Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (39 page)

But if not them? Then she had a thought that sent her heart hammering. What if it had been Tristan? What if he was out there, hiding, and needed something from the laptop.

“Stop it!” she cried. “You can't go there every time something odd happens or you hear a strange sound. He's dead and nothing is going to bring him back to life!” Blinking, she forced away all her silly romantic thoughts of Tristan out there somewhere, alive and hurt.

Forget all the evidence about how he had died. Forget everything except one fact. He'd gone overboard into the dark, dangerous water and had never come out. That, if nothing else, told her he was really dead. If he were still alive, he would move heaven and earth to get to her. Tristan would die before he'd allow her to believe he was dead.

With a quick shake of her head, she forced away thoughts of Tristan and concentrated on the missing laptop.

Before she jumped to any conclusions, she should check with Maddy and Zach. They may have had to confiscate it so the hard drive and memory cards could be reviewed.

Maybe Homeland Security or the NSA had needed it for evidence. That made sense, except for the fact that there was nothing on her laptop that could possibly be interesting to anyone other than herself.

She checked her watch. It was just after ten. That was eleven Eastern time. She hesitated for a second, then pulled out her phone. Maddy had told her to call anytime if she needed anything.

When her friend answered, she blurted out, “Maddy, did you or Zach take my laptop?”

“What? Sandy? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Did either of you take my computer, or see someone else take it?”

“It's not there?”

“No. It always sits on my desk in the nursery. Always. And it's not there.”

“No, we didn't. We searched it. Remember, you gave us the password. We went through all the saved files, looking for anything that might have been related to Tristan's death or the smuggling, but it was there when I left.” Maddy paused for a beat. “Have you seen any other signs that someone has been in your house?”

Sandy's tummy did a flip, which woke up the baby. He wriggled and kicked. “I don't think so. The nursery is the only room I hadn't been in. You're sure it was here when you guys left?”

“I am,” Maddy said. “Did you check with the crime scene unit or the sheriff?”

“No,” Sandy said. “I called you first.”

“Well, you need to call them. If they took it you should have gotten a receipt, but people forget things.”

“So it disappeared after you left.” She paused, thinking. “Wait. Come to think of it, the alarm wasn't set when I came in yesterday. It didn't beep.”

“So whoever took the laptop disarmed the alarm. Do a lot of people know the code?”

Sandy shook her head. “Just me and Tristan.”

“Maybe the crime scene team didn't know how to arm it and didn't realize you weren't there.”

“So someone's been in the house,” Sandy murmured.

“Listen to me, Sandy. It could be nothing, but just to be on the safe side, maybe you should go into town and stay at the hotel, or go back to Baton Rouge.”

“No,” Sandy said. “This was probably some kid.”

“Hold on a minute.”

She heard Maddy talking to Zach, then suddenly the phone went silent. Maddy must have put it on mute. It didn't matter, because Sandy knew what they were saying. They were discussing whether there was still any danger to Sandy or anyone else in Bonne Chance.

“Maddy—” Sandy muttered. “Come on. Hurry up.”

Finally Maddy unmuted her phone. “Sandy, if anything happens, call us, okay? We're not on the case anymore, but it hasn't been closed. So either Homeland Security or the NSA might reactivate it.”

That quickly, the confidence that Sandy had in knowing that Homeland Security and the NSA had finished with Bonne Chance, the smugglers and Tristan's death drained away. “Why would they do that?”

Maddy hesitated—not for long, but it was long enough for Sandy to notice. “Maddy? You told me all the smugglers were arrested and the captain was killed by Boudreau. I thought that was the end of it.”

“There are some things that we're not allowed to talk about. There are some things we're not even allowed to know.”

“But you do know, don't you? I
knew
you and Zach weren't telling me everything. There's more to Tristan's death than you told me, isn't there?”

“Sandy, don't.”

“Maddy, I swear I will come over there and wring your neck if you don't tell me what you know.”

“Hang on a minute.”

“No! Wait—” But Maddy was gone. Sandy waited impatiently. After about twenty seconds, she came back on the line.

“Sandy, listen carefully, because I can only say this once. It's possible—just possible—that your husband's death was not an accident.”

Sandy sat down. It was a good thing there was a chair right there. “What? So Zach was right? What happened? Is there some new evidence?”

“Listen to me. We spent a week in your house while we searched for answers to what happened to Tristan and all we could come up with was that his death was suspicious.” Maddy took a breath. “So now Homeland Security is ramping up listening devices as well as working with the Coast Guard to do more spot inspections of the oil rigs. They're obviously worried that there may be another group out there that's planning something. Bonne Chance is probably one of the least populated and least noticed places on the Gulf Coast. It doesn't even have streetlights except on Main Street.”

“I know. Out here, we can barely see lights from the town on clear nights, or if there's a fire we can see flames and smoke.”

“Well, the darkness and isolation makes it desirable for smugglers.”

“Maddy, you have to tell me why Zach—”

“Sandy!” Maddy snapped. “What did I just tell you?”

“A lot of vague stuff that you won't explain. Fine. I'll let you know if anything happens. That is if I'm able to.” Sandy was being sarcastic, but Maddy had just laid a new and awful truth on her and refused to explain it.

Her husband may have been murdered.

“Sandy, call the sheriff and get him to take fingerprints off the desk. That's the easiest way to figure out who did it.”

“If their prints are on file. But they probably aren't.”

“Call the sheriff, Sandy,” Maddy said.

“Maddy, this might not make any sense to you, but I don't want anyone in my house. I just got home. All I want to do is be here with the baby. We have a lot of things to sort out, him and me. There's no real reason to get fingerprints, is there?”

“Sandy, I mean it. I'm supposed to be in training this whole week, but I'll take a break and call you if I have to.”

“All right. I'll call. Now can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. How are you feeling? Is the baby doing well?”

“Yes. We're both doing fine.”

“Did that little thing ever fall off?”

“Little thing?” Sandy said. “Oh, right. That's what the doctor said about the sonogram. Not that I know of. It's still there.”

“So did he actually say it's a boy?”

“No. Apparently physicians don't like to actually commit, but he sounded pretty sure. You know,” she said with a sad smile, “Tristan said we were having a boy. He really believed it.”

“Aw, honey.”

“I know. Don't worry. I'm fine.” Sandy forced a laugh.

“Have you thought of a name yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“So you're back there in Bonne Chance. Are you and the baby going to stay there?”

“I plan to,” she said. “But I might go back over to Baton Rouge when I'm closer to the delivery date. It might be easier, having Tristan's mother to help me.”

She barely listened as Maddy went on and on about what a great idea it was to go back to Baton Rouge. When she had a chance, she broke in and said goodbye, that she was going to sleep. Maddy warned her again what would happen if she didn't call the sheriff, then they hung up.

“Okay, bean. How about you? Do you think I should call the sheriff about the computer? Yeah. Me neither. Although I think I'll go see Boudreau tomorrow. Let him know I'm back. He might have seen someone sneaking around the house.”

She smiled as she rubbed the side of her tummy. “Although, if Boudreau saw somebody he didn't know going into Tristan's house when I wasn't there, he'd probably shoot them.”

Chapter Two

Tristan woke up feeling relaxed. The early-morning sun shone across his bed, warming his legs. He took in a deep breath, scented with gardenias.
Sandy.
She'd glowed the last time he'd seen her, just as a pregnant woman should.

As he smiled sleepily and turned toward her, searing pain tore through his calf, igniting painful memories.

He wasn't in his bed with his wife beside him. He was on a cot in his old Cajun friend Boudreau's cabin, where he'd been since Boudreau saved his life.

A memory of dark water and bright shark's teeth hit his brain. His muscles tensed and the hot pain in his calf, where muscle had been ripped away by thick, sharp teeth, seized him again.

Clenching his jaw and groaning quietly, he consciously relaxed his leg. He'd learned the hard way that if he could avoid tightening the tendons and whatever muscles were left on that side, it didn't hurt quite so bad.

The pain finally faded, but it was no relief. All he felt was a gaping emptiness inside. He was supposed to be dead. Was dead, as far as his hometown, Bonne Chance, Louisiana, and his family knew.

He couldn't have notified his family if he'd wanted to. According to Boudreau, he'd spent nearly two weeks unconscious, then when he finally woke up, he was too weak to stand and walk.

Since then, he'd forced himself to walk every day, pushing through the awful pain. He couldn't imagine how his mangled leg would ever work right, but if determination had anything to do with it, he would be successful.

Every morning, he sent up a prayer of thanks to God for letting him live. He'd been granted quite a few miracles in the past two months, and that one was the greatest.

He needed another miracle, though. He needed to walk across the dock from Boudreau's cabin to his family home. The miracle he envisioned was that once he got to the house, Sandy would be there waiting for him, beautiful and happy because he was alive.

He'd run to her without limping or falling and take her in his arms, feeling the swell of her tummy between them. She would take his hand and place it in just the right spot to feel their baby kick.

But Sandy wasn't there. She was in Baton Rouge with his mother, thank God.

Thank God for several reasons. First, while seeing her might be his fondest dream, that wasn't his primary motivation to recover as fast as he could. He had to find and bring to justice the man who'd ordered him killed.

And to do that, he needed to retrieve a vital piece of evidence—at least, he hoped it would be vital. But he had to get his hands on it and it was in the house.

As much as he longed for Sandy, he prayed she wouldn't come back to Bonne Chance. Not until he'd tracked down the person who had tried to kill him and wanted him dead.

While he'd been daydreaming about Sandy and their baby, the sun had risen above the window casing. From the floor, he picked up the bumpy cypress walking stick Boudreau had whittled for him,

He took a deep, fortifying breath, then slowly sat up and swung his feet off the bed to the floor. Putting on his shoes was a painful chore, but not as painful as standing.

He used the stick to lever himself upright. As he balanced, putting weight on his right leg, he grimaced in anticipation.

And there it was. The pain. He cringed and tightened his grip on the walking stick. Outside, the morning sun shone through leaves and sent dappled shadows dancing across the ground.

Tristan lifted his face and let the energizing sun's heat soak through him, trying to keep his mind clear and open, trying to be glad he was alive.

But as hard as he tried to stay in the warm, bright present, the nightmare of his struggle with death clutched at him. He couldn't shake the memory of plunging into the dark, churning water off the oil rig.

He relived each terrifying moment, as dark, chill salt water seeped in through his mouth and nose and the shock of cold on his skin paralyzed his muscles.

He'd felt but hadn't reacted to the bumps and nibbles and flesh-ripping bites of the sharks that circled him until he'd opened his eyes and saw blood everywhere. His blood. It had swirled and wafted past him like ink dripped in water, darker than the brownish water of the Gulf.

Tristan gagged and coughed reflexively, and greedily sucked in fresh air until the horrible memories began to fade. He was beginning to appreciate the small things in life, like breathing. A wry smile touched his lips for a second as he limped over to a rough-hewn bench Boudreau had built under a pecan tree.

He didn't sit, because then he'd have to stand up again. Instead, he propped the walking stick against the bench and watched the morning come alive. Birds circled the yard, stopping to peck for seeds and nuts and insects.

Boudreau had a goat tethered to a tree with a generous amount of line so it could wander almost uninhibited. A vague memory of cool milk sliding down his throat took away the remembered burn of salt water.

As the quiet of dawn turned into the hustle and bustle of daytime in the bayou, Tristan made a decision. There was no more time for rest and recuperation. He had to solve the mystery of his near murder, and there was no better time than now. He would walk a mile today, all the way down to the dock and back. He was ready to walk that far. He had to be.

When Boudreau appeared, carrying a bucketful of water from a hidden artesian spring, Tristan told him his plan.

“What for you thinking about going down there?” Boudreau shook a finger at him. “You ain't got the stamina yet, you. You want somewhere to go? Strip the sheets off that cot and take them down to the spring and wash them. Use that Ivory soap. It don't hurt the water too much.” He stalked past Tristan into the house and within a moment came back out, carrying the bucket, now empty.

“Haul up a bucketful of water when you're done washing. See how that goes, then we'll talk about how far you think you can walk.”

“Boudreau,” Tristan said. “You saved my life. If you hadn't been out fishing that morning and stopped the bleeding in my leg, I wouldn't be alive now. I owe you too much and respect you too much to argue with you, but I can't lie in bed any longer. I've got to strengthen this leg as much as I can, although I know it's never going to be as good as it was.” He sighed. “There's enough I won't be able to do. I don't want it to wither down to complete uselessness.”

“Wither? Son, ain't no use making up stories about what ain't happened yet. The future gonna happen, yeah, but its story ain't been writ yet. You start pushing yourself too much, you'll undo the good you've done and, before you know it, you'll accidently throw yourself into that future of your own making. See?”

“So what should I picture, rather than the truth that without most of the muscle in my calf, I'll never do better than a slow and painful limp for the rest of my life?” he asked bitterly.

Boudreau studied him for a moment. “How 'bout you picture that pretty little wife of yours back home and mourning for you. See if that's a better motivation.”

“What? Sandy's back? Here?” Shocked, he glanced in the direction of the house. Then one of the many things Boudreau had told him during the past few weeks came into his mind.

He recalled his friend telling him that Murray Cho had gotten into the house without setting off the alarm and had come out a few moments later with what looked like Sandy's laptop computer.

Tristan had been surprised—he'd never imagined Murray Cho as a thief.

“She can't be back,” he cried. “Murray could come back. He thinks she's gone, and if she surprises him—”

“There you go again, making a surefire mountain out of a piece of ground where there might be a molehill one day. Slow down, son. Let things happen as they will. Just be ready when they do.” Boudreau assessed him. “Meanwhile, how come you think she's not safe? You left her alone when you worked on the rigs.”

He thought of Sandy, waiting for him week after week, never having a full-time husband, and he never having a full-time wife. Now she was less than a mile away.

He wanted to run to her and grab her up and kiss her until they both were panting with desire. He wanted to see how much her tiny baby bump had grown. And he wanted to put his hands on it and feel the child they had created, the child he already thought of as his son.

But he was afraid. Not only did he not want to show his face, he didn't want to chance her telling someone—her best friend, or his.

“I had no choice. Besides, I didn't know they were going to kill me. If they find out I'm alive, what's to stop them from doing it right this time?”

“Who's them? That captain's dead. Everybody's gone from the oil rig now.”

“Come on, Boudreau. The captain was never the man in charge. The boss is still out there. He's some big muckety-muck in the company that owned the oil rig, Lee Drilling. And that man knows I can potentially identify him.”

“Yeah?” Boudreau said. “Who is he?”

“I said
potentially
. I don't know who he is. The first time I heard the captain talking about a plan to smuggle illegal weapons into the US and give them out to kids on the streets, it was a complete accident. I realized I was listening to terrorists, and that was only one side of the conversation. I put together a program to capture and save every conversation that took place on that satellite phone.”

“And that captain never said a name?”

“I don't know. I never had a chance to listen to all the recordings. Too afraid I'd get caught. I stored them on a flash drive, hoping I could get it to Homeland Security. They can use voice recognition technology to identify the man, and that will implicate him in the smuggling operation.

“Something went wrong with my program and the captain caught me fooling with his satellite phone. He kicked me out of his office and never said anything, but I know that's why they tried to have me killed.”

“So where's that flash drive? You for sure didn't have nothing on you when I fished you out of the Gulf.”

“That's just it. I hid it in the house the last time I was home. My plan was to get it to Homeland Security on my next week off. But I never got that week off. Now I don't know if Murray found it when he got the laptop.”

“That's why you don't want Sandy back here.”

Tristan nodded grimly. “I'd like to get Homeland Security to put a guard on her, but to do that, I'd have to let them know I'm alive. And as soon as they hear from me, they'll pull me in to DC for debriefing. Oh, they'd honor my request to guard her, but I can't be sure she's safe if I'm not the one protecting her. I mean look at how many good soldiers who have the protection of the government have been killed. How many innocent civilians.”

“I get you wanting to protect her yourself, but, son, you ain't capable right now.”

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what are you saying? That my only choice is to notify Homeland Security? I'd be signing her death warrant. Somebody as high up as the captain's boss would know as soon as I surfaced. He'd have plenty of time to kidnap her before Homeland Security could react. She might end up being tortured for information she doesn't even have. And I wouldn't be here to rescue her.”

* * *

S
ANDY
FELT
AS
THOUGH
she hadn't slept at all and therefore the little bean had been restless, too. She hadn't been able to shut her brain off. Every time she'd go to sleep, her dreams had been filled with images of Tristan sinking into the cold, dark water as hungry sharks circled around him. It was like a slideshow that wouldn't stop.
Click—murdered. Click—murdered. Click—murdered.

Then she would wake up with her heart racing and tears wetting her cheeks and pillow.

Finally, around seven o'clock, she got up and bathed and dressed and headed into the kitchen. For a second, she stared at the coffeepot in longing. But she'd sworn off coffee for the pregnancy, not wanting to have a baby who was hooked on caffeine.

She yawned. “You have no idea how much I would enjoy a cup of coffee this morning. And there might be some decaf in the freezer. But my tummy has let me know in no uncertain terms that it likes grape juice and only grape juice.” She patted her belly. “So grape juice it is, right?”

As she sat at the kitchen table and drank the juice, she looked at her phone, recalling Maddy's warning from the night before. She wanted to blow off the Homeland Security agent who had become her friend, but she knew Maddy would bug her until she called the sheriff. If she refused, Maddy would call him herself.

“No choice but to do it,” she muttered as she got up and went into the nursery. It was the only place in or out of the house where she could get a reliable cell signal. She dialed the sheriff's office.

“Baylor,” she said when Sheriff Baylor Nehigh answered. “It's Sandy.”

“Well, hello. I didn't know you were back in town,” he said. “How're you doing? How's the baby?”

“Fine. We're fine,” she said. “The baby's fine. Baylor—”

“Now how far along are you? I'm trying to remember.”

Sandy closed her eyes and prayed for patience. If she couldn't get her question in, Baylor would be off on Tristan's death and she'd have to listen to his theories for at least twenty minutes before she could get another word in edgewise.

“Five and a half months, Baylor. I think someone got into the house while I was gone. My laptop computer is gone.”

“Now, what? You say a computer is missing? Well, now, we can't be responsible for that. You'd have to talk to the crime scene unit, although my guess is that oil rig captain took it when he broke in to kidnap Agent Tierney,” he said. “If it was him you'll never get any money for it.”

“Baylor! That's not why I'm calling. The laptop went missing while I was gone. I thought if you or the crime lab had it then I don't need to worry that someone got into my house while I was away.”