indicated Bartowski wasn't his target, and Casey wondered if there was another version of Bartowski running around that he was unaware of, an earlier model, so to speak, without the upgrades. He kept his eyes on the cowboy, but from the corner of his eye, he saw the other man's arm swing and braced for the blow to his ribs. Nothing broke, and that was the important part.
"I'm told she doesn't really function," the man added, "but that doesn't really matter."
Riah. He only had time for that thought before he took a blow to his other side. Casey wheezed, having been caught by surprise. He berated himself, told himself he should have expected it—the insinuation about Riah as well as the blow—especially since the cowboy was a Canadian.
"You're hard as rock, aren't you?" Cowboy asked as his muscle rubbed his fist. "Probably just as stubborn if the stories can be believed, but Hamid will get you to talk. Of course, he's more interested in who you're here to meet." Cowboy flashed a grin. "Me, I want Mariah Adderly."
There wasn't a part of Casey that didn't hurt when Hamid took a break. He was pretty sure he had some cracked ribs, knew two of his fingers were broken, and if the man kept hitting his face, his black eye was likely to be joined by a broken jaw—assuming Hamid didn't do permanent damage to the eye. So far he'd kept his teeth, though some of them had to be loose by now. He hoped Hamid's fists hurt nearly as badly.
Cowboy swam into view, so Casey glared at him. "We'll leave you to think about things for a little while."
He didn't have to think, and when they were gone, he considered his hands. They were strapped individually to the low arms of the chair bolted to the floor. He knew it was bolted to the floor because it hadn't had any give when the bastard pounded on him. His legs were shackled to the chair's metal legs, and it had all been expertly done. He wasn't getting loose any time soon.
In a moment of grim pragmatism, he wondered what was coming, because the cuffed straps reminded him of what he'd seen on electric chairs that had once been used for executions.
While he pounded on him, Hamid had continually questioned him in Arabic about why he was in Gaza. Casey had ignored his questions, though once, just to play along, Casey had told him his mother must have fucked camels to produce him. That's when the man lost control enough to crack Casey's ribs. Until then, Casey knew, he was being hit hard enough to hurt him but not seriously damage him. Something changed, or Hamid decided his agreement with Cowboy was null and void because Hamid broke Casey's fingers when he suggested maybe the asshole doing the damage was the one who fucked camels.
He thought hard. Until the moment Hamid broke his ribs, they had been playing with him. If they were smart, they would string him up and work the back as well as the front. They would eventually do him some serious damage if they kept covering the same ground. He suspected Cowboy was humoring Hamid but wouldn't let him kill Casey yet, but that made no sense. If Cowboy wanted Riah, then all he had to do was go to Los Angeles where she was alone with no protection other than what was in the apartment and what she could provide for herself. Casey had taught her a few things, and so had the refresher course at the Institute. Regardless, there were any number of opportunities for someone to take her with him gone: on her way to and from the Buy More, while she was at the Buy More, a false delivery to get her to open the apartment door were only a few of the many possibilities. He sincerely doubted anyone could break in and not trigger any of the fail-safes he had built into the security plan.
As a result, Casey couldn't imagine why the man wanted him. His only use was as bait for Riah, he presumed, based on what the Canadian had said, but he didn't think Riah would fall for any ploy that might draw her out of California—not alone, anyway. Casey was certain she was too smart for that. She'd check, ask questions, make sure she had backup before she took action.
A chill went through him as it occurred to him she might not get a chance.
They could snatch her, but he liked to think she took enough precautions to make that difficult for them. Bartowski could be collateral damage if he was with her, but as long as they weren't on their way to and from work, there was a good chance Walker would be in tow if that opportunity presented itself, and Casey knew he could count on his partner to see to it both were safe.
When he got out of this, his first call would be to Walker, and the second would be to Ellerby. Two agencies watching Riah should improve the odds, and Walker's first priority—rightfully so—would be Bartowski. Even if Cowboy had the wrong target, it was always possible he and his people might be able to correct course, realize Bartowski was the real Intersect. It wasn't the first time someone had made the mistake of thinking Riah was the one, and Casey was pretty sure it wouldn't be the last.
Thinking back to Kellett putting Riah through her paces, he wondered what they would do when they got her. Unlike Bartowski, her intel was old and difficult to retrieve. It took her seeing the encoded pictures, he'd finally realized, to get her to work, unlike Bartowski who simply had to see a face or object or hear a voice or the right words. Riah's limitations made her an iffy prospect at best. Of course, if they were looking for a pet Intersect, she was a smart choice if they had the technology to make her like Bartowski. She was being forced out of ISI, and the American government was only concerned about any possible threats she might pose to either Bartowski or national security—not what might be locked in her head. In fact, Casey was a little surprised an elimination order hadn't been sent rather than DNI letting him marry her.
For several long moments, he pondered whether or not Beckman might have arranged this simply to facilitate that very scenario. In the end, he concluded even the General wouldn't damage their relationship with the Canadians by doing that. There would be an international incident—V. H. would insist on it.
It occurred to him next to wonder why Beckman hadn't considered hedging her bets with two Intersects. Bartowski was an accident, admittedly, but Larkin, the one who was originally intended to house it, was still breathing—or breathing again, anyway. Then he wondered if the General might not have done exactly that.
Even as he experienced the bite and snap of anger over the idea that he might have been kept in the dark about the bigger picture, it hit him, as the truth sometimes did, bubbled up from beneath the problem he worked: there was something in Riah's head this man either wanted or wanted to make sure was never retrieved.
"She's a beautiful little thing, isn't she?" Cowboy's voice said quietly from behind him, and Casey remembered what Riah had said when he took that black leather corset off her that long ago afternoon. "She still wear those tiny excuses for underwear?"
Casey made himself sit still, made himself stifle the instinctive, furious growl even as his aching jaw went rigid and his good hand fisted. He reminded himself that this man might have touched her—for which Casey would break every bone in his hands—but he hadn't had her.
Then he was sorry he'd thought of that.
"Her dad sent the cavalry to Edmonton before anyone got a taste," the man continued. "We never got a thing out of her—but I hear Kellett and Laurance did."
When Cowboy stepped around to face him, Casey fought for calm. Cowboy was going to be a dead man, first chance Casey got, and it was going to be very, very personal when it happened. Cowboy gave him a crooked smile, one that said he knew exactly what Casey thought. "What's she taste like, Casey?"
He ground his teeth. He wished he could get loose, wished he could punish the man in front of him for what he'd done to Riah. He considered a number of very painful methods of punishment it would be his pleasure to use before he finally let the man die.
"Come on," Cowboy prodded. "You've done her. Inquiring minds want to know."
If he lost his temper, they would know this was how to crack him. He was close, though, considered the kind of pain he could put Cowboy through despite the damage Casey had already sustained. Then he tamped the anger back down again, rethought what they were after yet again. Riah could be the diversion, but if that were the case, then what they were really after was Bartowski—or they really were after the name of his contact here.
Assuming he was still in Gaza.
The room offered no clues. It looked a lot like a windowless hotel room. He could be anywhere, and Hamid could simply be window dressing.
He took a moment to wonder where Hamid was.
Cowboy cocked his head, stared down at Casey. "She's not your usual type, Casey. Little Mariah's got the wrong hair color for one—although maybe you could tell me if she's a natural blonde?"
Ignoring that, mainly because the costs for not doing so were high, Casey further considered what he'd do to the man if he ever got free and was still able to inflict harm. It wasn't just going to be the hands. He was going to castrate the man.
"Aw," Cowboy drawled with false sympathy, "not in the mood to talk, are we?"
"You apparently are," Casey growled and then regretted having said anything at all. It would have been better not to engage.
"That I am," the man returned cheerfully. "I hope I get a wedding invitation."
Casey said nothing, didn't even glare at the man as he considered how he could possibly know he and Riah were getting married. It wasn't public knowledge yet, was only known outside of their families by Bartowski, his sister, and her fiancée. He knew the man wouldn't have gotten it from Casey's family, and he doubted the man was on Ariel Taylor's confidants' list. Emma was unlikely to spread the news, nor was V. H. likely to tell anyone just yet. Beckman and his government knew, though, and so did Riah's. This man must have sources inside ISI, and even if V. H. had said nothing, a handful of functionaries would have had to know, and someone must have talked.
"Then again, she's never making it to that altar."
Here we go, Casey thought. Here was the part where the other man threatened her, promised to kill her if Casey didn't give them whatever they were after. He knew his mind was supposed to run wild, he was supposed to worry, and he was supposed to fear. Finally, he was supposed to give in to save her. Riah, he knew, would understand when he didn't.
The problem was, he did—fear for her.
He was better off to let the man talk, let him come to the point, Casey knew, so he held his tongue, waited. It didn't take long before the man's eyes hardened. "Except in a casket."
So he wanted her dead, not alive, Casey reflected. That wasn't going to happen, not if he had anything to say about it. "What is it you think she knows?" he asked. He could risk the question. It was unlikely Cowboy would answer, but if he was arrogant enough, he just might, and Casey would have another piece of the puzzle.
"That's none of your business," the other man said. That response irritated the hell out of Casey since it reminded him of a playground bully. It was clearly his business given the man had him trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey and was intent on taunting him. It was his business, too, because Riah was his.
As he leaned back against a desk, crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head, Cowboy studied Casey. "You should never have had the opportunity to ask her to marry you," he continued. "She should have been dead several times over by now." Casey caught the flood of anger in his eyes. He wondered at the force of it. Riah had made a very serious enemy, but Casey couldn't imagine how. "She certainly shouldn't have survived at the Institute."
"You should have sent a better shot after her."
Cowboy's response to Casey's crack was to double up his fist and swing. Casey's head snapped back as it connected. Fortunately, the other man caught his cheek and eye, not the jaw, but it hurt all the more for it. His eye would swell shut, and that would decrease his field of vision. He might need that before this was over.
"You shouldn't have been there, and you shouldn't have saved her," Cowboy ground out. "She shouldn't exist, and she's a menace. Her father should have learned long ago that the inevitable will happen."
"What is it you think she knows?" Casey asked again. Maybe the man would get pissed off enough to give up why he had it in for Riah. The guy thought he had the upper hand after all, thought Casey wasn't getting out of this, so he might just be stupid enough to tell him what he was after.
"I'm not that big an imbecile, Casey," the other man chided.
He stepped out of sight then, and Casey tested his shackles. He'd already figured out he wasn't going to be able to break his thumbs to get his hands free, but he wondered if he couldn't tear them loose somehow.
When they finally returned—Casey wasn't sure how long they had been gone—Hamid was up again, and when the other man was finished, none the wiser about who Casey's contact was or why he had been sent to Gaza in the first place, all Casey was aware of was that there didn't seem to be an inch of his body that didn't throb painfully except his back. He was bleeding in several places since Hamid had decided to play with knives. The other man had left mostly superficial wounds, though, nothing Casey thought was likely to leave a scar. Apparently, they needed him alive a while longer, and that begged the question of why.
They had to know that Casey checked in regularly. They had to know that when he missed a contact point, it would be noted and the search would start. Unless they had disposed of his vest, his tracker was still inside the lining, and it could be activated remotely, would be if he continued to not check in. He suspected Cowboy wanted that, and Casey wondered if he believed Beckman would send whomever or whatever he was really after to retrieve him.
The other man had to know they wouldn't send Riah, had to know she was effectively out of the business since he knew she and Casey were getting married, so Casey figured the Canadian was simply looking to get Riah alone, without protection, so she could be taken. Beckman might, after all, send Walker, though he doubted it. Given the situation on the ground in Gaza, it was more likely she'd send a special ops team—if she sent anyone at all.
He couldn't keep track of time, especially not when Hamid hit him hard enough to knock him out. It seemed to Casey as he was brought around the third time that they were getting more serious, and he wondered when the beating would give way to actual torture. They weren't getting what they claimed they wanted, so he was pretty sure torture was next on the agenda.
Several of his ribs were actually broken by then. If they kept hitting his chest, he was going to wind up with a punctured lung if not worse. He suspected at least one bone in his left leg was broken as well, the product of a vicious series of kicks inflicted by Hamid when Casey had asked if his sister was the whore he'd met his first night in Gaza City. He supposed he ought to be grateful the man hadn't just decided to geld him.
It was curious, though, that the man had gone for the leg when he could have really done Casey some serious damage elsewhere. That told him they were intent on prolonging this. With that thought, he finished his inventory: two broken fingers, several loose teeth, and both his eyes were black but only one was completely swollen shut, more bruises than he could count, and several superficial cuts that bled enough to annoy.
It would be nice to finally get it over with, but then he remembered he'd promised Riah he'd try not to get killed.
"Last call, Major," Cowboy said, and Casey noted the jaunty tone as well as the words that indicated they might be about to try and finish him. Casey figured it was another ploy. "I want to know what your little fiancée has told you about what's locked in her head."
"Nothing," he said. He could give that away, especially since it had the benefit of not being a lie.
"You expect me to believe that?"
Casey couldn't see him clearly. "Truth," he mumbled. Let him think he was on his last legs.
"A lot of people want her," the other man continued, "and not just because of that tight little body of hers."
He made himself not react to that, which wasn't as difficult as it should have been, but he did add another black mark in his mental reasons-to-kill-Cowboy column.
"If it makes a difference," Cowboy said, "I'm not after the state secrets."
It didn't matter at all. Casey still kept himself impassive, but his mind raced. That meant she knew something else, but he was at a loss as to what it could be.
"No?" Cowboy sighed then. "I'm not even after what you Americans call the Intersect in her head."
It was tempting to demonstrate his skepticism, but Casey remained silent, immobile. The man seemed on the edge of telling him what it was he wanted.
"I'd hate to let Hamid kill you before I get what I'm after."
That clicked for Casey. The man had to know anything in Riah's head was virtually impossible to retrieve. He'd had a chance to torture it out of her himself, but Cowboy hadn't succeeded. The question was why they were playing with Casey. Why didn't they get down to business? Why were they simply hurting him without really, seriously, interrogating him?
The answer had to be they needed him occupied and Riah unprotected.
It was the only picture he could make with the pieces spread before him. There were other possibilities, he was sure, but he had reached the most logical conclusion. Casey sincerely hoped she wasn't alone when they came for her, hoped someone who knew what they were doing was at hand and could take care of whomever Cowboy sent for her.
Maybe it really was Bartowski they wanted, he thought after more blows landed, and maybe they thought Beckman would send Special Agent Carmichael to rescue Casey. The kid was largely untrained, and Beckman wasn't about to put him into a place like Gaza, not when there were real spies to do the job. However, the name Carmichael had begun to circulate, and a lot of the speculation connected it to the Intersect. They'd dealt with others who wanted to know exactly how it connected.
For that matter, Beckman might decide Casey was expendable after all, might cut her losses, assume he had already compromised Bartowski and the NSA and decide to let him meet his fate rather than rescue him.
As a result, he gave Cowboy what he probably didn't want to hear: "Let him kill me." Casey didn't mean it, but he hoped his false capitulation might get the Canadian to slip.
"Oh, no, Major," Cowboy laughed. "You don't get off that easily." Casey focused on the man's face. "We'll wait a little longer, I think." Cowboy straightened then. "Spend the time considering the state of your immortal soul, Casey. I'm sure that will keep you occupied a good long while."
He heard a door close. It was the first time, he realized, and he wondered if they had really left him alone in the room or if there was a goon like Hamid—possibly Hamid—lurking out of sight. What they thought Casey would be able to do, he couldn't imagine. They had to know he wasn't getting loose, and even if he did, just enough damage had been done to him to seriously impede any break for freedom he might make—especially the broken leg. It wouldn't stop him from waiting for an opportunity, but he was damaged enough he was going to need some help to get out of this.
Slumping in the chair, Casey wondered if Riah was safe, wondered if they were only waiting to make sure she had been secured before they killed him.
When they came back, there was a third man with them, one he recognized, and this time, they got down to business.
-X-
On New Year's Eve, Ellie made Chuck drag Mariah over to the small party she and Devon hosted in their own apartment. Despite her protests that she would rather stay home, Chuck told her his sister would only come get her, and she would be mean, underhanded, manipulative or whatever would make Mariah cross the courtyard. Mariah knew she would do it, too. Besides, she would only sit home and worry about John if she didn't.
As a distraction, it wasn't much of one. Mariah really wasn't a partygoer. Her mother thrived on socializing, but Mariah was too introverted to like having to talk to people she didn't really know or couldn't be herself with. She managed it for the job, but in that case, she got to pretend she was someone she wasn't. When she walked in with Chuck, she noticed it was mostly the same crowd who attended Ellie and Devon's Halloween party months earlier. She smiled, spoke when spoken to, and missed John, more so since she would have been home with him had he not been gone.
When Kavanaugh approached her, though, she went stiff, wondered if she could find a place to hide. His eyes dropped to her left hand, which cradled a cocktail glass filled with a Perfect Manhattan. Mariah had decided that the only way to get through this was with a significant amount of alcohol, and the Perfect Manhattan fit the bill—it contained two kinds of vermouth with the bourbon rather than just one. She wished there had been rye, her preference for mixed drinks, but the bourbon would do.
"I see Casey made it official," Kavanaugh pleasantly said, but Mariah's eyes narrowed, deeply suspicious of his statement and the lack of smirk in his tone. She steeled herself, lifted the glass for a fortifying sip. Kavanaugh often pounced when she least expected it. "Congratulations."
That didn't sound at all sincere, but Mariah didn't hold it against him. She had never once heard anything sincere from him. Nonetheless, she answered politely. "Thank you."
Her suspicions were fully in place; as a result, she wasn't taken by surprise when he added, "That ring must cost—what?—thirty grand, give or take?" He shook his head. "Wonder how Casey afforded it."
After Devon Woodcomb dragged him off to meet someone else, Mariah switched the glass to her other hand and studied her engagement ring. She'd never once given a single thought to what the ring cost. She had spent a lot of time admiring it—which made her feel shallow—so she knew it had come from Tiffany's. But that hadn't made her consider the price tag. Kavanaugh was likely in the ballpark, she realized, and she wondered that no one else—other than John's sisters—had commented on it.
Later, when midnight had come and the toasts were made, she quietly left the party and went home. After she changed into a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt, she booted her laptop and went to Tiffany's website and found her ring. She read it three times before it sank in: "Priced from $28,600."
Her Subaru hadn't cost that much, not even when the previous owner bought it new.
She swallowed thickly, looked at the ring on her hand, and felt her chest seize. Not for a single second did she believe John had done anything underhanded to buy that ring for her, but she did wonder why he had spent that much. She focused on the platinum and diamonds circling her finger and on her breathing. He shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have taken her seriously when she told him in Banff what she wanted. Truthfully, she would have been happy with anything he gave her, regardless of its size, stone, or metal. She would have been happy without the ring, for that matter.
Then, she was angry that she had let Kavanaugh upset her so. John had told his sisters he could afford it, and Mariah would simply have to believe him.
As it turned out, she didn't have to take it on faith. The day after New Year's, there was an imperious knocking on her door as she finished breakfast. She and Chuck were riding to work together that morning, but that was definitely not Chuck's knock. When she dropped the panel and looked at the screen behind it, she saw a suited man she didn't recognize. When asked, he held his badge and ID up to the camera.
"Miss Adderly?" he asked when she opened the door, still on its chain.
She nodded but didn't admit him.
He held up his ID again, and Mariah noted he was NSA. "Major Casey asked that these be delivered to you," he told her briskly and took a manila envelope from where it had been trapped against his body by his left arm. She reached for it, saw her name neatly typed on the front. He took a pad of paper from a pocket and a pen. "Sign, please," he said as he extended them toward her. She signed the receipt and took her copy before watching him walk away.
Bemused, she wondered what on earth John would have sent her she needed to sign for. She shrugged, closed the door, and took the envelope to the couch. Mariah quickly flipped through the neatly clipped stacks of paper she found inside. The first set of documents was from a bank; the second two had a cover letter from an attorney whose practice was located in John's hometown and held a power of attorney and a will. The last item from the package was a letter-sized envelope that bore only her first name in John's distinctive scrawl.
She read the documents while she waited for Chuck. She started with the sealed envelope. It was a note from John, told her that since he didn't know how long he'd be gone, he was providing her with the power of attorney, had added her name to his bank accounts—though she would have to go to the local branch and sign some paperwork—and asked that she pay his bills, manage his affairs until he was home. The apartment was paid for by the government—Mariah had wondered, and when she had asked if she needed to pay part of the rent shortly after she arrived, John had given her a don't-be-a-moron look. They paid the utilities as well. John listed his bills and the dates on which she was to pay them. He had a bank lien on the Vic, she noted, a few credit cards, and utilities on his house in Maryland. There was no mortgage, though, which surprised her.
When she looked at his bank records, she lifted her brows, surprised by the balance. She wondered if John ever spent money, and then she snorted. He obviously did, but he apparently lived well below his means, based on what she saw as she ran her eyes down the monthly debits from his account. There were investments as well, she noticed, flipping through the attached statements for a retirement account separate from his government pension and for his stock portfolio, bonds, and several CDs.
She thought about the prenup her mother suggested, and she wondered that John hadn't jumped at it. Then, she realized he was simply returning her faith in him.
The power of attorney was straightforward, and there was a medical power of attorney there as well, one that gave her authority to make care and treatment choices for him, and that gave her qualms she had not had before. Old suspicions died hard, and she remembered again the superstition of her trainers at the Institute.
The will downright spooked her, though. It had been amended and revised, left some of John's assets to various family members but left the rest to her. This, this document convinced her John wasn't sure he was coming home alive, but she didn't want to believe that, didn't want him to believe that.
It was a possibility, though, and she knew it. What her mother had said when they told her they were getting married came back to her then. It might not be missing appendages—it might be dead. She shivered; then she jumped when a knock that was obviously Chuck's sounded on her door. She gathered the papers up, let Chuck in, and told him she needed to go upstairs. She put the papers with her own, and went downstairs to go to the Buy More.
John had been gone nearly two weeks when Mariah began to get antsy. He had called her a few days before, woke her from a shallow sleep to talk to her for less than fifteen seconds. He'd taken a huge chance to say, "I'm alive, and I love you." He hadn't waited for her to reply before he hung up.
She invited Ellie over for dinner, unable to take another night alone. Because she had an odd craving for chicken, a meat she rarely ate, she made coq au vin, homemade French bread, and a rustic apple tart with sweetened cream for dessert. After dinner, she and Ellie sat on the couch and talked about wedding plans. Mariah didn't have a clue where to start, so Ellie began giving her a crash course on what would need to be done and an idea of the timeline involved. Mariah sat dazed as Ellie talked about finding a venue, invitations, save the date cards—which she said needed to go out pretty much immediately since they were getting married in less than seven months—and the reception.
Mariah listened and wasn't at all sure she was up to this. It sounded more daunting than planning and executing a field operation deep in enemy territory against vastly superior numbers without any information about the situation on the ground and no back up available. As she watched Ellie make lists and listened to her talk through what needed to be done, Mariah decided she wanted to just elope and to hell with her mother and John's.
That, of course, was never going to happen though she felt confident she could convince John to simply go somewhere and quietly get married and then just announce what they had done.
There was a knock on her front door, and Mariah assumed it was probably Chuck home from his date with Sarah Walker. She pulled the door open, laughing at something Ellie said about booze for the reception, and turned to see two strangers on her doorstep.
Two strangers in uniform.
Two strangers wearing U.S. Marine Corps service uniforms, one a lieutenant colonel and the other a captain.
The captain sported insignia that marked him as a chaplain.
She slammed the door closed before they could speak and flipped the locks before she started to shake uncontrollably and prayed they'd just go away, that she had imagined them. She had never hoped so hard in her life to have hallucinated. Ellie shot off the couch, said her name. The other woman's shocked concern got through Mariah's rising panic, but it did nothing to head it off.
Ellie stood in front of her, but Mariah couldn't focus. She was overwhelmed by pain, overwhelmed by the only possible explanation for what was on the other side of that door—assuming she wasn't really asleep on the couch and imagining all this. Ellie's voice sounded like it came from a distance, from under water, which meant her words really didn't sink in enough Mariah could decode what she said. Chuck's sister took hold of her upper arms and said her name again. Mariah fought for the breath to say, "Don't open the door."
The other woman frowned at her and started to move her away from the door so she could do precisely that, but Mariah planted her feet despite feeling lightheaded. "Don't open the door," she repeated. "Don't open the door, Ellie. Don't let them in. Whatever you do, don't let them in. Please, don't let them in." She knew she was begging, but she didn't care. She could feel something wet on her cheeks, but she didn't care about that, either.
Ellie looked alarmed. Then a male voice came through from the other side of the door. "Miss Adderly?"
Confusion followed by suspicion shifted Ellie's expression. "Adderly?"
As a possible distraction from what she wanted to make go away, Mariah nearly jumped on it. Instead, she closed her eyes. It probably didn't matter that Ellie knew her real name, especially since Mariah knew what the two officers on the other side of the door must be there to tell her. It was finished. All of it. "My father's name," she said faintly, and, strangely, explaining gained her a measure of control. "I usually use my mother's," she lied smoothly.
"Mariah, who's on the other side of the door?" Ellie asked.
She started shaking again, and not just because crushing memories of all that had happened the last time John had been gone momentarily flooded out the panic caused by what the men outside her door must be there tell her. That thought didn't push back the pain; it merely redirected it toward a newer, sharper pain and renewed her panic. "Please, please, don't let them in. I don't want to hear it."
They pounded on the door again. Mariah jumped in response. Ellie knew an opportunity when she saw one, and she moved her and opened the door. Mariah hugged her arms around her abdomen, watched her friend stiffen when she saw the two men. The lieutenant colonel looked around Ellie at Mariah and asked, "Miss Adderly?"
Mariah's spine jerked straight, and then she pulled herself together a moment. She pointed at the senior officer. "If you dare say, 'I regret to inform you,'" she bit out, "I swear to God I'll shoot the both of you."