He was no longer in control, if he ever had been, and determined to let go of everything. His mind quit assessing the tactical situation, quit running through the different permutations of what might play out. Tumbling through the savage current of this Pakistani tributary, Zachary Garrett focused on his daughter Amanda.
Her beautiful face hovered in his mind like that of an angel’s.
Her sweet voiced asking, “Daddy, are we good to go?”
“We’re good to go, baby girl.”
CHAPTER 46
Amanda stopped by the principal’s office on the way out. Dan Rugsdale looked up from his desk as she lightly rapped on his open door.
“Do you have a second, sir?”
He put down his pencil and flipped over the typewritten pages on which he had been working. “Sure, Amanda, how can I help you? You’re lucky you caught me. I’m only in the office a few minutes today.”
“I’m just stressing about my father’s death and really need a couple of days.”
“You can take some time, Amanda. I understand,” Principal Rugsdale said to her. She sagged visibly. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Do you know when the funeral is?”
“No, they haven’t said anything about a funeral yet. He was Special Forces, you know. But I will let you know, if you’re interested.”
Rugsdale stood and walked toward her. He was a big man, more broad than tall. He put a large hand on her shoulder and looked in her eyes.
“I’m here if you need to talk to someone. I know this is a tough time for you.”
Amanda looked at his hand on her shoulder and then back at Rugsdale’s eyes. She saw a dark cloud pass across them like the anvil head of a summer thunderstorm.
“Thank you, sir.” She stepped away, feeling his hand refusing to give initially. Finally, she was free and moving out of the door.
Dan Rugsdale watched her leave and then turned toward his window. He pulled up the blind and he observed her walk quickly to her car.
Again, the touch. Like the high five last week, he sensed danger.
Amanda arrived at the police station and parked diagonally in an Authorized Vehicles Only spot, cutting across the line. The cops would have to walk off some of that donut fat, she thought to herself. She stormed through the glass-and-chrome door that led to the desk sergeant.
“May I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m here to see Jake Devereaux. He’s in here somewhere. Now tell me where he is,” she demanded.
“Listen, little lady, you come in here like that we might just lock you up with him, you hear me?” The police officer had a crew cut, his hair appearing like the stiff bristles of a gray brush. His uniform was impeccable and creased vertically along each breast. He had half-lidded eyes that indicated he was mostly a man of composure, a gatherer.
“I’m sorry, officer. I’m just sort of freaked out, you know? My dad died and my boyfriend was arrested—”
“He’s not here.”
“—and I know he didn’t do anything and I haven’t — Did you say he’s not here?”
“I did. He made bail today. Surprised the hell out of all of us to see him in here in the first place.”
“How long ago?” Amanda chewed on a fingernail. “Who got him out?” She became hopeful that her mother or grandmother had paid the bail, which would help her figure out some other things as well.
The officer wrinkled his forehead and said, “Oh, I’d say about an hour ago, maybe less. His daddy came down madder than hell. Nothing like a damn big-shot attorney having to bail out his own son.”
Amanda felt a stab of pain in her heart. He hadn’t called her. That would have been her first call had their roles been reversed.
“Was he charged with anything?”
“Damn straight. Breaking and entering, assault and battery, attempted homicide, and North Carolina’s got him on arson charges. Apparently he burned some house up there clear to the ground. Nothing but ashes left.”
Another slice of pain carved through her. Gone, everything she was supposed to remember was gone. All the evidence her father had gathered had gone up in smoke, embers floating meaninglessly through time, evaporating into the ether.
Without proof, there was no hope. Without hope, there was no reason to fight. Without a fight, there was no reason to try.
That had been her mantra. She realized it just now, standing in the foyer of the Dilworth Police Department. She had one foot tapping the floor, one fingernail chewed to the quick. No hope, no fight, no purpose.
Then it struck her. The officer had said assault and battery not murder. We all find our own silver linings, she figured. This was one.
“Where is the victim, Miss Riley Dwyer?”
“They’ve still got her over at Carolinas Medical Center, where I think she’ll be for a while. Your beau there did a real number on her.”
Amanda was in her car, actions outpacing her thoughts, as if she was carrying something so fragile and time sensitive that if she did not receive some reassurance she would lose this opportunity. She was not quite certain what opportunity she was considering, but she could sense that a door had opened for her. “Life is about chances and choices,” her father had once said to her.
Chances and choices.
Presently she was taking a chance, a risk perhaps, to find Riley Dwyer. Maybe she could tell her something that would make sense. She maintained an image in her mind of a trail of gunpowder being poured out behind her, the beginning having already been lit. Could she move more quickly than the cordite would burn? Or would it capture her, resulting in combustion of some sort?
Skidding into the parking lot at Carolinas Medical Center, she raced to the information booth. Having learned her lesson at the police station, she composed herself, wiping her wet palms on her blue jeans.
“Ma’am, will you please tell me the room number of Miss Riley Dwyer?”
Works every time, she considered as she jogged to the elevators, punched in the number four and impatiently waited for the door to open.
Once out of the elevator she followed the provided directions to room 412. The door was closed. She looked over both shoulders to determine if anyone was going to stop her, then she turned the door handle and let herself in without knocking.
The room was large, with a runner along the ceiling where a curtain could divide the space into two patient areas. There was no one in the first bed.
She cautiously stepped around the curtain and froze as she saw the battered visage of Riley Dwyer, tubes sticking into her face and chest. Her eyes were closed, and she did not appear to be breathing.
She looked dead. No machines were beeping. No lights flashing. There were none of the indicators of life that would normally accompany a recovering patient. The television was not on, there were no visitors, and there was no respirator forcing air into her lungs.
Then she looked at the steady green line tracing across the black background of the heart monitor…
She ran so fast down the hallway of the hospital that she never heard the nurse screaming at her to stop.
The surreal images of the past few days were racing through Amanda’s mind like Formula One cars all speeding in different directions unbound by a track or railings. The thought of speeding made her glance at her speedometer, where she noticed the red needle twitching past the one hundred mph mark.
“Get a hold of yourself, girl.”
Where was she? She had blacked out. It would not be the first time. Her memory lapses relative to her relationship with her father were minor when compared to some of the bouts of amnesia with which she had struggled. One moment she would be in class, the next she would be in her car in the student parking lot staring through the windshield, an hour having elapsed.