Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (40 page)

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve spent all day on patrol with headaches worse than this.”

“Yes, but those would be due to late nights partying or dehydration.” He gave her a look that told her not to argue. “This is injury related.” He pointed to Beo. “He has bandages. How would you feel if he just ripped them off and trotted off because he felt he’d braved worse days?”

Hitting below the belt there, Doc
.

“So,” he said, apparently convinced he’d made his point, “my orders are for you to continue to rest, take it easy. Your chart says you’re returning to Texas, so you’ll need to check in at BAMC in a week for a follow-up.” He scribbled on her chart. “If you feel any pain, have any blackouts, I want you back immediately.”

With puffy cheeks, she blew out a breath with a long-suffering sigh. Her hands went to either side of Beo’s head, where she massaged the spot just under his ears.

“Are you okay on painkillers and anti-inflammatories?”

“A regular pharmacy,” Timbrel said with a nod to the bottles lining the small table next to the hospital bed. “So, not cleared for duty but cleared to return home?”

“Correct.” He straightened and started for the door. “The nurses will get your discharge papers ready. You can go ahead and get dressed.”

“Great.” Yet … not.

After he left, Timbrel grabbed her duffel and stepped into the bathroom. Retrieving her cell phone, she figured it couldn’t hurt to try one more time. She scrolled to Tony’s name, opened a text screen, and typed up a message. P
LEASE CALL WHEN YOU CAN
. B
EO MISSES GROWLING AT YOU
.

She stared at the letters.
Why can’t you just say it?

Jabbing her thumb against the back arrow, she deleted the last line. She typed in:

I
MISS
…

B
EO AND
I
MISS YOU
…

She deleted the second sentence altogether.

Coward
.

Yeah, well, he hadn’t given her any indication that he’d let her back into his life.

Timbrel tossed aside the phone, showered and changed, then slid into her own clothes—real clothes. Not pajamas. It’d been ridiculous that she’d had to stay in lockup for so long. She was fine. And it’d prevented her from finding Tony.

“Hello?”

“In here,” Timbrel called as she brushed out her long hair, wincing as it tugged on the scar site. “I’m being discharged.”

“Yeah, the nurse is here with the papers.”

“Oh!” Timbrel tugged open the door and pivoted around the corner. Finally a ray of sunshine. She went to the mobile tray where the nurse laid out the forms. She pointed to the first page and in a monotone voice explained the importance of—

“ ’S’okay.” Timbrel grabbed the stack, thumbed through each one, then signed. “I’ve been through this enough times to know the spiel.” She held them between her hands, tapped the papers against the surface to straighten them out, then returned them. “There. Am I free to go?”

“One more?” The nurse handed Timbrel a card. A blank card.

“What’s that?”

A sheepish grin spread over her face. “An autograph, please?” Her face went pink. “I mean, I know what the papers say, but … you’re Audrey Laurens, right?”

Timbrel huffed and looked own, chewing the inside of her lip.

Beo rose onto all fours.

Irritation clawed through her that she just couldn’t shed that part of her.
No, but you can make it work for you
. Timbrel smiled at the twentysomething nurse. “Tell you what, I’ll sign that on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell me if you have a patient here.”

“I—”

“Just tell me if he’s here.” Timbrel took a step closer even as the woman went back one. “I don’t want to know anything else. Just his location. That’s not violating anything, right?”

“Timbrel,” Khaterah said. “You—”

“Khat, I just want to know if he’s alive. If he’s here or still there.” She shrugged and looked at the girl. Then took the card, scratched a note and her signature, and handed it back. “His name’s Tony VanAllen—oh, it might be under James Anthony VanAllen.”

Without a word, she left the room.

Timbrel frowned. Checked Khat. “Is she going to help?”

“I can’t believe you’d put her in that position.”

“What position? It’s not illegal.” Shrugging into her pack, she reached for her phone and checked. No response. Though her stomach squeezed at the possible reasons why he wouldn’t reply to her text, she went with the easiest to believe: His phone was dead, he didn’t have it with him, or maybe he just hadn’t turned it back on yet. “And it’s not protected by HIPPA laws. Besides, since nobody is going to tell me, then I have to—”

“He’s here.”

Timbrel’s entire world felt as if it powered down. “What?”

“He’s here.” Khat shrugged. “But he’s not good, and the family has requested no visitors.”

“Not good? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to ask. It seems inappropriate.”

“Of course.” Timbrel deflated against the bed. “I’m … Am I a visitor?”
Is that how he sees me? How his family sees me?
“His dad said he loved me. His mom—” Timbrel frowned as she snapped her gaze to Khat. “Who told you that?”

“The duty nurse.” Khaterah took Timbrel’s bag and put it on her own shoulder.

After another sweep of the room to ensure she hadn’t left anything behind, Timbrel followed Khaterah into the hall. With Beo on a short lead, they made their way down to the first floor. Surprisingly, Timbrel felt winded, her head thundering. Annoying injury. She’d never been one to be sidelined by headaches or anything else. But the warning was there—it wasn’t
just
a headache.

“Hey,” Khat said in a quiet voice, “have a seat here. I had to park way out there. I’ll get the car—”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Timbrel. Sit there.” Determination lit through Khat’s gorgeous features.

With a huff, Timbrel sat. “Happy?”

“Immensely.” Khat smiled and headed out the door.

Timbrel fought the frustration. Elbow propped on the arm of the chair, she ruffled Beo’s fur. “They think I’m a visitor.” The way that hurt she couldn’t even describe.

“Timbrel?”

She jerked to the side, tensing at the dart of pain that spiraled up her neck and exploded in her head. More slowly, she looked in the direction of the voice. Her heart climbed into her throat as she made the connection and came out of her chair. “Irene.”

Closing the door, I stood inside the library. Nafisa was there, head down, as she pored over a book. Her red and pink hijab complemented her olive skin and traditional Muslim features. I’d been so angry with her that day after the village had been razed. So afraid my father would find out she’d been proselytizing. But she had not cowered, had not yielded when I said I could even have her killed. I’d never do that, of course. I wanted to marry her.

Father would not allow it, but I would find a way. I had to. I love her. She shone as a light in a dark world. So fair, so strong.

“I don’t understand you.” The confession sounded as juvenile as if I’d handed Nafisa a toy doll and asked her to play.

Nafisa’s face brightened as she looked up at me. “I believe many men say that of women they know, Dehqan.”

I gave a nod. “I think you women enjoy being mysterious.” At the table, I slid into the chair next to her.

She laughed. “I am no mystery. I will tell you what you want to know.”

A bold proposition. I could not drink in enough of her. But beyond that beauty and that draw… “How do you know so much about the Christian’s Bible?”

With a small shrug, she said, “My father.” Her voice wavered. “He was a pastor and held church. I went with him everywhere he went.”

“This was allowed because he did not have sons?”

“Oh, he had those, too.” Again, grief came over her, but she pushed it aside and managed a smile. “But I had a hunger. I saw the miracles God brought about through my father, the healings done in the name of Isa …” Wonder sparkled in her brown-green eyes. “I could not get enough of the Isa’s love.”

“Love.”

She nodded. “Yes, His love. It says in John 3:16, ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.’ ”

Questions had turned in my mind since last she and I had time to speak. Since I’d wrestled violently with her persuasion about
al-Masihu Isa
. Her insistence that Isa was Messiah and yet God.

“What you quote speaks of Isa? God’s Son—but that is blasphemy.”

“No. It’s not. Being a triune being does not make God any less God.” She tilted her head at me thoughtfully. “You … you are Dehqan, a young man, yes?”

She was laying a trap. But I trusted her and nodded.

“But you are also Dehqan, my friend, yes?”

Again, I nodded.

“And you are Dehqan, the son. And yet—none of those make you any less
you
.”

“That is not my name.” My heart thundered. Why did I voice that thought? I had told no one.

“What … what is your name?”

“Aazim. My parents were killed. The colonel took me in.”

“That’s why you gasped when I spoke of orphans!” Her eyes were wide with amazement. “I had no idea, and yet Isa wanted you to know that
He
knew your real identity, that He had not left you nor would He, if you seek Him.”

He knows me?

“My analogy was a poor one—we are mere humans with various aspects to our persons, but God is three in one, Father, Son—Isa—and Holy Spirit.”

“You mean, God the Mother?”

Nafisa blinked. “No. The Virgin Mary was blessed, favored of God, but not part of God Himself. And it is only through Isa that we can get to heaven, not through works or anything. The beautiful thing is that we do not have to prove our love—though He appreciates it when our actions match our words because it is tangible evidence of His love to people—through performance of the five pillars.”

“You are saying they are wrong? But I have seen you pray when we pray!” I blushed as I realized this was something I shouldn’t have seen. “I was not prying—but as I slipped in late one day, I saw you on your knees.”

“I pray to God, but my salvation is already guaranteed by Isa.” Her laugh was almost a giggle. “He wants your heart, not your performance. Isa loves you, like I do.”

My heart skipped a beat. Then a second. I couldn’t breathe as her words reverberated through my mind. “You … you love me?”

Her cheeks were a deep red, and she tucked her chin. “Isa loves you, He died so you could be with Him, but I love you … in another way.”

I let out the breath that stuck in my throat. “Nafisa … I did not think you felt the same way.”

Only as I sat there staring into her gorgeous eyes, did I realize how close we were. Though my mind screamed that this was forbidden, I moved in all the same. Exhilarated when she did not pull away, I kissed her.

She tucked her head even more. “I do not want to shame myself or God, Dehqan. Our love is different, fleeting. His love is real.”

“It is not fleeting. I love you!” My heart thundered with my words, and I heard them bounce off the ceiling. I dropped my gaze, with a smile. They say love makes you do stupid things. I guess they were right.

I shifted my mind, my thoughts back to the talk about Isa. It’s treacherous territory here. But I could not deny the tug they had on my heart. “I do not know what to think of these things about
al-Masihu Isa
and Allah—God. They seem … wrong.”

“Perhaps because you have been taught they are wrong. Often, we grow up in a world that does not accept us, who we really are. Instead, there are demands on how we act, how we talk, what we believe, or we will not have the love we crave.” Her eyes resonated with meaning.

And I felt as if she was reading my entire life from a book or something.

“God put that craving in us so we would seek Him. Isa is God, and God loves you.”

A loud noise cracked our quiet conversation. I jumped and twisted toward the sound.

Father stood in the middle of the room, a black weapon extending from his hand. His face contorted in rage.

My mind spun a million directions, yanking my heart with it. As the world shifted into a terrifyingly slow pace, I turned … turned … to Nafisa.

Eyes glossing, she was slumped in the chair. A crimson stain blossomed across her right breast. She whimpered.

“Nafisa!” I lunged at her.

Sirens screamed through the compound. Shouts mingled with the agony ripping through my chest.

“Nafisa!” I shoved back her chair as she gasped and gurgled. “Help! Help me!” I yelled, but nobody could hear me over the shrieking alarms and the pounding of boots as guards approached from the main floor.

Her fingers clawed into my shoulder. Her lower lip trembled.

“Oh God,” I cried out. “Don’t die, Nafisa!” I lowered her to the floor, hoping it would help her breathe, that it might stop the bleeding. I ripped off my waistcoat and pressed it to the wound. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Tears made it hard to see if she was alive still.

Her fingers gripped my wrist that tried to staunch the flow.