10. Doc
DOC
“Everyone out.”
Mara looks at me.
Sheriff Tate looks at me.
The two deputies standing in the hallway look at me.
No one moves.
I point toward the bedroom door.
“Someone has been inside this house. Until we know how they entered and whether they left anything behind, everyone goes outside.”
Mara folds her arms.
“This is my house.”
“I know.”
“I’m also a deputy.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not in charge.”
“I know.”
She waits.
“So why are you giving orders?”
“Because no one else is moving.”
Sheriff Tate sighs.
“I hate to admit it, but he has a point.”
Mara turns on him. “Whose side are you on?”
“The side that gets everybody out of a house someone has already broken into.”
“That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”
“I have my moments.”
Mara looks at the charm bracelet in her hand.
The small ring where Grant’s key once hung has been pulled apart.
Not broken accidentally.
Opened.
Deliberately.
Someone entered Mara’s bedroom, opened her jewelry box, found a specific charm among everything inside, removed it, and left without disturbing anything else.
That bothers me more than a ransacked room would.
This person knew exactly what they wanted.
“Mara.”
“I’m going.”
She puts the bracelet back into the jewelry box.
I wait until she walks past me.
Then I follow.
Outside, morning sunlight has replaced last night’s storm. Neighbors stand on porches pretending not to watch the sheriff’s vehicles surrounding Mara’s house.
An elderly woman in a pink robe makes no attempt to pretend.
She walks straight across the street.
“Mara!”
Mara closes her eyes.
“Mrs. Grady.”
The same woman from the photograph.
I recognize her immediately.
Mrs. Grady marches toward us wearing fuzzy slippers and carrying a coffee mug.
“I told Sheriff Tate someone was skulking around your house.”
Tate turns.
“You told me a man parked in front of your mailbox.”
“He was skulking.”
“He was delivering a package.”
“He sat there for four minutes.”
“He was looking for the address.”
Mrs. Grady sniffs. “Suspicious.”
Mara rubs her forehead.
“When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
My attention sharpens.
“What time?”
Mrs. Grady looks at me.
“Who are you?”
“Colin Shaw.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
Despite everything, Mara makes a choking sound beside me.
I try again.
“I’m a friend of Mara’s.”
Her head snaps toward me.
Mrs. Grady looks between us.
“A friend.”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
Mara steps forward.
“The kind who's leaving Eagle River as soon as this is over.”
Something unpleasant settles in my chest.
Mrs. Grady studies me.
Then Mara.
Then me again.
“I don't think so.”
Mara stares at her.
“Excuse me?”
“I've been married three times. I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The one he's giving you.”
I immediately look away.
Mara's face turns red.
Sheriff Tate suddenly becomes extremely interested in his radio.
One of the deputies walks toward his patrol vehicle.
Coward.
“Mrs. Grady,” Mara says carefully, “did you see anyone near my house yesterday?”
“Besides the delivery man?”
“Yes.”
She takes a drink of coffee.
“A dark car came by twice.”
“What kind?”
“I don't know.”
“Sedan? SUV?”
“Car.”
Mara breathes slowly.
I recognize the technique.
Grant used to do the same thing when Trigger annoyed him.
“What color?”
“Dark.”
I look at Sheriff Tate.
His mouth twitches.
Mara sees it.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
Mrs. Grady points her coffee mug at Mara.
“That's what you told your brother.”
Mara freezes.
“What?”
“Grant. Whenever he was about to say something smart, you'd tell him he was thinking too loudly.”
Mara looks at me.
I can't help it.
I smile.
She points at me.
“Not one word.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Mrs. Grady continues as though none of us spoke.
“The dark car came past around lunchtime and again after supper. Second time, it stopped down the block.”
“Did anyone get out?” Tate asks.
“A man.”
Every trace of humor disappears.
“What did he look like?”
“Tall. Baseball cap. Gray shirt.”
“Age?”
“I couldn't see his face.”
“Did he approach Mara’s house?”
“No. He walked down the sidewalk and disappeared behind the Henderson place.”
“Which direction is that?” I ask.
Mrs. Grady points.
Toward Mara’s backyard.
Sheriff Tate immediately radios the deputies searching the property.
Mara looks at me.
“That could be when he took the key.”
“Maybe.”
“You don't sound convinced.”
“Hampton was busy watching your mother’s house yesterday.”
“And someone else photographed me outside the bank.”
“Exactly.”
The same realization moves through her eyes.
“At least two people.”
“At least.”
Mrs. Grady looks between us.
“What exactly have you gotten yourself into, Mara Ellis?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well, when you figure it out, tell me. Nobody tells me anything around here.”
Sheriff Tate mutters, “That's because you tell everybody.”
“I heard that.”
“You were supposed to.”
She marches back across the street.
Mara watches her go.
“She'll have Doc and me married by lunch.”
Sheriff Tate looks at his watch.
“It's eight thirty. I'd give her until ten.”
Mara glares at him.
I decide silence is survival.
Deputies finish processing the house forty minutes later.
No forced entry.
No broken windows.
No damaged locks.
Nothing.
Sheriff Tate stands at the kitchen counter reading the preliminary report.
“Who has a key?”
“Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“Mom had one.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
“You didn't find it when you cleaned out her house?”
“No.”
“What about your father?”
“He died nine years ago.”
“Spare key hidden outside?”
“No.”
I look at Mara.
She looks away.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“You have a spare key hidden outside.”
“No.”
I wait.
She lasts four seconds.
“It isn't outside.”
“Where is it?”
“I am not telling you.”
“Mara.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“What way?”
“Like you already know I'm going to do something stupid.”
Sheriff Tate closes the report.
“Where's the spare key?”
She sighs.
“Inside the detached garage.”
I stare at her.
“You keep a spare house key inside an unlocked garage?”
“The garage is locked.”
“With what?”
“A padlock.”
“Where's that key?”
She hesitates.
Sheriff Tate groans.
“Please don't say under a flowerpot.”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
“It's under the fake rock.”
I close my eyes.
Sheriff Tate walks away.
I hear him muttering something about early retirement.
Mara looks offended.
“Everyone has a fake rock.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No one who wants their house secure has a fake rock.”
“It doesn't look fake.”
“That's what everyone who owns a fake rock says.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Are you finished?”
“Not remotely.”
Sheriff Tate returns.
“Parker knows about the spare?”
“No.”
“Wolf?”
“No.”
“Trigger?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“My mother.”
There it is.
I look toward the back door.
“Your mother knew where the spare was.”
“Yes.”
“And Hampton spoke to her after Grant died.”
Mara's expression changes.
“You think she told him?”
“No.”
“But someone could have learned about it through her.”
“Or watched you use it.”
“I haven't used that key in years.”
Sheriff Tate lifts his radio.
“We check the garage.”
The fake rock looks fake.
Very fake.
I don't say it.
Mostly because Mara has a gun.
Sheriff Tate picks it up with gloved hands.
The compartment underneath is empty.
Mara swears.
“You said the key was there,” I say.
“It was.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Last month.”
“That's helpful.”
She gives me a look.
“I didn't know I was going to be hunted by dead intelligence contractors.”
“Fair.”
A deputy examines the garage padlock.
“No damage.”
Tate looks at Mara.
I hear Wolf's truck before I see it.
It pulls into Mara’s driveway, followed by Trigger’s.
Both men get out.
Trigger is no longer carrying the ice pack.
Sheriff Tate notices.
“Where's the ice?”
“I lost it.”
Wolf points at him. “He threw it away.”
“It was melting.”
“That tends to happen.”
Sheriff Tate points toward Trigger's truck.
“Get another one.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were unconscious.”
“For maybe thirty seconds.”
Wolf looks at me.
“Want to knock him out again?”
“I can.”
Trigger points at both of us.
“I hate this reunion.”
For the first time all morning, Mara laughs.
Then she notices the folders in Wolf’s hand.
“What are those?”
“Everything we could find about Mission Twenty-Three.”
“Already?”
“Blaze called.”
That gets my attention.
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago. The rest of the team heard what happened last night. They're wrapping up the mission they're on and heading back to Eagle River as soon as they can.”
Something tight inside my chest shifts.
The others.
Men I haven't seen in fifteen years.
Men I abandoned.
Wolf must read something in my face.
“They know you're here.”
I look at him.
“What did you tell them?”
“That Doc finally found his way home.”
Home.
I look away.
“This isn't my home.”
Wolf doesn't argue.
Somehow that makes it worse.
Mara steps beside me.
Not touching.
Just there.
Wolf lays the folders on the hood of Tate’s SUV.
“Blaze had access to some archived records through an old contact. Nothing classified. Mostly personnel assignments and deployment histories.”
“Anything on Twenty-Three?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
Mara frowns. “Nothing at all?”
“That's the strange part. Operation Twenty-Two exists. Twenty-Four exists. Twenty-Five exists.”
“And Twenty-Three?”
Wolf taps the folder.
“Skipped.”
Mara looks at me.
“Twenty-three never existed.”
“Not on paper.”
Trigger reaches into another folder.
“But this did.”
He hands me a photocopy.
It's a personnel movement sheet dated nine days before the ambush.
Seventeen names.
I count them twice.
Seventeen.
My pulse changes.
“Who are they?” Mara asks.
“Contractors.”
“All of them?”
“According to this.”
Wolf points to the header.
“They were temporarily assigned to our forward operating base for seventy-two hours.”
Mara looks at the photograph Hampton wrote on.
“Seventeen were waiting.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Who authorized their assignment?”
Trigger turns the page.
A signature sits at the bottom.
FRED MILLER.
Mara exhales.
“Miller again.”
“His signature,” I say. “That doesn't prove he created the order.”
“Especially after what Hampton told us,” Mara says. “Miller transmitted the order.”
Wolf looks between us.
“What exactly did Hampton say?”
I tell him.
By the time I finish, Wolf's expression has hardened.
“So Miller may have been following orders.”
“Or helping whoever gave them,” Mara says.
“Either way, we need to find him.”
Sheriff Tate folds his arms.
“Assuming he's alive.”
“He is.”
Everyone looks at me.
Mara studies my face.
“You're sure.”
“Hampton cut Miller's face out of that photograph.”
“So?”
“If Miller were dead, why bother?”
Wolf nods slowly.
“He wants us thinking about Miller.”
“Or warning Miller that we're coming,” Trigger says.
Mara picks up the personnel sheet.
“Who are the seventeen contractors?”
I look at the names.
Most mean nothing to me.
Then I reach number twelve.
My blood turns cold.
“No.”
Mara moves closer.
“What?”
I point at the name.
ELIAS HAMPTON.
Wolf swears.
Trigger takes the paper.
“Hampton wasn't assigned to our base as an intelligence contractor?”
“Apparently not.”
Mara looks at me.
“What was he?”
I read the heading again.
PRIVATE SECURITY SUPPORT PERSONNEL.
Hampton lied about who he was.
For fifteen years, I believed he worked for military intelligence because that's what his credentials said.
Those credentials were false.
Mara runs her finger down the list.
“If Hampton was one of the seventeen…”
“Then he wasn't talking about enemy fighters,” I say.
Wolf finishes the thought.
“He was talking about themselves.”
Eight entered the valley.
Seventeen were waiting.
A cold weight settles in my stomach.
Grant hadn't discovered a bad set of coordinates.
He'd discovered an operation that officially never existed.
And seventeen men had been brought to Afghanistan shortly before our team walked into an ambush.
Mara looks toward the house.
“Someone took the key.”
I follow her gaze.
“Yes.”
“Hampton doesn't have it.”
“We don't know that.”
“I think we do.”
She turns back to me.
“Hampton knew I had a key. He searched Mom’s house looking for Grant’s evidence. He stole your coordinates. But if he already knew where my key was, he could've taken it yesterday instead of searching Mom’s house.”
She's right.
“So someone else has it.”
“One of the seventeen?”
“Maybe.”
Sheriff Tate's phone rings.
He answers.
“Tate.”
His expression changes.
“When?”
We all go silent.
“Send it to me.”
He ends the call.
“What?” Mara asks.
“One of my deputies found something on the county road where Hampton's blood trail ended.”
“What?”
Tate's phone chimes.
He opens the photograph.
Then looks at me.
“What is it?” I ask.
He turns the screen around.
A military dog tag lies in the dirt beside the road.
The name stamped into it is clear.
MILLER, FREDERICK.
Wolf goes completely still.
Trigger whispers, “Captain.”
Mara looks at me.
“Does that mean he's dead?”
I stare at the photograph.
“No.”
Because I know Fred Miller.
Or I did.
And if Hampton wanted us to believe Fred was dead, he wouldn't leave his dog tag beside a road.
He'd leave a body.
“This is a message.”
“From Hampton?” Mara asks.
“Maybe.”
My phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
Everyone sees my expression.
“Doc?” Mara says.
I take out the phone.
One message waits.
A photograph.
Fred Miller.
Older.
Gray-haired.
Alive.
He's tied to a chair.
Blood runs from his temple.
Beneath the photograph are five words.
brING ME GRANT ELLIS'S BOX.
Mara reads over my shoulder.
“He doesn't know we can't open it.”
Another message appears.
This one contains only three words.
COME ALONE, DOC.
Mara laughs.
Not because anything is funny.
It's the kind of laugh that tells me I'm about to have a problem.
I look at her.
“No.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“You're going to.”
She reaches for her weapon.
“You were thinking it loudly.”