UNDER SIEGE

A ruthless killer is targeting the families of soldiers in a U.S. Army colonel’s brigade. Special agent Jamison Steele, of the Criminal Investigation Division, vows to stop him—because this time, Jamison’s heart is involved. The colonel’s daughter, the woman who loved and left Jamison without a word, came face-to-face with the murderer. Protecting Michele Logan means constant surveillance. And solving the mystery of the serial killer’s motive requires asking Michele the questions she least wants to answer. Questions that may lead them both into a deadly trap.

Jamison pulled a small notebook and U.S. Army pen from his coat pocket and kept his face impassive as he thought of questions that begged to be answered.

Why’d you leave me, Michele? What happened that made you run away?

Shoving them aside, he asked, “Did you see anything out of place, Miss Logan, before you noticed the body?”

“Miss Logan?” She narrowed her gaze. Evidently she didn’t understand his decision to forgo first names.

No matter how alluring Michele might be, Jamison needed to remain professional but aloof and firmly grounded in the present.

“The room was dark...the smell of blood. I—I saw Yolanda,” she said.

“What happened next?”

“Someone shoved me into the couch.”

Jamison tensed. His mouth went dry. He swallowed, knowing all too well what the killer could have done to Michele. “Can...can you describe the person?”

She shook her head. “He struck me from behind. I never saw him, Agent Steele.”

Jamison almost smiled at her attempt to play hardball. Evidently she didn’t realize he’d built a wall around his heart and added armor for protection.

DEBBY GIUSTI

is a medical technologist who loves working with test tubes and petri dishes almost as much as she loves to write. Growing up as an army brat, Debby met and married her husband—then a captain in the army—at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Together they traveled the world, raised three wonderful army brats of their own and have now settled in Atlanta, Georgia, where Debby spins tales of suspense that touch the heart and soul. Contact Debby through her website, www.DebbyGiusti.com, email debby@debbygiusti.com, or write c/o Love Inspired Suspense, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

The Colonel’s Daughter

Debby Giusti

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man

who built his house on the rock. The rain

came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock.

—Matthew 7:24, 25

This book is dedicated to

the deployed members of our Armed Forces

and to the families who await their return.

To my husband, who has always been my hero.

To Liz, Joe, Mary, Eric, Katie, Anna, Robert, William and John Anthony.

To the parishioners at Holy Trinity

who encourage me to write more stories.

To the Seekers and the extended Seekerville family for your friendship and support.

To Anna Adams with gratitude

for our weekly meetings at Panera’s.

To Emily Rodmell, my editor,

and Deidre Knight, my agent.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

ONE

Angry storm clouds turned the evening sky over Fort Rickman, Georgia, as dark as the mood within the car. Michele Logan pulled her eyes from the road and glanced at her mother, sitting next to her in the passenger seat.

Roberta Logan, usually the poised colonel’s wife, toyed with the collar of her blouse and gave voice to a subject that had weighed on Michele’s heart for the past two years. “Despite what you think, dear, you haven’t gotten over your brother’s death.”

Ever since she and her mother had left her parents’ quarters en route to the potluck dinner, Roberta had insisted on talking about the accident that had claimed Lance’s life. The topic added to Michele’s anxiety, especially with the inclement August weather and the darkening night.

“Aren’t you the one who insists life goes on, Mother?”

“And it does, dear, but that doesn’t mean you’ve worked through your grief.” Roberta turned her gaze toward the encroaching storm. “As I’ve told you before, you weren’t to blame.”

True enough that Michele wasn’t to blame for the crashed army helicopter, yet she still felt responsible for her brother’s death. If she had visited that weekend, he never would have been on board the fateful flight.

“I don’t like the looks of those clouds.” Distracted by the storm, Roberta worried her fingers. “Maybe Yolanda should have canceled the potluck.”

“And disappoint the wives in Dad’s brigade? You said it’s important for the women to come together socially when the men were deployed.”

“But the weatherman mentioned another line of storms moving into Georgia.” Her mother’s voice grew increasingly concerned. “You should have stayed in Atlanta until the bad weather passed, dear.”

“I told you I want to help with preparations for the brigade’s return to Fort Rickman.”

“Which won’t be for another week. The real reason you came home early is to visit the cemetery tomorrow. It’s been two years. You don’t need to spend each anniversary crying at Lance’s grave site.”

“I’m not crying.”

“But you will be tomorrow.” Roberta shifted in the seat and sighed. “You never should have left post in the first place.”

Although she wouldn’t admit it, Michele sometimes wondered if moving to Atlanta ten months ago had been a mistake. She hadn’t seen Jamison Steele in all that time, but she’d thought about him far too often. They had dated for almost a year, and she had believed he was everything she’d wanted in a guy. When an investigation turned deadly on post, she realized her mistake.

As if sensing her struggle, Roberta gazed knowingly at her daughter. “Your father and I would love to have you move back, dear. You could work from home.”

“I...I can’t.”

Roberta rubbed her hand over Michele’s shoulder. “Just think about it.”

Moving back wasn’t an option. Michele had made a new life for herself. One that didn’t involve the military. She was happy in Atlanta, or so she kept telling herself.

Droplets of rain spattered against the windshield as Michele turned into the Buckner Housing Area. She activated the wipers and flipped the lights to high beam, exposing broken twigs and leaves that had fallen in the last downpour.

The street was long and narrow and led to a two-story home at the dead end of a cul-de-sac surrounded by a thick forest of hardwoods and tall pines. Michele pulled to the curb in front of the dark quarters.

Mrs. Logan eyed the house completely devoid of light. “Yolanda must have lost power in the storm.” Thunder rumbled overhead, and fat raindrops pummeled the car.

“I’ll get the casserole, Mother. You make a run for the door.” Michele grabbed the ceramic dish from the backseat and raced behind her mother to the covered porch.

Roberta tapped twice with the brass knocker. When no one answered, she glanced questioningly at Michele and then pushed the door open.

“Yolanda, it’s Roberta and Michele. We’re early, but we wanted to help before the others arrive.” Roberta stepped inside and motioned Michele to follow. A bolt of lightning sizzled across the sky. A second later, thunder shook the house.

An earthy smell wafted past Michele. She closed the door and looked left into the dining area. Flames from two large candles flickered over the linen tablecloth, highlighting the plates and silverware stacked on the sideboard.

“Yolanda, where are you?” Roberta walked toward the kitchen, her heels clipping over the hardwood floor.

Michele placed the casserole on the dining table before she returned to the foyer. At the opposite end of the hallway, her mother stopped short, hands on her hips.

“Yolanda?”

Roberta’s raised voice and insistent call twisted more than a ripple of concern along Michele’s spine. A sense of foreboding flooded over her as intense as any she had felt for her father in the twelve months of his deployment. With the silent quarters closing in around her, she was now equally worried about Yolanda.

A floorboard creaked in the living room. Michele turned toward the sound. The settling house, the wind howling down the chimney...or was someone there?

She crossed the hallway, drawn by a need to discover not only the source of the noise but also the mineral smell that increased in intensity the closer she got to the living room. Her neck tingled, but she ignored the warning and stepped toward the oversized couch and love seat that filled the center of the living area.

A small table and chair sat nestled in an alcove behind the love seat. Michele tried to make out the dark outline on the pale carpet.

“Yolanda?” From the kitchen, Roberta called one more time. Her voice was filled with question and a tremble that signified she, too, sensed something was wrong.

Michele’s pulse quickened as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Newspapers lay scattered around an overturned lamp.

Her stomach tightened.

A roar filled her ears. She stepped around the couch and saw the woman lying in a pool of blood.

“No!” Michele’s hand flew to her throat in the exact spot where Yolanda’s neck had been cut.

A rustle sounded behind her. Before she could turn, a violent force lunged into her. She crashed against the back of the couch. Her ribs took the blow. Pain exploded along her side and mixed with air that whooshed from her lungs. She gasped, and for an instant saw only darkness.

Retreating footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Her mother screamed.

Michele fisted her hands and willed herself to remain conscious. A door slammed shut in the rear of the house.

Still gasping for air, she struggled to her feet and stumbled out of the living area, her only thought to find her mother and make sure she was alive.

Lightning turned the darkness bright for one terrifying second. Roberta lay slumped against the wall.

Dropping to her knees, Michele touched her mother’s shoulder. “Mama?”

Roberta moaned. Her eyes blinked open.

Relief rushed over Michele along with a wave of nausea. She hung her head to stave off the passing sickness and dug in her pocket for her cell phone.

A face flashed through her mind. Without weighing the consequences, she punched Speed Dial for a number she should have deleted ten months ago.

He answered on the second ring.

“Criminal Investigation Division, Fort Rickman, Georgia. This is Special Agent Jamison Steele.”

The memory of his warm embrace and tender kisses washed over her. For one sweet, illogical second, she felt safe.

“Hello?” He waited for a response.

“Jamison—”

A sharp intake of air. “Michele?”

“I need help.” Rubbing her free hand over her forehead, she tried to focus. “I’m at Quarters 122. In the Buckner Housing Area. Contact the military police.”

“What happened?”

“One of the wives... Her husband’s in Afghanistan. He’s in my father’s brigade. She was hosting a potluck for the brigade wives. Someone broke in—”

Jamison issued a series of commands to a person in his office. “I’m on the way, Michele. The military police are being notified. I’ll be there in three minutes. Are you hurt?”

“I...I’m okay. It’s Yolanda Hughes.”

Michele swallowed down the lump that filled her throat. “Yolanda’s dead.”

* * *

Heart in his throat, Jamison pulled to the curb and hit the ground running, weapon in one hand, Maglite in the other.

Stay calm. Ignoring the internal advice, his gut tightened when he stepped into the house and spied Michele on the floor with her arm around her mother.

For an instant, he was once again the man who loved Michele more than anything. Swallowing hard, Jamison shoved aside any lingering hope for a future together, a future that had died when she walked out of his life.

Raw fear flashed from her blue eyes and cut through his resolve to remain neutral. Ten months ago, her smile had lit up his world. Today Michele’s face was as pale as death and furrowed with pain.

Head buried in her daughter’s shoulder, Mrs. Logan cried softly. Michele nudged her gently. “Jamison’s here, Mama.”

The older woman glanced up, her eyes red and swollen. “Oh, Jamison. Yolanda... A man raced past me and out the back door. I...I tried to stop him.”

“Did he hurt you?” His gaze fell on Michele. Tousled brown hair hung around her oval face.

“We’re both a little bruised. Nothing serious. But Yolanda—” Unable to continue, Michele raised a trembling hand and pointed to the living area.

“Stay where you are,” he cautioned, struggling to remain objective. “The ambulance is on its way.”

A rank, coppery smell greeted Jamison as he entered the living room. He aimed his light over the blood that had soaked into the thick carpet, blackening the fibers.

His gut twisted at the tragic sight.

The victim was an African-American female. Probably mid- to late-thirties. Shoulder-length brown hair. Dark eyes wide open. The look of terror etched on her face.

A deep laceration had severed her carotid artery. Massive blood loss pooled under her upper torso.

Kneeling beside the woman, he felt for a pulse, yet knew full well life had been heinously snatched from Yolanda Hughes. Her wrist was supple and still warm. No rigor mortis. Not yet.

He tried the light switch, then played the Maglite over the living room. His gaze settled ever so briefly on the family photograph above the mantel. The deceased was smiling warmly, her hands on the shoulders of a man in uniform. Major’s rank on his epaulets. Two children. A boy and girl.

The dread of finding the children dead roared through Jamison. He strode back to the hallway. “Mrs. Hughes had kids?”

Michele held up her hand, palm out. “They’re at the Graysons’. Lieutenant Colonel Grayson is my father’s executive officer. The two families are close. The Grayson kids invited Benjamin and Natalie to stay with them tonight.”

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Jamison moved quickly into the kitchen and edged open the back door. He stepped outside and studied the darkness, knowing the killer was long gone.

Retracing his steps, Jamison headed toward the flickering candlelight and checked the dining area before he scurried up the stairs to the second floor. Sirens screamed in the distance.

Finding nothing out of place and no one upstairs, he returned to the main landing and ensured that Michele and her mother were all right before he opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Three military police cars screeched to the curb. An ambulance followed close behind. Across the street, neighbors came out of their homes and stared with worried expressions at the activity.

Jamison directed the military police. “The victim’s in the living room, first floor. Two children are spending the night with friends. Husband is deployed. Colonel Logan’s wife and daughter are in the hallway and need medical attention. The electricity is down. Get some temporary lighting in there ASAP.”

A military policeman began to cordon off the area with crime scene tape.

“Someone go door to door,” Jamison ordered. “Question the neighbors. See if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

“Roger that, sir.” A stocky military policeman motioned for another MP to join him, and the twosome hustled to a nearby set of quarters.

The medics raced up the front steps. Jamison followed them inside. One man moved into the living area. The other two knelt beside Mrs. Logan and Michele.

Assured they were being adequately cared for, Jamison returned to the porch to oversee the bevy of activity. A young military policeman approached him.

“Sir, the power line to the house appears to have been severed. The on-post maintenance company has been notified. They’re sending someone to fix the line.”

“Dust for prints first.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“How long until he arrives?”

“They said he’d be here shortly.”

“Did they give you an exact time?”

“No, sir.”

A car pulled into the driveway. CID special agent Dawson Timmons—a tall blond with a thick neck—climbed onto the sidewalk. Favoring his right leg, he approached Jamison, who quickly filled him in.

“What do you need me to do?” Dawson asked.

“Take care of the crime scene. I want to question Mrs. Logan and her daughter and get them out of here as soon as possible. The victim was hosting a potluck for the brigade wives. The guests should be arriving soon. Talk to them individually to see if they have information pertinent to the case.”

“How many ladies are we expecting?”

“Eighteen plates were stacked on a table in the dining room.”

Dawson glanced at the unit insignia plaque on the front door. “First Brigade, Fifth Infantry Division should be home next week.”

Jamison nodded. “Contact Lieutenant Colonel Grayson, the unit’s executive officer, in Afghanistan. Tell him I need to talk to Colonel Logan. Once the other wives arrive, word about the murder will get out. I don’t want Major Hughes to learn what happened to his wife via Twitter or Facebook.”

As Dawson placed the call, Jamison reentered the house. Huge battery-operated floodlights illuminated the earlier darkened interior. The medics had moved Mrs. Logan and Michele to the kitchen, where the women sat at the small breakfast table.

Mrs. Logan sported a bandage on her forehead and stared up at one of the EMTs. “If my blood pressure is okay after all that, young man, I’m not going to the hospital. But I appreciate your advice and the excellent care you’ve provided tonight.”

“I still think you and Miss Logan should have a doctor check you, ma’am.”

Michele stood and stepped toward Jamison, her voice low when she spoke. “Mother insists she’s okay, although I’d feel better if a doctor looked her over.”

“Are you planning to take your own advice?” Frustrated by Michele’s attempt to slip back into their old familiarity, Jamison realized his tone was sharp.

She stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked back to her seat. “If Mother has any problems, we’ll reconsider her decision.”

She was closing herself off from him. Again. He shouldn’t be surprised. Being with Michele drove home the point Jamison had known for months. The colonel’s daughter wasn’t for him. She had left him high and dry without as much as a so long, see you later. He thought he had healed, but tonight the memory festered like an open wound.

“Jamison, any clue who the murderer might be?” Mrs. Logan asked once the medics had cleared the room. Her face was blotched, but she seemed more in control than she had been earlier.

“No, ma’am. But I ordered a post lockdown on the way over here. No one goes on or off Fort Rickman until the military police search the garrison. Right now they’re crisscrossing the post in an attempt to find the perpetrator.”

“Curtis Hughes needs to be told.”

“We’re placing a call to your husband so he can personally notify Major Hughes.”

Mrs. Logan nodded her approval. “I want to talk to Stanley after you do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Michele’s cheeks had more color than when he’d first spotted her in the hallway, but her jaw was tight and her eyes guarded.

He pulled a small notebook and a U.S. government pen from his coat pocket and kept his face impassive as he thought of questions that begged to be answered. Why’d you leave me, Michele? What happened that made you run away?

Shoving them aside, he asked instead, “Did you see anything out of place, Miss Logan, before you noticed the body?”

“Miss Logan?” She narrowed her gaze and squared her shoulders in an attempt to cover the flash of confusion that clouded her face. Evidently, she didn’t understand his decision to forgo first names.

No matter how alluring Michele might be, Jamison refused to expose his own inner conflict. He needed to remain professional and aloof, firmly grounded in the present.

Michele tugged at a wayward strand of hair and glanced down as if struggling to find the right words to express what had happened.

“I...I heard a noise and decided to investigate.” She pulled in a deep breath. “A lamp...the room was dark...the smell of blood. Wh...when I stepped closer, I...I saw Yolanda.”

“What happened next?”

“Someone shoved me into the couch.”

Jamison tensed. His mouth went dry. He swallowed, knowing all too well what the killer could have done to Michele. “Can you describe the person?”

She shook her head. “He struck from behind. I never saw him.”

Jamison turned to Mrs. Logan. “Did you see him, ma’am?”

“I’m afraid not. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness, and everything happened so fast.”

“Before entering the quarters, did either of you notice anyone outside? Or anything that seemed out of the ordinary?”

“Mother and I were talking as we drove up. I’m afraid we weren’t being observant, Agent Steele.”

Jamison almost smiled at her attempt to play hardball. Evidently, she didn’t realize he’d built a wall around his heart and added armor for protection. Michele wouldn’t hurt him again. He’d learned his lesson and had the scars to prove it.

“You’re still working for that insurance company?” he asked.

“That’s right. Patriotic Life.”

“Doing risk management?”

“And working from home, if that’s your next question.” She crossed her legs and braced her spine, confrontation evident as she shifted positions.

The pulse in his neck throbbed. “Do you have a list of tonight’s guests?”

“Mother does on her computer. I can print a copy for you.”

“How many people, other than the eighteen women who were invited, may have known about the potluck?”

Michele glanced at her mother for help. “I’m not sure.”

“Seventeen women and one man,” Mrs. Logan corrected Jamison. “Major Shirley Yates is in charge of logistics for the brigade. Her husband, Greg, usually attends the events when we get together.”

“Has he been to Mrs. Hughes’s home previously?” Jamison asked.

Mrs. Logan nodded. “Yes, of course. Yolanda entertains often.”

“Mr. Yates lives on post?”

“In Freemont. Greg has a son from a previous marriage, but I believe he’s in college. No telling who else knew about the potluck. Yolanda probably shared the information with some of her neighbors. She scrapbooks with a group of women in her housing area. Those wives might have known.”

“Had she mentioned anyone acting strangely in the neighborhood? Or had she reconnected with anyone from her past recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Is she on Facebook or Twitter?”

“Yolanda emailed her husband and kept up with the brigade news on our wives’ loop. She never mentioned being on any social media sites.”

“How about her marriage?” Jamison glanced at both women. “Were there problems?”

Michele forced a sad smile. “They seemed to be the perfect couple. Devoted to each other and to their children.”

“Any other men in her life? An old friend?”

Mrs. Logan held up her hand. “You can stop that line of questioning, Jamison. Yolanda was a devoted wife. She adored her husband. I’ll vouch for their love and their marriage.”

“What about Greg Yates, the major’s husband? Were he and Mrs. Hughes friendly?”

“Friends but that’s all.”

“And his marriage?”

Mrs. Logan dropped her gaze and thought for a moment before she spoke. “Deployments are tough, Jamison. There’s been some talk, but only that.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Shirley and Greg plan to separate once she returns home with the unit.”

“How’s Mr. Yates handling the situation?”

“In my opinion, he’s in denial.”

“And Major Yates?”

“Stanley’s said she seems withdrawn.”

Jamison made note of the information. “Major Yates asked for the separation?”

“Evidently Shirley told Greg she was leaving him. He suggested they go through a period of separation first.” Mrs. Logan pursed her lips momentarily. “A few wives thought Shirley was interested in someone else.”

“Someone in the brigade?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could she be involved with Major Hughes?”

Mrs. Logan’s eyes widened in protest. “Absolutely not.”

“Is there anything about Major Hughes that seems questionable, ma’am? As far as you know, does he get along with the other officers in the brigade? Is there anyone who might hold a grudge against him?”

“My husband has always given Curtis high praise. He went to Iraq with Stanley, when my husband commanded his battalion some years ago. Stanley was thrilled when Curtis was assigned to the First of the Fifth shortly before the brigade deployed to Afghanistan.”

Jamison turned to Michele. “You’ve known Major and Mrs. Hughes since he worked for your father in the battalion?”

She nodded. “I used to babysit their kids. But if you think either Yolanda or her husband were involved in something that led to her death, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t suspect anything at this point.” Although he wanted to question Greg Yates. A spurned husband might retaliate against the man he perceived had stolen his wife. Even though Mrs. Logan vouched for Major Hughes’s fidelity, things happened, especially during a deployment.

Jamison closed his notebook and tucked it into his sports coat pocket. “What about the children, ma’am? Does Major Hughes have family in the area?”

“No one close by. Yolanda and Curtis are both from Missouri. I’m sure Benjamin and Natalie can stay at Erica Grayson’s house until relatives arrive.”

Dawson entered the kitchen. He handed the phone to Jamison. “Lieutenant Colonel Grayson is on the line.”

Jamison quickly explained the reason he had phoned. Grayson relayed the information to the commander. Colonel Logan knew Jamison from when he and Michele had dated, but there would be nothing personal about tonight’s call.

The commander’s voice was husky with emotion when he came on the line. “Was Roberta hurt? What about Michele?”

“They’re okay, sir.” As much as he hated giving Colonel Logan bad news, Jamison had to be forthright. Being deployed half a world away meant the colonel couldn’t protect his wife and daughter. Jamison could relate. Once upon a time, he had wanted to be the man keeping Michele safe.

“The perpetrator was in the house when Mrs. Logan and Michele arrived on the scene. Both women were shoved to the floor, sir. The medics checked them out. At this point, I don’t believe they’re going to need further medical care.”

“Thank God.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir.”

“How did it happen, Agent Steele? Aren’t the military police patrolling the housing areas? I’ve got a brigade of soldiers over here fighting to ensure that our world remains safe. Their families need to be protected, yet a killer gets on post and attacks my S-3’s wife.”

“Sir, we’ll use every resource available to apprehend the perpetrator and bring him to justice.”

“I want more than that. I want your assurance no one else will be injured.”

“That’s our goal, sir.”

The colonel let out a sigh. “I know you’re not to blame, but it’s hard to believe something like this could have occurred.”

Jamison filled him in on the few remaining details he knew, although he didn’t mention his concern about Greg Yates and his wife’s rumored infidelity. That could wait until the CID had more information.

“How’s Roberta taking it?” the colonel asked.

“As well as can be expected, sir. She wants to speak to you.” Jamison glanced at Michele before handing the phone to Mrs. Logan.

“I’m fine, Stanley,” she said immediately.

Jamison left the kitchen. Major Bret Hansen, the medical examiner, had arrived and was examining the body. The major looked up as Jamison entered the living room.

“Appears the perp used neuromuscular incapacitation to subdue her,” Hansen said.

“A stun gun?”

“More than likely.”

“That explains how he got in. Mrs. Hughes probably thought one of the wives had arrived early when she opened the door. The killer incapacitated her with the stun gun and was able to walk in without confrontation.”

“I’ll do the autopsy in the morning and let you know the results.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

Returning to the kitchen, Jamison caught Mrs. Logan’s eye. She raised her hand as if ready to finish her conversation.

“Erica should be able to keep the children until

Yolanda’s sister arrives. Have Curtis call me when he feels like talking.” Mrs. Logan nodded. “I love you, too, dear.”

Handing the phone to Michele, she said, “Your father wants to speak to you.”

Taking the cell from her mother, Michele walked to the corner of the kitchen to talk privately with her father.

Jamison helped Mrs. Logan to her feet.

“I’m sure Stan’s telling our daughter to take me home and keep me there. The man has enough to do without being concerned about my safety.”

“He loves you, ma’am.”

She nodded. “I’m lucky, Jamison. God gave me a wonderful husband and a good daughter, although she has an independent streak that worries me at times.”

“She knows what she wants.”

Mrs. Logan cocked her head and stared up at Jamison. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Hearing noise outside, Jamison headed to the front of the house. Opening the door, he saw three women standing on the sidewalk, their faces twisted in disbelief.

“Excuse me, Jamison. Those are some of the brigade wives.” Mrs. Logan shoved past him onto the porch. Pulling up the crime scene tape, she hurried toward the women.

Knowing her determination and desire to help the others, Jamison let her go. Any questions he still needed answered could wait.

Michele stepped onto the porch and handed him the phone. Her blue eyes had lost their brilliance, but they still had the power to draw him in just as they had done the first night they’d met at the club on post.

He turned from her, remembering the bitter taste of betrayal when Michele had left without explaining why. Usually he wasn’t prone to hold a grudge, but in this case, he couldn’t get past the sting of rejection. Maybe if she had told him what he had done wrong, Jamison might have been able to move on.

A beige van bearing the post maintenance company’s logo pulled into the cul-de-sac. A tall, lanky fellow, mid-forties, eased to the pavement, toting a toolbox and a flashlight. “Someone called in an emergency request?”

One of the military policemen motioned for him to follow. “Right this way.”

The tall guy smiled at Jamison. “Sir.” His gaze took in Michele. “Evening, ma’am.”

She nodded and, once again, wrapped her arms across her chest.

Extricating Mrs. Logan from the other brigade wives took longer than Jamison had expected. The women huddled around her like chicks surrounding a mother hen. She tried to assuage their fears, while Jamison cautioned them to remain vigilant until the killer was apprehended.

Michele knew most of the women and seemed as much a part of the group as her mother. She had the makings of a good army wife. Not that she seemed interested in marrying into the military. Her hasty departure from Fort Rickman had been ample proof she wanted nothing to do with Jamison or the army.

When the questioning had been completed and all the wives had left the area, Jamison drove Michele and her mother back to their home. A military policeman followed in Jamison’s car.

“We’re increasing patrols, especially in the housing areas, Mrs. Logan. I don’t want to alarm you, but as I told the other women, you need to be careful and cautious.”

“We will be, Jamison.”

“Did you hear from Greg Yates? I didn’t see him tonight.”

Mrs. Logan checked her phone. “He didn’t call. Maybe the weather kept him away.”

Maybe. Or maybe not.

After saying good-night, Mrs. Logan hurried inside, leaving Michele to linger on the front steps. Gazing down at the cement, she chewed her lower lip.

Finally, she glanced up. “Thanks for responding to my call for help.”

Jamison gave her a halfhearted smile that revealed nothing. “It’s my job.”

“Right.” She looked away but not fast enough to hide the frown that tightened her brow.

He glanced at the street where the military policeman had parked his car. Memories of other times they had said good-night on this very same porch flashed through his mind.

Pushing aside the thoughts, Jamison squared his shoulders. “You had best get inside. Be sure to lock the door behind you.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “Can’t we, at least, go back to first names?”

“All right.” He waited to see if she had anything else to say.

Michele tapped her hand against the wrought-iron banister and stared into the darkness, the silence heavy between them.

Finally, she broke the standoff. “How many military policemen will be in the area, Jamison?”

Her need for reassurance touched a chord in his heart. “Enough to keep you safe.”

“I guess—” She raised her chin and regarded him with questioning eyes. “That’s all we have to discuss.”

“Michele—”

Before he could say anything else, she opened the front door. “Good night, Jamison.”

The door closed, and the lock clicked into place.

If only we could go back in time. The thought came unbidden. Jamison slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand to dispel the temptation.

He was finished with Michele. End of story. Going back would only cause more pain.

Jamison double-timed back to his car, slid behind the wheel and pulled onto the roadway. He needed to distance himself from the colonel’s daughter.

He had been hurt once.

Michele would never break his heart again.

TWO

Post security was imperative when a killer was on the loose. Jamison drove around Fort Rickman to ensure that the roadblocks were in place and the gates were well guarded. Heading back to his office, he realized, too late, that he had passed the turnoff to the CID headquarters and ended up in the area where the ranking officers lived.

The large brick quarters, built in the 1930s and ’40s, circled a parade field where units marched and bands played in better times. Tonight the post was locked down and on high alert.

His headlights cut through the foggy darkness, revealing the two-lane street littered with fallen leaves and branches stripped from the trees during the earlier storms. Had the murderer chosen tonight because of the adverse weather conditions, or had something else triggered his assault?

At the onset of any investigation, Jamison felt like a man in a rowboat, paddling through uncharted waters in the middle of a black night, never knowing where his journey would end. The fog lifted momentarily, revealing the Logans’ quarters.

Jamison almost smiled. He didn’t need to check on Michele. Military police were patrolling the colonel’s area. They were trained and competent, but for some reason, his radar had signaled the need to ensure that Michele was safe.

The front porch light was on and mixed with the glow from a lamp in the living room. Upstairs, a single bulb shone through a bathroom window. Slowing his speed, he studied the area around the house, looking for anything that could signal danger for the women inside. Extending his search, he checked the entire block before he returned to her street.

A military police patrol car approached from the opposite direction. Not wanting to explain why he was in the area, Jamison turned at the next intersection and headed back to CID headquarters.

Along the way, he tried to convince himself that he would have done the same thing no matter who had been a witness in the investigation. Deep down, he knew the truth. Michele had been the only reason for his late-night detour.

Once behind his desk, Jamison placed a call to the CID in Afghanistan and filled them in on what had happened at Fort Rickman. A special agent by the name of Warner took the information and assured Jamison he’d see what he could uncover about Major Shirley Yates. If she had previously had a romantic relationship or was currently having an affair, Warner would find out who was involved and contact Jamison with the information. He would also check out Major Hughes to ensure that the murder wasn’t an act of revenge against the victim’s husband.

For the rest of the night, Jamison pored over the crime scene photos and information collected so far. By morning, his shoulders ached. He scooted his chair back and picked up a photo taken of the Hughes’ kitchen and the door through which the killer had escaped.

In the corner of the same picture, the photographer had also captured Michele, standing by the table, arms wrapped across her chest. The look on her face provided a clear image of the turmoil she must have been experiencing internally. The shock of finding a murder victim was hard on anyone, especially so for a woman who ran from conflict. Michele might consider herself strong and determined, but Jamison knew better.

They had met a little over a year after the helicopter crash that had taken her brother’s life. Michele worked with insurance actuary tables and knew the dangers those in the military faced, especially when deployed or training for combat. A job with the CID brought danger even closer to home, something she wasn’t willing to face.

Ten months ago, Michele had run away from a relationship that would have required her to look deep within herself and determine whether she cared enough about Jamison to live with the constant threat a job in law enforcement entailed.

Since she had never told him why she had moved back to Atlanta, Jamison had been left with two possible conclusions. Michele had decided he wasn’t worth the risk or she hadn’t been able to determine what she wanted in life.

On occasion, she had mentioned her struggle with God. If she didn’t feel loved by the Lord, chances were she didn’t feel worthy of anyone’s love, including Jamison’s. Either way, she had run to Atlanta, where she thought she could live life on her own terms. Her own safe terms.

Love involved risk, and Michele wasn’t ready to put her heart on the line. At least, that’s the excuse Jamison had used to work through his own pain. He thought he had healed, but coming face-to-face with Michele made him realize he wasn’t over her yet. For some reason—maybe lack of sleep or the horrific crime scene that had been captured in the photos on his desk—Jamison felt raw as if being near Michele had opened the old wound to his heart.

Tossing the picture of her back onto his desk, he looked up as Dawson entered the cubicle with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.

“Otis perked a fresh pot,” Dawson said in greeting.

“God bless him.” Jamison reached for a mug and inhaled the rich aroma.

Dawson’s gaze trailed over Jamison’s desk and stopped at the photo of Michele. Inwardly, Jamison flinched, waiting for a jabbing comment about a pretty face and a former love.

Relieved when the other CID agent raised his gaze without commenting, Jamison asked, “What about the door-to-door search in the neighborhood? Anything turn up yet?”

“Only questions about the maintenance man who fixed the wiring at the Hughes quarters last night.”

“The guy from Prime Maintenance?” Jamison took a swig of the hot brew. High-test, loaded with caffeine, just what he needed after a long night without sleep.

Dawson nodded. “A couple folks mentioned seeing his truck drive through the housing area earlier in the evening.”

“Their main office isn’t far from the Post Shopping Area. I’ll stop by and talk to the supervisor.” Jamison straightened the stack of photos on his desk and pulled out an eight-by-ten of Yolanda’s dining room. He tapped his finger on the bouquet of cut flowers in the center of the table. “The crime scene team found a floral wrapper from the post flower shop in the victim’s trash. I plan to question the florist, as well, after I shower and change. He may have seen something when he delivered the bouquet.”

“Let me know what you find out.”

“Will do.” Jamison took another sip of his coffee. “Send one of our guys into Freemont to talk to Mr. Yates. We need to know why he never showed up at the potluck last night. And keep an extra detail of military police on the front gate. Every vehicle leaving and entering Fort Rickman needs to be searched. If the killer got away last night, we don’t want him coming back on post and doing more harm.”

“You worried he’ll strike again?” Dawson asked.

“Aren’t you?”

The other agent shrugged. “Maybe I’m being optimistic, but knife wounds are personal, which is what I keep thinking this crime was. The perp knew Yolanda Hughes. He wanted to kill her for some reason we need to determine. Maybe it involved a love triangle or maybe it was something else and she’s his only intended victim. Once we learn his motive, we’ll be able to track him down.”

“And if he kills again before we find him?”

“Then I’ll have to admit I was wrong.” He stared at Jamison for a long moment. The memory of walking into the ambush ten months ago hung between them.

Jamison still felt responsible. “Look, Dawson—”

As much as he wanted to clear up what had happened, the words stuck in his throat. Instead of his own voice, he heard his father’s taunts about his inability to do anything right. “Jamie-boy, you’re a failure,” replayed over and over in his mind. Not that anything his father said should have bearing on his life today.

Frustrated that the long-ago censure still affected him, Jamison let out a lungful of air and placed his cup on his desk. “After I shower at the gym, I’ll talk to the maintenance company and the florist. Call me if anything new surfaces.”

When he left the gym, Jamison planned to stop by the maintenance office, but just as last night, he ended up in front of Colonel Logan’s quarters. A number of cars were parked at the curb. Jamison hustled up the steps and rang the bell. Mrs. Logan answered the door. Women’s voices sounded from the living room.

“Morning, ma’am. I wanted to ensure that you and Michele had an uneventful night and are doing okay.” He peered around her to the women inside, recognizing many of the wives who had gathered at the Hughes residence last night.

“We’re fine, Jamison, but it’s nice of you to stop by and inquire about our well-being. Michele’s right here—”

Mrs. Logan stepped away from the door.

“Ah, ma’am—”

He didn’t need to talk to Michele.

“Jamison?” Dressed in a pretty floral blouse and cotton slacks, Michele appeared in the doorway, looking like a summer garden.

Internally, he groaned. “I was just checking to see if you’re all right.”

“Yes, of course.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes remained guarded. “The military police are patrolling our area and keeping us safe.”

Her tone caused him to bristle. Note to self, Michele doesn’t need you in her life.

“Sounds like you’ve got a full house.”

“The wives wanted to be together. They’re worried and grieving and ready for their husbands to return home.” She stepped onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind her. “How’s the investigation going?”

“We don’t have much at this point. A few people to question. We’re checking everyone coming on and off post and have enhanced security in all the housing areas.”

“I noticed the military police driving by a number of times last night.”

From the look on her face, Jamison wondered if she had seen his car. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the smoothness of her cheeks and the way her hair gleamed in the morning light. “Any word on the Hughes children?”

“Their dad plans to talk to them tonight on Skype.” Her voice softened and sadness tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Jamison’s heart ached for the children. His own mother had died when he was young, and he knew how hard life could be for kids without a mom.

“I made chocolate chip cookies and took them over early this morning. Yolanda’s sister is scheduled to arrive later today. She and the kids will stay in the VIP guest quarters until Major Hughes arrives home.”

“Any idea about the burial?”

“They have a plot in Missouri. Once everyone is reunited, Major Hughes and the children will fly her body home. Mother and Dad will probably attend the funeral. I’m not sure what I should do.”

Knowing Michele, she would probably run back to Atlanta. Just as she had done ten months ago.

He glanced at his watch, needing to distance himself from the colonel’s daughter. “You have my number. Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Jamison.”

He hurried back to his car. Five minutes with Michele and suddenly his ordered life was anything but. His focus needed to center on the investigation and the supervisor at Prime Maintenance he planned to question, as well as the florist on post.

Pulling away from the Logan quarters, Jamison shook his head, frustrated with the swell of feelings that were bubbling up within him.

A woman murdered.

A killer on the loose.

A very personal complication he hadn’t expected that tangled up his ability to be objective.

“Oh, Michele,” he groaned aloud. “Why’d you have to come back to Fort Rickman now?”

* * *

Traffic was light as Michele drove across post. The gray sky and the weather forecaster’s prediction that another round of turbulence would hit the area added to her unease.

Over the last few hours, Michele’s mood had dropped as low as the barometer. She needed time away from her mother and the women who filled the Logan home. Sweet as they were, their long faces and hushed tones as they spoke of what had happened forced her to confront the terrible tragedy she had stumbled upon last night.

Knowing two children had been left without a mother added to her struggle. Seeing their sweet faces earlier in the day had put an even heavier pall around her shoulders. Michele needed fresh air and time to process her emotions, but no matter how hard she tried to block the crime scene from her memory, the gruesome pictures of

Yolanda’s death continued to haunt her.

The expression on Jamison’s face when he had come crashing into the house, gun in hand, mixed with the other still frames. Ten months ago, she had thought she loved him, but when an investigation almost claimed his life, she realized her mistake. Maybe in time, she’d find Mr. Right. At the moment, she was more concerned about her confrontation last night with Mr. Wrong. Seeing him again this morning had added more confusion to the day.

Despite his good qualities, Jamison wasn’t the man for her. Everything inside her warned that a U.S. Army warrant officer, who was also a CID special agent, was off-limits and could end up being a deadly combination. Plus, her recent history with the military wasn’t good.

In quick flashes, she thought of her brother’s death, her father’s injury soon after he arrived in Afghanistan and the shoot-out on post that could have left Jamison wounded. Or dead.

Dawson had taken the bullet meant for Jamison. In spite of the close call, Jamison continued to handle investigations that put him in danger, which further proved the CID agent wasn’t for her.

So why had she called him yesterday? Jamison, of all people. She’d reacted without thinking. Now she had to pay the price for seeing him again.

Last night, he had been cool, calm and totally in control, dressed in a starched white shirt, a silk tie and a sports coat expertly tailored to fit his broad shoulders and trim waist.

Instead of a military uniform, CID agents wore civilian clothes to ensure that rank didn’t get in the way of their investigations. Maybe that’s what had attracted her to Jamison the night they’d met at the military club on post. He had looked drop-dead gorgeous in his coat and tie when he extended his hand in greeting, along with a smile that instantly melted her heart.

Slipping her right hand into his and gazing into his deep-set brown eyes had made her world stop for one breathless moment. Something had clicked inside her, and she had been instantly smitten by the very special, special agent.

He’d been equally put together last night, although his eyes had been darker than she remembered. Probably because he had refused to hold her gaze, which bothered her more than she wanted to admit. This morning he’d seemed a bit on edge, although it was no wonder after what had happened.

Anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tiny lines around his eyes or the fatigue that played over his features. Committed as he had always been to his job, he had probably slept little last night.

Heaving a sigh, she turned into the main shopping area on post and parked across from the floral shop. A bell tinkled over the door as she entered the air-conditioned interior and stepped toward the counter.

The florist, in his early forties and with a muscular build and military flattop, glanced up. “May I help you?”

“I called in an order last week for a bouquet of cut flowers.”

“Name?”

“Logan. Michele Logan.”

Recognition played over his angled face. “You’re Colonel Logan’s daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“I served with your dad in Iraq when he was a battalion commander. Best commander I ever had.”

Michele never tired of hearing good things about her father. Three years ago, after bringing his battalion of soldiers home from Iraq, her dad had been promoted to full colonel and selected for brigade command. Some said he was a shoo-in for general officer. Not that he allowed praise to impact the way he did his job.

Their family’s only dark moment during that time had been Lance’s death. A helicopter crash shortly after her brother had graduated from flight school and moved to his new military assignment at Fort Knox, Kentucky. A freak accident that never should have happened.

The hardest part was knowing she could have prevented the tragedy. Lance wouldn’t have been flying if Michele had accepted his invitation to visit him that weekend. She had made the wrong decision, a decision that led to her brother’s death.

Unable to work through her grief and her guilt, Michele had eventually buried her pain. Finding Yolanda yesterday had brought everything to the surface.

The florist stretched out his hand. “Name’s Teddy Sutherland.”

Michele returned the handshake, noting his firm grip and thick, stubby fingers. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“I’ve got your order. You said you wanted a container appropriate for your brother’s grave site?”

“That’s right.” She momentarily averted her gaze, blinking back unexpected tears that flooded her eyes. Her emotions hovered close to the surface today.

Teddy flipped through a stack of order forms. “I remember hearing about the helicopter crash. Wasn’t your brother the only one on board who died?”

She nodded, wondering yet again about the inequity of the accident. Not that she had wanted anyone else to lose a loved one in the crash. She just didn’t understand why her brother had to die.

“About this time of year, as I recall?”

The florist’s concern touched her. She nodded, her voice halting when she spoke. “It...it happened two years ago today.”

“Tough on your mom, no doubt, especially after last night.”

“You heard about the murder?”

“News travels fast on post. Wonder if they’ll ever find the guy.” He reached into the large walk-in refrigerator and pulled out a bouquet of red gladiolas and white mums arranged with miniature American flags and wrapped together with a blue ribbon.

Placing the flowers on the counter along with a plastic vase and a small attachment to anchor the arrangement into the ground, the florist glanced up, waiting for her reaction.

“They’re beautiful, Mr. Sutherland.”

“It’s Teddy, please. Tell your mother I’m ordering flowers for the welcome-home ceremony.”

“To give to the wives in the brigade?”

He nodded. “Mrs. Grayson, the executive officer’s wife, asked me to help.” He glanced down, somewhat embarrassed by his gesture. “The way I feel about your dad, it’s the least I could do.”

“I know my mother and the other wives will appreciate your generosity.”

The bell over the door tinkled. Michele turned, expecting to see another customer. Her breath caught in her throat as Jamison entered the store.

She smiled, trying to override the tension that wrapped around her as tightly as the wire holding the floral bow in place. He nodded, then glanced away for a moment in an obvious attempt to cover his own unease.

Turning back to the flowers, Michele fiddled with the ribbon.

Jamison stepped closer and touched the plastic vase lying on the counter. “Two years ago, wasn’t it, Michele?”

She hadn’t expected him to remember. The empathy she heard in his voice caused her eyes to cloud again. Jamison had understood when no one else seemed interested in how a younger sister felt about the death of the brother she idolized. Even her parents hadn’t wanted to talk about their son’s future cut short.

Teddy swiped her credit card and ripped off the tape register receipt. Holding out the thin strip of paper, he handed Michele a pen. “I just need a signature to complete the transaction.”

Relieved to focus on something other than the special agent, Michele hastily signed her name. Grabbing the flowers and vase, she turned to find Jamison standing much too close.

She dropped her gaze, trying to ignore his muscular shoulders and the manly scent of his aftershave. Instead her focus settled on his right hip, where—beneath the smooth line of his sports coat—he carried a SIG Sauer, loaded and ready to fire.

“Sorry.” He stepped aside. His demeanor and voice, now devoid of inflection, reminded her that their involvement had ended months ago. Just as with Lance, she had no reason to think about what might have been.

Ironically, on her brother’s last trip home, Lance had laughingly teased that only a military guy would make her happy. Michele had agreed, but his death had changed her mind. Now she just wanted to guard her future and her heart.

The bell tinkled as she pushed the door open and stepped into the Georgia humidity, grateful no one was standing close enough to see the confusion she couldn’t hide and shouldn’t be feeling. She’d left Jamison months ago. A good decision, or so she’d thought.

Slipping behind the wheel of her car, she glanced back at the florist shop. Would she have felt differently if her brother hadn’t died?

Maybe then she wouldn’t have been afraid of her feelings for the CID agent. But Lance had died and her father had been injured in Afghanistan, and then Dawson had taken a bullet meant for Jamison in a bloody shoot-out that had made her run scared.

Now Yolanda.

If only Michele could run away again, just as she had done ten months ago. She wanted to go back to the secure life she’d made for herself in Atlanta, but she couldn’t leave her mother alone after the tragedy that had happened. The brigade would return sometime next week. Michele would wait until her father came home before she left Fort Rickman and the military.

By then, Jamison would have found the killer.

Her stomach tightened and a gasp escaped her lips as she realized that finding the killer would, once again, put Jamison in the line of fire.

* * *

Why did Michele continue to get under his skin?

Jamison clamped down on his jaw and pulled in a deep breath, needing to distance himself, at least emotionally, from the colonel’s daughter and concentrate on the florist, who continued to stare at him.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked a second time.

Glancing at the clerk’s name tag, Jamison held up his CID identification. “I need information about any floral deliveries you’ve made in the last couple days, Mr. Sutherland.”

The florist nodded. “You’re here because of that murder on post.”

A crime everyone seemed to have heard about by now. “What can you tell me?”

“Mrs. Hughes ordered a bouquet for yesterday afternoon.” Sutherland flipped through his order forms. “Here it is. A bouquet of cut flowers, carnations and daisies, interspersed with a few yellow roses.”

Glancing up at Jamison, he added, “Yellow roses are a popular homecoming flower. As you probably know, Major Hughes’s unit is scheduled to return to Fort Rickman next week.”

“Did Mrs. Hughes discuss her husband’s return to post?”

The florist shook his head. “Not to me, but it’s common knowledge. Plus, the local chamber of commerce keeps track of all the homecomings. Having the brigade back will be good for business.”

Jamison pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket. “What time did you deliver the flowers to the Hughes residence?”

“I didn’t. Mrs. Hughes stopped by the shop yesterday and placed the order before she went to the commissary. I had the table arrangement ready when she finished shopping.”

“Did she say why she wanted flowers?”

“No, sir, but Mrs. Hughes bought flowers once a month or so. Usually for a wives’ event. Sure is a shame.”

“How’d you learn about her death?”

“One of her neighbors stopped in earlier today. She was pretty shook-up. Fact is everyone’s upset.”

“Do you recall the neighbor’s name?”

“I can find it if you give me a minute.” Once again, he sorted through the order forms. His face lit up as he pulled a paper from the pile and held it out to Jamison. “Ursula Barker bought an arrangement shortly after I opened this morning. She lives down the street from the Hugheses and shared that the whole neighborhood is worried. Course, I don’t blame them with a killer on the loose. I’m worried, too. You guys have any idea who did it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” A pat answer, but the truth was that the CID and military police had nothing concrete to go on so far.

The florist pursed his lips. “Guess I shouldn’t have asked, but just like everyone else on post, I’m looking over my shoulder, if you know what I mean.”

Jamison did know. No one wanted a murderer on the loose. He continued to question the florist but learned nothing more that would have a bearing on the victim’s death. After leaving the floral shop, Jamison called CID headquarters. He quickly filled Dawson in on his interview with the florist before he turned the discussion to his earlier stop at Prime Maintenance.

“I talked to the supervisor. The only maintenance man on duty last night was Danny Altman. He’s prior military, worked in Atlanta and was questioned when his girlfriend died unexpectedly. Her death was ruled accidental.” Jamison passed on Altman’s Freemont address. “Find out more about the girlfriend.”

“Roger that. I’ll talk to Mr. Altman and see if he remembers anything pertinent concerning last night, as well.” Dawson paused for a long moment. “I talked to

McGrunner.”

Both Dawson and Jamison thought highly of the young military policeman who had a good work ethic and the makings of a future CID special agent. He had been on patrol last night, and Jamison knew where Dawson was headed.

“Look, Dawson, I drove by Colonel Logan’s quarters,” Jamison admitted. “That’s all.”

“Military police were on patrol in the colonel’s housing area. You didn’t need to worry about Michele.”

“The killer left two witnesses behind.”

“Yes, but neither Michele nor her mother can identify him.”

“He may not realize that. If I were a killer, I’d get rid of everyone involved.” The muscles in Jamison’s neck tensed as he thought about what could happen. “Did any of the neighbors hear sounds of a struggle?”

“Negative.”

“I blame that on the storm. Most folks were probably hunkered down inside their quarters. Thunder and wind would have muffled any noise coming from the victim’s quarters.”

“Roger that,” Dawson agreed. “And if the killer had used a stun gun, Mrs. Hughes would have quickly lost muscle control and couldn’t have screamed for help.”

What about Michele? The thought of her with the killer made Jamison clamp down on his jaw.

Thank God she and Mrs. Logan hadn’t been hurt.

He pushed the cell closer to his ear. “Any word from the medical examiner?”

“Negative.”

Seemed they were still batting zero. Although it might be a long shot, Jamison thought of another person who needed to be questioned. “The florist said a neighbor by the name of Ursula Barker told him about the victim’s death. Have one of our people check with Ms. Barker and verify the florist’s story.”

“You think he’s lying?”

“I just want to be sure.”

Dawson was quiet for a long moment. “You’re still stalled because of the last case we worked on together.”

“I told you, I’m okay.”

“You can trust your instincts, buddy. Whatever you think you did wrong—”

Jamison let out a blast of pent-up air. “Dawson.”

“Seeing Michele yesterday...” The CID agent sighed. “I know how you felt about her.”

“It’s over, Dawson. End of discussion.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Don’t forget Ursula Barker. Then get back to me.”

Frustrated, Jamison disconnected and hustled to his car. His mind relived visions of when Dawson had taken the hit meant for Jamison. Fast-forward to yesterday and what could have happened to Michele.

Climbing behind the wheel, he started the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot. At one time, his instincts had been good, but he and Dawson had walked into an ambush any rookie cop could have seen coming. Now he had to check and double-check his actions to keep from making another mistake.

Dark clouds billowed in the sky overhead, and a strong gust of wind tugged at his car. Gripping the steering wheel, Jamison eyed the rapidly worsening weather.

What had he missed last night? Mrs. Logan and Michele hadn’t provided information that could identify the killer, but just as he’d told Dawson, if the perpetrator thought they could ID him, wouldn’t he come after them?

Jamison called Dawson back. “Increase surveillance around Colonel Logan’s quarters.”

“Did something happen?”

“Not yet, but I want to make sure it doesn’t.”

Disconnecting, he increased his speed.

Michele was driving along narrow back roads with a storm rolling into the area. More threatening than the weather was the out-of-the-way location of the cemetery, where she would be alone and at risk. This time, he didn’t need to double-check the facts.

Michele was vulnerable and unprotected.

Every instinct warned Jamison to hurry.

THREE

Michele drummed her hand on the steering wheel as she sat in the line of cars snaking their way through the Main Gate. Up ahead a military policeman worked with two civilian gate guards, checking the vehicles leaving post.

Across the median, a swarm of MPs searched the interior—as well as under the hood and in the trunk—of every car entering the garrison. Trucks were subject to more detailed scrutiny. With Fort Rickman on lockdown, law enforcement was ensuring that no one brought anything suspicious on or off post without their knowledge.

Though she was reassured by the thoroughness of the military police, Michele was frustrated by the delay. Her eyes turned upward, taking in the darkening sky and the wind that picked through the Spanish moss hanging from the stately oaks that lined the side of the road. If she didn’t reach the cemetery soon, she could get caught in a downpour.

The whole post was on edge, and rightfully so. Anyone with a smattering of knowledge about army operations could easily learn the names of the deployed soldiers. A quick search of a Fort Rickman phone book would provide home addresses where family members would be easy targets.

Had Yolanda been a random victim? Or was she chosen because her husband was deployed and she was alone?

A number of times last night, Michele had heard cars driving by outside. Looking from her bedroom window, she’d seen a steady stream of military police sedans patrolling the area. The added protection should have made her feel more secure but only drove home the fact that a killer was on the loose. The only time she’d felt safe was when Jamison was with her. But his presence created its own set of problems.

Michele rubbed her hand over her stomach in an attempt to quell the nervous confusion eating at her. She needed to push thoughts of him aside and concentrate on getting to the cemetery before the next round of storms.

The line of traffic moved forward. Michele edged her car toward the gate and stopped in front of the guard. He glanced into the interior of her vehicle and then checked her trunk before he waved her on.

As she left the post, she passed three media vans parked in a clearing at the side of the road. Camera crews stood in a huddle, no doubt eager to broadcast the latest news about Yolanda’s death.

Once she was on Freemont Road, Michele increased her speed and after a series of turns spied the front entrance to the cemetery up ahead. Putting on her signal, she turned onto the narrow road, full of twists and turns, that meandered through the sprawling grounds of gentle knolls and stands of trees.

Lance had loved the outdoors, and her parents had chosen a secluded burial plot atop a small rise that provided a clear view of the surrounding grounds. Michele parked on the grass just short of the rise.

As a precaution and noting the recent drop in temperature, she grabbed a raincoat off the backseat and, with her purse and flowers in hand, trudged up the incline. The ground, still damp from last night’s rain, cushioned her footfalls.

Over her right shoulder, she noticed a car parked near a cluster of monuments shaded by a giant oak tree. A man stood nearby. As she watched, he raised binoculars to his eyes and stared in her direction.

The hair on the back of her neck tingled. Unable to ignore the warning, she shivered, not from the wind that whipped around her but from her own nervousness. Lightning danced across the sky followed by the rumble of thunder.

Thankful for the waterproof slicker, Michele shrugged into the thick vinyl and pulled her hair free from the neck of the coat. She felt violated by the man’s prying gaze and wrapped the coat across her chest as she hurried on to the crest of the hill.

Once there, she glanced back, relieved to see that the man with the binoculars had climbed into his car to leave the cemetery. Turning her thoughts to Lance, she approached the rear of his monument.

Instead of a small and simple military marker, her parents had chosen a larger memorial with Lance’s picture etched into the front of the stone. As a template for his likeness, they had used a photograph Michele had taken at his graduation from flight school.

She and her parents had attended the ceremony at Fort Rucker, Alabama, and had been so proud of Lance, standing tall in his uniform in front of the American flag he loved. Three months later, his chopper crashed and exploded into a flaming inferno that took his life.

Stopped by the painful memory, Michele touched the cool granite. “Oh, Lance,” she sighed, wishing she weren’t alone with her grief. Her mother never came with her, never even wanted to, which Michele didn’t understand.

She thought of Jamison. Would he have accepted her invitation if she had asked him? Probably not. He had a murder to solve.

From out of nowhere, the smell of blood wafted past her. Yolanda’s bleeding body swam before her eyes. Michele bristled, annoyed with the tricks her mind was playing.

Struggling to shrug off the frightful memory, she rounded the monument and peered down, expecting to find her brother’s likeness smiling up at her.

At first unable to comprehend what she was seeing, Michele leaned closer. Then, like an arrow to her heart, realization hit.

She gasped. The flowers dropped to the rain-dampened earth. Lightning ripped across the sky. Seconds later, thunder mixed with the roar of her pounding pulse.

Vandals had chiseled thick gashes into Lance’s image, turning his handsome countenance into a macabre caricature. The marks cut into the stone exactly where the killer’s knife had slashed Yolanda’s flesh. A dark, viscous substance covered the mutilation and dripped like blood over his name and the date of his death.

Unable to look any longer at the defacement, Michele turned and ran away. Down the hill she fled, trying to distance herself from the desecration of her brother’s grave. Fat raindrops pummeled her face and mixed with the tears cascading down her cheeks.

She skidded. Her feet slipped on the wet grass. Stumbling, she righted herself and hurried on. Michele reached the road on the opposite side of a sharp curve from where she had parked her car.

The sky opened up as if it, too, were weeping for the dead. She dug in her purse, searching for her keys, and raced around the bend, hardly able to see because of the tears flooding her eyes.

The sound of tires rolling over asphalt startled her. She glanced up. Her heart jammed in her throat.

A car loomed in front of her.

Black sedan, tinted windows. The chrome hood ornament was headed straight for her.

She lunged, trying to jump clear.

The fender and outer side panel swiped against her thigh and sent her flying like a rag doll. Hot streaks of pain ricocheted through her body. She fell to the ground, clutching her leg and gasping for breath.

Unable to cry for help, Michele lay in pouring rain enveloped by darkness.

* * *

Jamison’s heart stopped as he pulled into the cemetery. In one terrifying flash, he saw it all play out.

Michele!

Accelerating, he raced forward, taking the turns at breakneck speed. Please, God, let her be okay.

Punching Speed Dial on his cell, he connected with the local police. “Hit-and-run at the Freemont Cemetery. Send an ambulance and police. Now!”

Fear clamped down on his gut. Would he get to her in time?

Halfway into the last curve, the tires lost traction. Jamison eased up on the accelerator and turned the wheel into the skid. Once the car had straightened, he put his foot on the gas and closed the distance to where she lay.

Leaping from his car, he charged across the rain-sloshed grass. His only thought was Michele.

Fingers of dread clawed at his throat. The rain eased as he dropped to his knees beside her.

“Michele, it’s Jamison. Talk to me.”

Water-drenched hair covered her face. He pushed away the wayward strands. Her skin was pale, too pale.

Please, God!

Long lashes moved ever so slightly, fanning her cheeks.

He touched her neck, feeling a steady pulse, and gasped with relief.

She jerked at his touch.

“It’s okay, honey. An ambulance is on the way.”

Sirens screamed in the distance.

“Open your eyes, Michele.”

She groaned. Her lashes fluttered, revealing cornflower-blue orbs clouded with confusion.

“You’re going to be all right. There’s nothing to worry about.” As he tried to comfort her, Jamison worked his hands over her arms and lower legs, ensuring that none of her bones had been broken.

She flinched when he gently prodded her knee, probably where she had taken the greatest impact from the hit.

Anger surged through him at the maniac who had done this to her and then had driven away, never checking to ensure that she was still alive. Jamison wanted to pound his fist into the wet earth at his own stupidity. He shouldn’t have let her leave the floral shop alone.

“La...Lance’s grave site.” She tried to sit up.

He gently touched her shoulder. “Lie still until the EMTs arrive.”

She grabbed his hand. “The m...monument was desecrated.”

Sirens filled the air. Two Freemont police cars pulled into the cemetery and stopped close to where Michele lay. An ambulance turned onto the grounds. Overcome with relief, Jamison remained at her side as the officers neared.

The older of the two made the introductions. “Sir, I’m Officer Tim Simpson with the Freemont Police Department.” Mid-forties, the guy had a buzz cut and thick brows that he raised as he pointed to the wiry, younger officer next to him. “This is Officer Bobby Jones.”

Jamison flashed his identification, gave his own name and Michele’s and quickly explained what he had witnessed.

“I saw Miss Logan when I pulled into the cemetery. She was hurrying around the curve in the road toward her car. The rain was falling hard, and she was trying to pull her cell phone or her keys from her handbag.”

“M...my keys,” she responded, her voice weak.

“The car appeared to accelerate just before it hit her,” Jamison added.

She glanced at Simpson. “I...I didn’t hear a motor.”

“Can you give us a description of the vehicle, ma’am?”

“Black or dark blue with a silver hood ornament.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure about the make or model.”

“Were you able to see the driver?” Jamison asked, still hovering over her.

“The windows were tinted. Earlier, a man...by the oak tree. He had binoculars.”

“Military binoculars?”

“I’m not sure. I thought he’d left the cemetery by the front entrance.” She wrinkled her brow. “It could have been the same car.”

The cop looked at Jamison. “Did you get a visual, sir?”

“Not on the driver. I was too far away, and he left through the rear exit. The vehicle was a small, four-door sedan with tinted windows, as Miss Logan mentioned. Late model. Dark color. Could have been a hybrid.”

Simpson pursed his lips. “Which would have been the reason she didn’t hear the engine.”

“Exactly.”

The ambulance pulled alongside the police cars, and two EMTs quickly approached. “Sir, can you step back and give us some room?”

As much as Jamison didn’t want to leave Michele’s side, he had to let the medical team do their job.

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll talk to the police while the EMTs ensure that you’re okay.”

Her grip tightened. “Lance’s grave. Someone cut into his marker.”

“I’m heading there now.”

As the EMTs strapped Michele to a backboard, Jamison turned to Officer Jones. “Can you get the names off the headstones near the oak tree? The family members need to be questioned in case one of them was the man with binoculars.”

“Good idea. I’ll take care of it.”

Jamison motioned to the older cop and then pointed up the incline. “Let’s take a walk and check out the marker.”

Having visited Lance’s grave with Michele on occasion, Jamison led the way. His stomach soured at the sight of the damage done to the monument. What kind of vicious person would do such a hateful act?

Bending down, he studied the cuts in the granite and the spattered liquid. “Looks like blood, although it might not be human.”

Simpson nodded. “A piece of raw steak could provide enough blood to cover the entire monument.” He scratched off a sample and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. “Whatever it is, I’ll have it analyzed and let you know the results.”

Jamison glanced back at where the EMTs were talking to Michele. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders.

The grave desecration was a vindictive act against the Logan family. Judging from the location of gash marks on Lance’s etched likeness, the defacement appeared to be connected to the murder on post.

Jamison’s heart lurched with a terrifying realization. The cold, hard truth sent chills along his spine. Just like with Dawson, Jamison hadn’t put the pieces together fast enough to realize Michele would be an easy target at the cemetery. That mistake had almost cost Michele her life.

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