Hearts Under Siege (12 page)

“I’m Brady Fitzpatrick, here to pick up my brother’s…” His voice trailed off. Molly slid her hand into his and he gripped it hard.

“I…see. I’m very sorry, sir, if we’d known you’d be coming personally, we wouldn’t have— We’d have— We thought the funeral home was making the transfer.”

“They are.” Molly stepped forward. “We’re overseeing. Can you show us where the casket is being held?” The word somehow didn’t seem as morbid as “coffin.”

“Of course. If— Again, I’m sorry. These aren’t exactly the accommodations—”

“It’s fine,” Brady interrupted, his voice tense but not accusatory. Molly knew it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d arranged a plush room or a special “mourners” entry. Prettying up the atmosphere didn’t change anything.

They followed the facilitator—because that was what he had to be—around the end of an aisle of metal shelving and down a corridor between a baggage truck and more shelves. At the end, a simple oak casket sat on an expandable wheeled cart next to a cargo access door. Brady’s step faltered, and Molly stopped next to him, propping him up a little with her shoulder.

The casket was basic rectangular with a rounded top and carved edges, iron handles on the side. The wood on either side of a half-folded flag draped across the middle gleamed in the diffuse light from high windows. Several feet of open space surrounded it. For respect? Or ease of movement? Whatever the intent, the result was loneliness, abandonment.

Molly’s throat swelled and her eyes stung. Pain stabbed her left hand where Brady’s grip had tightened even more.

“There is some paperwork to be signed,” the facilitator murmured.

This was her chance. “You go ahead,” she told Brady. “I’ll stay with him.” He hesitated.
Go, go, go
. She waited with a façade of patience for him to nod and follow the other guy toward what looked like an office on the other side of the hangar. Perfect.

As soon as they were halfway across the building, Molly hurried to the coffin. She laid her hands on the lid and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and focusing her awareness. But there was no sense of connection, or grief, or finality. There wasn’t anything but smooth wood and the faint hint of pine furniture polish.

Hurry
. Her eyes popped open. Right. They’d be back any moment, and the funeral home would be here in a few minutes, too. She checked for hinges, found them, and hurried around to the other side of the oak box. They’d said he couldn’t be viewed, they couldn’t have an open casket, so she braced herself and took a deep breath before tentatively trying to lift the lid. Of course, it was locked down. There was no visible latch, so she felt along the edge for a release. Her left hand came up against a small metal rectangle, but it had no button or lever. Crap. She so didn’t want Brady to catch her at this.

Crouching to see the mechanism, she cursed under her breath. There was a small hole in the side. Not a regular lock for a specific key, though it might as well have been. It needed a hex key. She had a multi-tool on her keychain, but Brady still had it with him. She straightened and looked around. Maybe there was something here. She dashed over to the closest shelves that looked like they held tools and parts. Her throat caught when she tried to swallow. She dug through a pile of things she didn’t recognize, looking for a hex key or something similar, opening a couple of boxes and finding a ratchet set and regular screwdrivers, but no hexes.

“Come on,” she muttered, peering through the open shelves to see if Brady and the facilitator were coming back yet. Coast was still clear, at least as far as she could see in the crowded space. What the hell would she say if they caught her? The wheel was bent. No, that would be too obvious. Her zipper was stuck. Ridiculous. There was nothing she
could
say to explain her behavior.

“So just get on with it and don’t get caught. Dammit!” she growled to herself.

Maybe she could do this at the funeral ho— Wait.
There
. A dirty blue vinyl sleeve, back in the corner. She stretched to reach it, her fingertips scrabbling for a hold before they caught on the edge and pulled the holder close enough.
Yes!
She grabbed the whole thing and dashed back to the casket. Still no sign of Brady or the other guy, or anyone else, for that matter—but she had to keep alert. A countdown ran in her head, making her fingers want to fumble the keys. She squinted at the hole and chose a key that looked like it would fit, sliding it carefully into the hole so it didn’t scratch the finish. Too big. She tried the next one down. Still too big. Dammit! She bit her lip to keep her breathing from getting too fast and loud, and chose the next one down.
Ahh
, just right. She twisted, and the latch released.

Molly shot upright and shoved the lid up, more concerned with getting the task done than with what the task actually
was
. So when she looked down into the white satin-lined interior, she wasn’t thinking about what she expected to see.

But it certainly wasn’t empty space.

Chapter Seven

Brady stood in the cluttered, fuel-smelling office, fighting to keep control. The papers he had to sign for the transfer contained so many clinical, final words they were like nails being hammered into his chest. How many times was he going to be hit with the finality of his brother’s death before it was really final? Almost worse than that, whenever the nails drove into him, all he wanted was Molly.

He breathed through his mouth, staring to try to keep his eyeballs dry as he scribbled his signature and initials in the designated places. The facilitator stepped forward to take the papers and nudged a tissue box that sat on the corner of the desk. Brady just swiped under his eyes with the back of his hand before striding angrily back to where the coffin stood waiting.

Molly was several paces away from it, near a stack of shelves. Brady frowned at her flushed face and tousled curls. What had she been doing? She met him at the casket, her chest heaving as if she’d been running. He met her bright eyes for a split second before she turned away, and he instantly knew she was hiding something. With the facilitator hovering behind them he couldn’t question her, and just then the overhead door rolled up and the funeral home’s hearse backed up to it.

A few minutes later, the home’s staff had loaded the coffin, signed their paperwork, and driven off. Brady and Molly followed the hearse out of the parking lot, the burn finally easing when he turned the car in the opposite direction.

He drove for a full block before saying a word. “What’s going on? And don’t play dumb.”

Her typical response sounded staged, prepared. “I never play dumb.”

He had to give her that. “So?”

She didn’t answer. He rolled up to a traffic light and glanced at her. She was frowning intently out the windshield, but not seeing what was in front of her. He knew that look. His heart skittered before resuming its normal beat. The light changed and he drove on, deciding that whatever she needed to tell him should wait until he wasn’t driving.

Half a mile from his parents’ house, he turned off into a small park. The lot was mostly empty, only one minivan belonging to the young mother and two toddlers playing on the playground in front of them. The smaller of the two was trying to climb up a short plastic slide. The older brother reached the top, turned around, and slid down, a shit-eating grin on his face, but their mother snatched up the little one before feet came in contact. Their laughter penetrated the car. Brady rubbed the heel of his hand over his breastbone, the ache intensifying.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Oh, Brady,” Molly whispered, still not looking at him. “I wish…”

“What?” Tension locked around him. “You wish what?”

She shook her head, as if the wish was either too obvious or too impossible.

“Molly, for God’s sake, just tell me. You’re killing me here.”

She finally turned, and Brady stopped breathing at the look in her eyes. They blazed, the brilliant blue so full of…hope? Anger? Determination? He realized she’d been so quiet not from despondence or sorrow, but from intent. She was practically exploding with whatever she didn’t want to tell him.

Drawing in a huge breath, she said, “I opened the coffin.”

Horror ripped through him. “Fuck.” He leaned his elbow on the car door and rubbed his hand across his upper lip. “Why the hell did you do that?” He struggled to focus, to keep at bay the images her words generated. Jagged red lines across his brother’s cold, white face, criss-crossed with black stitching. Gaping wounds, cold and hard.

“I had to,” she said, her voice stronger. She turned toward him and drew one leg up on the seat, the other braced flat on the floor. “I’ve had this feeling all along. I didn’t know what it was, couldn’t pinpoint anything that made me, I don’t know, suspicious.” She shoved the jumble of shiny black curls back on her head. They
sproing
ed around her fingers, but the sleekness in front opened up her face in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. He briefly wondered what else she’d been hiding since coming to get him in South America, then dismissed that as a stupid, obvious question.

“And what did you find?” he asked in a low voice, expecting her to describe bullet holes or knife wounds.

“Nothing.”

He went blank. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing to support your suspicions,” he clarified. Something in the back of his brain was roaring approval, but he didn’t know why.

“No, I mean nothing. Brady.” She twisted further and grabbed his hands. Hers shook until she tightened them so hard it hurt. “Brady, there was nothing. In the casket. It was empty.”

The roar grew, but his conscious brain wasn’t as quick as his subconscious. “What are you talking about?”

“The coffin was empty,” she repeated with emphasis. “Your brother wasn’t there. Chris wasn’t there. Brady, he might not be dead.”

…

Molly sat on a bench at the edge of the playground, hunching against the brisk breeze that had chased away the woman and kids half an hour ago. She hadn’t taken a jacket when they left the house, and debated calling to Brady to get him back in the car. How much time did he need, up there at the top of the climber?

Probably as much time as she’d let him have. She sighed and pushed to her feet, folding her arms across her chest as she crossed the wood chips to the little ladder. Her average-sized feet barely fit on the toddler-sized steps, so she reached up to the crossbar at the top and hauled herself to the platform. There was no room for her on top of the covered slide, which Brady straddled, staring out across the nearby soccer fields.

“Brady.” She’d been doing that a lot lately, saying his name as entry into his thoughts.

“I’ve been going through the list.” He swung one leg over to sit sideways, not quite facing her, and still staring outward, but at least talking again.

“Me, too.” She leaned on the rail next to the slide opening. “Ways I could be wrong, ways a mistake was made, reasons it could be true.”

“What do you know that I don’t?” He’d put on his agent tone.

She started at the beginning. “The coffin was latched and not easily opened, but not locked. The satin inside looked untouched, but I didn’t really have time to—”

“Did you look at all of it?”

“I…” She didn’t know what he meant.

“Did you see the entire space? Maybe he— Maybe the remains—” He swallowed audibly.

“No,” she hastened, getting it. “I mean, yes, I looked all the way down, and no, there was absolutely nothing in there.”

“So why didn’t the funeral home question it?”

Molly had been watching them load the casket into the hearse for exactly that reason. “It was heavy. They struggled. I’m thinking they put something in the base of it—blocks, or lead, or something—so it would feel the way it should carrying a 180-pound man.”

Brady nodded and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the plastic next to him. “They won’t open it, because they were told all the preparations were taken care of. They’re only supposed to handle the ceremony and burial.”

“Right. So ideally, everyone just accepts that he’s in there, we proceed with the funeral, and move on with our lives.”

That took care of one list. Acutely aware of time passing, of Rick and Donna and Jessica at home waiting for them to come back and assure them they had Chris safe and sound— Oh, God, that was a poor choice of words. Molly straightened to ease the dull ache in her chest and resolutely moved on.

“Mistakes. It’s the wrong coffin.”

Brady shook his head. “There was a code stamped on the paper and the end of the coffin. Non-removable. And I saw the facilitator compare the numbers before they moved it out.”

Something new crowded into Molly, something she’d been working hard to keep at bay ever since she saw that wide, satiny blankness. “Okay then, right coffin, but Chris is in the wrong one.”

“SIEGE doesn’t make mistakes like that.”

She shrugged even though Brady couldn’t see. “We’re human. We all make mistakes.”

Brady sat frozen for a few seconds, then nodded. “All right, then. Before we go any further, we have to figure out if it’s a mistake.” He finally looked her way. “Suggestions?”

“We should ask. Talk to D—my handler. Or your handler,” she added, not really sure how Brady’s setup worked. “Since I’ve been dealing with all the arrangements, though, and already talked to them about—” Shit. He didn’t know about that.

His eyes narrowed. “About what?”

She sighed. “I went over yesterday, to drop off the intel you’d gotten and try to get answers about the accident.”

“Went over? To New Rochelle?”

She nodded, wondering if only conduits weren’t told the location of headquarters.

He frowned more. “And?”

“And they blew me off. But it’s a channel of communication.”

“Okay. We’ll arrange a meet.” He launched himself off the slide and landed on the tanbark ten feet below, then grinned up at her. “Coming?”

She stared at him, locked into place by the brilliance of his smile, the lightness in his eyes, the suddenly strong, square set of his shoulders. His legs planted wide, hands on hips, he looked like the old Brady, and the steel box inside her creaked, the pressure of the swelling emotions inside it almost overwhelming her. Brady’s smile widened, a clear challenge.

Molly grinned down at him. “Yep.” She grabbed the rail, bounced, and swung her legs up to the top of the rail, just touching down as a boost to go over, and landed lightly next to Brady. “Let’s go.”

Neither one brought up the reason they suddenly felt so light—that Chris might actually still be alive.

Molly dialed Dix’s number before they even reached the car. For the first time in the years she’d been with SIEGE, he didn’t answer.

“You’ve reached the desk of Conrad Dixson. Please leave a message and I’ll return the call asap.” Typical business speak, but his voice was somber, tense. Molly had no way of knowing, of course, when he’d recorded the message. It could have been luck that she’d never gotten his voicemail before. But it still shredded the bubble of happiness she’d had around her for, oh, thirty seconds.

“Dix, Molly. Call me, please. As soon as you can.”

Brady seemed to sink into himself again. “He didn’t answer?”

“No.”

He opened her car door and circled around to the driver’s side. She hesitated, then decided to keep letting him drive, even though it was her car.

“Handlers never not answer the phone,” Brady said grimly, starting the car and backing out quickly. “It always goes to someone else if they’re not available.” He accelerated out onto the street so fast Molly was glad there was no one about, though at this time on a Friday, it was almost eerie.

“What do you think it means?” she asked.

“No idea. Let’s get home, check on the others, and go down there.”

“I can handle that.”

They drove to the funeral home first, to confirm arrival of the coffin and final arrangements for the funeral on Sunday. Brady’s words and actions had an edge of energy, as if what he was doing wasn’t relevant to anything, only an irritating inconvenience. Molly felt it, too, but tried to caution herself against the hope feeding that edge. They’d stopped listing possibilities, but they still existed.

And just because Chris’s body was missing didn’t mean he wasn’t dead.

…

When Brady and Molly got home, his mother and Jessica met them at the door. “How did it go? Everything go smoothly? What did the funeral home say? Can we do the—the funeral as scheduled?” His mother’s questions battered at Brady, dragging him back into heavy reality.

“Yes, Mom. Everything’s fine.” His voice reflected the weight he was feeling, but she didn’t seem to notice as she hugged him, sagging in relief that turned to grief as she started to sob.

Brady looked at Jessica, unprepared for the devastation on her face, as if she’d gotten the news of Chris’s death for the first time. Seeing his mother’s pain made him ache with sorrow and regret, but Jessica’s was a switchblade in his gut. The urge to tell her about the empty coffin surged, but only for a moment. Knowing that would make it a lot worse for her if it was only a mix-up.

He didn’t believe it was, though. As soon as his mother released him he reached for Jess. She dove into his arms, shaking but not sobbing, her eyes dry. Brady wrapped his arms tighter, squeezed his eyes closed, tried not to let anyone see the furious hope behind them.

There were so many reasons
not
to be hopeful. Chris wouldn’t do this to them. SIEGE didn’t need to hide agents by faking their deaths.

But instincts honed in his job told Brady that was exactly what they’d done.
Why? Why put us through this?

Molly’s hand brushed his back as she passed, a casual, comforting touch. But it jolted through him, fusing with the hope he was struggling to keep at bay. He raised his head. Their eyes met, the acknowledgment in hers grounding him. They’d get to the truth.

Eventually.

…

Brady’s patience didn’t last long. The day ground on with no word from Molly’s handler. He wanted to drive down to New Rochelle immediately. She wanted to wait, to give her handler a chance to call back. His mother had turned clingy, and Brady hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse for them to leave.

And to top it off, Molly kept making suggestions of things he could do with Jessica, until finally, he cornered her taking out the trash.

“Leave me alone about Jess,” he said through gritted teeth.

Molly raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Not
with
Jess,
about
Jess.” He glared at her exaggerated innocence. “I mean it. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but—”

“I’m trying to help a grieving friend,” she interrupted. “She needs you. And from all appearances since we got back, you need her.”

Brady bristled at the disapproval permeating her prim tone of voice. “Hey, she just lost her husband. Or thinks she did. I’m—” He grabbed the hand Molly put up in his face and jerked it down. “I’ve only been trying to comfort her. She’s fragile. She is,” he couldn’t help insisting when she
hmph
ed. “But she’s my brother’s widow. I’m not making moves. That’s disgusting.” Morally speaking, anyway. He couldn’t say the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. “Plus, if—” He couldn’t voice it, couldn’t risk someone overhearing him say, “If Chris is alive.” But Molly understood. She gave a short nod and turned away, which for some reason stoked the frustration and anger he had been tamping down all day. He grabbed her arm.