The rumors followed him from assignment to assignment. Whispers trailed him whenever he walked through a mess tent. A spark of recognition attended any introduction to another special forces member. Men volunteered for missions when his name was attached to it. It was more than the deference given by soldiers to the true warriors in their midst. The rumors said that the lieutenant knew things in the field. And his knowing kept his men alive. A sixth sense. Indian magic.
Lonetree knew a sniper was waiting in the next building.
Lonetree sensed a cave was rigged to blow.
Lonetree knew his old man was dead of a heart attack back home…a day before the phone call came.
Nothing was ever said to his face, but he knew the stories were out there. He didn’t think it was anything more than being careful and following his instincts, but he did nothing to dispel the speculation about his strange powers. The stories gave his men more confidence in him. And it ensured people left him alone. Just the way he liked it.
A year ago, after news of his brother’s death reached him during a tour in Afghanistan, he ended his military life. His commanding officer, Colonel Goldman, was shocked when Lonetree didn’t re-up. But he didn’t put up a fight. After the things Lonetree had seen and done, the colonel understood if he wanted to go home. He’d shaken the man’s hand and wished him luck on his new life, told him to call if he was ever in trouble and needed some help. Secretly, he hoped Lonetree would never contact him. The colonel knew the stories, and feared the man as much as he respected him.
Now Lonetree was solo but he still was on-mission. And he intended to stay alive through his current engagement. At least until he settled some scores. He’d led a life of killing and death, somehow knowing that he was chasing away the demons that had surrounded him from childhood. The demons his father had told him about. The same demons that he now believed he was close to catching. The ones he had sworn to destroy.
After the horrors that filled his life, evil forced on him by his military masters from above, it seemed infinitely just that he could now use his killing skills for personal vengeance. He was a hunter-killer and he meant to finish the job that both his father and little brother had died attempting. He would avenge their deaths and send the demons back to Hell where they belonged.
Jack Tremont was somehow linked to his mission. Like so many things, Lonetree couldn’t articulate how he knew it, he just did. And instinct was what he trusted more than anything. Except his instinct didn’t tell him how Tremont fit into it all. Was he a potential ally or an enemy?
Lonetree knew the demons came in every disguise, but Tremont’s actions so far indicated he didn’t know what he was involved in. Lonetree had a feeling that, one way or another, Jack Tremont would prove useful, maybe even pivotal in bringing things to a conclusion. He knew impatience led to mistakes, but he felt he had waited long enough. It was time to take some chances. It was time to make a move.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jack sat back in the chair and eyed the psychiatrist. He told the man everything that had happened over the past two days. Scott Moran listened quietly throughout the story, asking only minor clarifying questions, never offering any analysis or theory to explain the strange occurrences in the Tremont household. Jack noticed that no sign of incredulity passed over the man’s expression either. Moran listened to the bizarre series of events as if they were the same things he heard day in and day out. Then it struck him. Moran probably did hear these kinds of paranoid delusions all the time. From other people who were going crazy.
Even now that the story was done, the psychiatrist kept the passive expression he’d held during the entire session. Jack placed the heel of his hand under his chin and forced his head side to side until the vertebrae in his neck cracked. Moran winced at the sound.
“So what do you think?” Jack asked.
“I think you need a chiropractor more than you need me.” Jack smiled, only because he felt obliged. Moran rose from his chair and threw another log on the fire. “Trust me, Jack. I’ve heard stories that make your stuff seem boring.” He used long tongs to stack burning embers around the new logs. The fire flared, crackling and spitting sparks into the room.
“I’m glad to hear there are people in town crazier than I am. That makes me feel safe.”
Moran grinned and fell back into his seat. “Not crazy. They have issues to sort out, that’s all. Nothing a little therapy won’t help.”
“Is this when you tell me my time’s up and I need ten more sessions to get at the problem?”
“Nah,” Moran waved a hand at him. “I don’t think it’s that complicated. You’ve had a pretty big shock, a traumatic event that’s gotten under your skin. You never really recovered from the trauma of the accident you had in California.”
“I’ve dealt with that. It’s behind me.”
“What was the name of the girl who died that day?” Jack looked away. He hadn’t spoken her name for a long time. It made it too personal. Too real. He couldn’t say the words without seeing her face. Scott Moran let the silence draw out long enough to make his point. “You see what I mean? You ran away from the problem by moving here, but you never faced it.”
Jack nodded. “But how does this tie into what’s happening now?”
“Maybe this is you facing it. Finally dealing with this demon in your past. You obviously feel responsible for Melissa’s death. Buried guilt may have given rise to a hero fantasy about saving another girl, this one you say you saw in Nate Huckley’s car. No, hear me out before you argue against it. This girl hits the windshield of your car just like Melissa Gonzales. A little too coincidental don’t you think.”
“It’s coincidental. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“All right, let’s put that to the side then. Once it became clear that you can’t save the new girl, there’s this paranoia that someone is after your daughters. Once again, you have a chance to save them.”
“But you have it backward. Huckley was after them before I saw the girl. So your theory can’t be right.”
Scott Moran shifted in his chair. “All right, Albert James then.”
“What about him?”
“The man died in your lap with a massive head wound. Didn’t Melissa die of a head wound in the accident? Everything happened right after Albert James died, right?”
Jack felt the pull of Moran’s argument. The logic drew him in. For the first time that day he felt like a rational explanation might be within reach. “How do you explain the tangible evidence?”
“Such as?”
“The numbers written by my daughter. There were pages with Huckley’s room number all over them.”
Moran leaned in closer, like a doctor delivering bad news. “You may not like this question Jack but it’s important that I ask it. Did anyone else see her write the numbers?”
Jack stared. It took him a few seconds to process the insinuation. He felt his face heat up in anger. “No, I guess…but you don’t think I…” His hand involuntarily went to his mouth as he thought through it. Could he have written the numbers himself and not realized it? Was it possible? Could he be that sick? He would have sworn he had seen Lauren and Becky dead in their bed too. Maybe…maybe…