All Through the Night: A Troubleshooter Christmas (12 page)

“Go check on the wounded,” Max ordered Howard, and the reporter eventually faded back, out of earshot.

Max moved up to the window, shifting closer to Jules. And here it came. The conversation he'd been dreading. If Deb had made it through, help surely would have been here by now.

Max was going to say it—that it was looking more and more likely that Deb hadn't made it out alive.

So Jules spoke first. “Deb's the best. She'll come through.”

Of course, even if Deb
had
survived, there was a chance that news reporter Jack Lloyd's miracle phone line was now out. But Max didn't bring that up.

Instead he said, “You should go. Take Howard. Two of you, moving quickly—you could probably make it out. Get help.”

“Great,” Jules said, his heart sinking, because he knew that what Max was really telling him to do was to rescue himself. “I get to wander the streets of Kandahar with Mr. Whiney, while you get a chopper ride home? I don't
think
so.”

Max laughed. “Yeah, I didn't think you'd go for that.”

“Damn straight,” Jules said.

Max was silent then, and Jules knew he was thinking about his wife, Gina, and their little girl, Emma.

Jules looked at his watch. It was nearly one a.m. in Boston. Robin would have gotten the news that Jules was missing by now. He'd be sitting in their living room, in front of their TV.

Waiting.

They'd planned to get up early on Thanksgiving, get the turkey stuffed and into the oven, before crawling back into bed. God, Jules loved those long, lazy mornings, just sleeping late with his arms around Robin.

Right before the first bomb had gone off, close to twenty hours ago, Max had asked him what he and Robin were planning for their honeymoon.

“You know, we thought we'd stay home for the first part,” Jules told Max now. “Of our honeymoon. It seemed kind of dumb to get married and then immediately leave the one state where we're legal. Besides, the construction on our bathroom will finally be done by then.” He laughed. “It better be. We were promised Thanksgiving, like it would definitely be finished by now, but it's not. Anyway, second part, a few days after Christmas, we're going to Spain. There's a resort on the coast that's both gay friendly and alcohol free. It got a great review in
Out Traveler.
”

“That sounds nice,” Max said. “It sounds…really perfect.”

“Yes, it does,” Jules agreed. It also sounded suspiciously like wishful-thinking speak. Like, we both know we're going to die, so let's pretend we're not by talking about next month's plans.

“Gina's pregnant again,” Max told him.

“Wow,” Jules said, smiling even though his stomach twisted. Max really did think that they were going to die here today. God, Jules so didn't want to do that to Robin…“Congratulations. I guess you're moving up into an expert rating in terms of that baby-making thing. Well done.”

Max smiled. “It's still…a little too early to talk about with everyone, but…I wanted to tell you.”

Jules looked at this man who was both his boss and his friend. And he did what he swore he'd never do in a situation like this. He accepted the fact that a possible outcome was that this could be the end for the both of them. Or maybe not both—maybe just one of them. “You should take Howard,” Jules said quietly. “
You
should go for help.”

“Leave you here.”

It wasn't a question, but Jules answered it as if it were. “I can hold the insurgents off.” He embraced the lie. “Until you, you know, get help.”

But probably more likely until his ammo ran out.

At which point his life, and the lives of all the injured reporters, would end.

Somewhere in Boston, Robin's hair was surely standing up on the back of his neck as Jules acknowledged that option.

And there it came. The next wave of the attack—the unmistakable sound of machine-gun fire. It was as if someone, somewhere—maybe Robin's higher power—had realized that Jules's faith had been shaken.

And holy shit, the wall out front dissolved in a massive explosion that made Jules and Max both pull back from the window. The very foundation of their building shook, and dust and debris filled the air, choking them.

Jules yanked the crewneck of his T-shirt up over his mouth and nose.

Beside him, Max pulled the last of their ammo clips closer, preparing to rock and roll.

And in that instant, Jules could practically hear Alyssa Locke's rich voice, as if his best friend were whispering into his ear.
Rule one: You gotta believe you'll make it out alive.

Beside him, Max squinted through the settling dust, bracing himself for the attack—for their last stand.

Last
stand?

Screw that.

Jules
was
going to see Robin again. He was going to marry the man in less than a month. And Max was going to meet his new baby, and even get plenty of chances to go for child number three. Enthusiastically, if the way Jules had often seen Max smiling at Gina meant anything at all.

“Deb's the best,” Jules said again, shouting over the ringing in his ears. “She'll come through. You got a name picked out yet for the baby?”

“Here they come,” Max said. And sure enough, there were darker shadows in the dust as the insurgents moved in.

“Not yet, huh?” Jules said, his finger tightening on his trigger, waiting for them to move closer…“It's still early. I mean, when's Gina due? May? June? Don't sweat it. You've got plenty of time to find the perfect name.”

“Here they come,” Max said again.

But they weren't coming closer. They were fading back. And then nothing moved out there, except the dust and the dirt. But it wasn't settling. It was…swirling? And that thrumming sound wasn't his blast-punctured eardrum going haywire. It was a helicopter.

No, calling that thing a helicopter was like calling a Tyrannosaurus Rex a lizard. It was a gunship, its weapons suddenly blazing, forcing the insurgents even farther back. There were two other helos, right behind it, doing the helicopter equivalent of riding shotgun.

One of the birds hovered above their recently obliterated courtyard, and a team of BDU-clad men fast-roped down to the ground. They were SEALs—thank you, thank you, sweet baby Jesus. Yeah, and they weren't just any old SEALs—it was Team Sixteen. That was Muldoon, with Cosmo Richter right behind him. Gillman, Jenkins, Zanella—Jules knew them all. Lopez was there, too, carrying a medical kit—he was their hospital corpsman.

Jules
was
going to see Robin again. And Deb truly was the best.

Jules and Max unbolted the basement door, letting the reinforcements in.

The SEAL officer introduced himself for the benefit of Howard and the other reporters, who still weren't quite sure what was happening. “I'm Lieutenant Mike Muldoon,” he announced as Lopez headed for the wounded. “We're U.S. Navy SEALs. We're here to get you out.”

Jules turned to Max. “Michael,” he pointed out. “Michael is a
very
nice name.”

 

T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
22
N
EWTON
, M
ASSACHUSETTS

“So how did you and Uncle Will meet?” Maggie asked.

Dolphina focused her attention on the pancakes she was making them for a post-midnight snack. Will's niece had still been awake when Dolphina arrived at his apartment. Apparently, the reporter gene may have been connected to the one for red hair, because the freckle-faced girl with the wild mop of red curls had been grilling her for the past half hour.

What's your favorite color?

Red.

Who's your favorite band?

The Dixie Chicks.

Do you use an iron to straighten your hair?

No, it's naturally straight.

Don't you think it's stupid and unfair for a twelve-year-old to have to have a babysitter?

Not when your uncle wasn't sure exactly when he'd be home.

Will says this isn't a very good neighborhood. Do you think this is a bad neighborhood?

I've never been here before, so…

Did you need a babysitter when you were twelve?

No, but I had two brothers, both older, so…

Are your parents divorced?

Nope, still married. They live in California. Near Los Angeles.

The constant barrage of questions was actually good. It kept Dolphina from worrying about Jules, worrying about the e-mail Will had received from Jack Lloyd.
Situation dire.
Dolphina had left amidst the uproar, as Robin had gotten Yashi on the phone and relayed the information Jack had given them.

Will had tossed her his house keys and the note for Maggie—sans envelope—which she
hadn't
read, thank you very much.

It took only fifteen minutes to get out here to Newton, and to get the obviously long-suffering sitter on her way home. Dolphina had her cell phone in her pocket, and she kept touching it like some kind of talisman, praying that it would ring and she'd get the news that Jules was safe.

But it didn't ring. And Maggie kept up her constant questioning.

Are you married?

Nope.

Have you ever been married? Uncle Will was married once, but his wife slept with someone else. A bunch of someone else's.

No, and that might be information that good old Uncle Will might consider extremely private.

Will? No way. He's cool—except for the babysitting thing. Besides, he'd never tell you that himself, and frankly, it's helpful to know when dealing with his bad moods. Have you ever been in love?

That one had given Dolphina pause, but she'd answered honestly.
Yes.

What was his name?
Was
it a him?

Simon, and yes, he was a him.

Why didn't you marry him? Did you
want
to marry him?

Well, I thought for a while that I did, but it turned out that he'd neglected to tell me that he was already married.

So he was kind of like the male equivalent of Will's ex-wife. She used to sleep with guys and not tell them that she was married to Will.

Will told you that?
Dolphina had managed to get a question of her own in as she mixed the pancake batter and heated up the frying pan.

“Yeah, right,” Maggie had scoffed as she perched on one of the kitchen stools, all long gangly arms and legs. “Like he'd talk about that with anyone? I heard my mom telling one of her friends.” Which brought them to “So how did you and Uncle Will meet?”

“He, um, interviewed one of the men I work for.”

“You work for Robin Chadwick? Sweet. He's, like, the best actor. And you
work
for him.” Maggie was amazed.

She wasn't the only one. “Will actually
told
you…?”

“Are you kidding?” Maggie said as Dolphina used the spatula to slide four rather damaged-looking pancakes onto the girl's plate. “He was crapping monkeys when he found out what happened with the
National Voice.
” She motioned Dolphina closer, lowered her voice. “I thought, at one point, he was actually going to cry. Instead he said a whole bunch of words that he told me he'd lock me in my room if I ever said, especially in front of my mom.” She snorted. “As if I didn't already know them.” But then she paused. “My mom's in Iraq.”

Dolphina nodded, pouring more pancake batter into the frying pan, trying to wrap her brain around the concept of Will Schroeder nearly in tears. “Will told me that.”

“He worries about her,” Maggie said. “It's hard for him. She was always his little sister, you know? Kind of like you and your brothers. He worries about her a lot.”

Dolphina's heart was her in throat. Maggie was trying to be so casual about it. “It must be hard for him,” she agreed. “And for her, too. Being so far away from both of you.”

“Yeah.” The girl reached for the plastic bottle of maple syrup, squeezing almost an entire cup of it onto her plate. “So how long have you been seeing him?”

“Excuse me?” Dolphina said.

“Uncle Will,” Maggie said through a mouthful of pancakes. “He said in his note that I should be extra nice because you're his new girlfriend.”

“Oh really?” Dolphina said.

“Yeah, you want to see it?” She pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to Dolphina.

Mags. Meet my new girlfriend, Dolphina Patel. (Cool name, huh? By the way, a dolphin is a mammal, not a fish. Don't piss her off by making fish jokes. She's heard them all, anyway. Probably too many times.) She's going to stay with you until I get home tonight. I'm helping with an important project, but I promise to be home in time to make Thanksgiving dinner. BTW, you better be ready to help, or that turkey's going to suck.

Be nice to Dolphina. Seriously, try to win some points for me. She's music, Mags.

He'd signed it,
Your favorite uncle.

Will had to have known Dolphina was going to end up reading this. She shook her head as she handed the note back to Maggie. “He was kidding,” she said. “I'm not his girlfriend.”

“He called you music,” Maggie pointed out. “He wouldn't kid about that. Look, maybe you started off on the wrong foot—”

“Because he crashed a party and lied to get a story—”

“Did you read what he wrote for the
Globe
?” Maggie asked as she took her plate to the sink and quickly washed and rinsed it, setting it into the drying rack. “Because it was really good.”

“I read the article in the
Voice.
”

“He didn't write that.” Maggie was scornful. “Some loser named Marcus Grant wrote
that
piece of crap. Come here and look at this.”

She went into the living room, and Dolphina followed her. A laptop computer was set up amidst a pile of papers and books on a corner desk. Nudging the mouse, Maggie woke up the computer and opened the word processing program. There was a file called Chadwick, and, as Dolphina watched, she opened it, clicking on a document named
Globe article.
It appeared on the monitor, with the title “There's No Story Here.”