and unprotected.
Every instinct warned Jamison to hurry.
THREE
Michele drummed her hand on the steering wheel as she sat in the line of cars snaking their way through the Main Gate. Up ahead a military policeman worked with two civilian gate guards, checking the vehicles leaving post.
Across the median, a swarm of MPs searched the interior—as well as under the hood and in the trunk—of every car entering the garrison. Trucks were subject to more detailed scrutiny. With Fort Rickman on lockdown, law enforcement was ensuring that no one brought anything suspicious on or off post without their knowledge.
Though she was reassured by the thoroughness of the military police, Michele was frustrated by the delay. Her eyes turned upward, taking in the darkening sky and the wind that picked through the Spanish moss hanging from the stately oaks that lined the side of the road. If she didn’t reach the cemetery soon, she could get caught in a downpour.
The whole post was on edge, and rightfully so. Anyone with a smattering of knowledge about army operations could easily learn the names of the deployed soldiers. A quick search of a Fort Rickman phone book would provide home addresses where family members would be easy targets.
Had Yolanda been a random victim? Or was she chosen because her husband was deployed and she was alone?
A number of times last night, Michele had heard cars driving by outside. Looking from her bedroom window, she’d seen a steady stream of military police sedans patrolling the area. The added protection should have made her feel more secure but only drove home the fact that a killer was on the loose. The only time she’d felt safe was when Jamison was with her. But his presence created its own set of problems.
Michele rubbed her hand over her stomach in an attempt to quell the nervous confusion eating at her. She needed to push thoughts of him aside and concentrate on getting to the cemetery before the next round of storms.
The line of traffic moved forward. Michele edged her car toward the gate and stopped in front of the guard. He glanced into the interior of her vehicle and then checked her trunk before he waved her on.
As she left the post, she passed three media vans parked in a clearing at the side of the road. Camera crews stood in a huddle, no doubt eager to broadcast the latest news about Yolanda’s death.
Once she was on Freemont Road, Michele increased her speed and after a series of turns spied the front entrance to the cemetery up ahead. Putting on her signal, she turned onto the narrow road, full of twists and turns, that meandered through the sprawling grounds of gentle knolls and stands of trees.
Lance had loved the outdoors, and her parents had chosen a secluded burial plot atop a small rise that provided a clear view of the surrounding grounds. Michele parked on the grass just short of the rise.
As a precaution and noting the recent drop in temperature, she grabbed a raincoat off the backseat and, with her purse and flowers in hand, trudged up the incline. The ground, still damp from last night’s rain, cushioned her footfalls.
Over her right shoulder, she noticed a car parked near a cluster of monuments shaded by a giant oak tree. A man stood nearby. As she watched, he raised binoculars to his eyes and stared in her direction.
The hair on the back of her neck tingled. Unable to ignore the warning, she shivered, not from the wind that whipped around her but from her own nervousness. Lightning danced across the sky followed by the rumble of thunder.
Thankful for the waterproof slicker, Michele shrugged into the thick vinyl and pulled her hair free from the neck of the coat. She felt violated by the man’s prying gaze and wrapped the coat across her chest as she hurried on to the crest of the hill.
Once there, she glanced back, relieved to see that the man with the binoculars had climbed into his car to leave the cemetery. Turning her thoughts to Lance, she approached the rear of his monument.
Instead of a small and simple military marker, her parents had chosen a larger memorial with Lance’s picture etched into the front of the stone. As a template for his likeness, they had used a photograph Michele had taken at his graduation from flight school.
She and her parents had attended the ceremony at Fort Rucker, Alabama, and had been so proud of Lance, standing tall in his uniform in front of the American flag he loved. Three months later, his chopper crashed and exploded into a flaming inferno that took his life.
Stopped by the painful memory, Michele touched the cool granite. “Oh, Lance,” she sighed, wishing she weren’t alone with her grief. Her mother never came with her, never even wanted to, which Michele didn’t understand.
She thought of Jamison. Would he have accepted her invitation if she had asked him? Probably not. He had a murder to solve.
From out of nowhere, the smell of blood wafted past her. Yolanda’s bleeding body swam before her eyes. Michele bristled, annoyed with the tricks her mind was playing.
Struggling to shrug off the frightful memory, she rounded the monument and peered down, expecting to find her brother’s likeness smiling up at her.
At first unable to comprehend what she was seeing, Michele leaned closer. Then, like an arrow to her heart, realization hit.
She gasped. The flowers dropped to the rain-dampened earth. Lightning ripped across the sky. Seconds later, thunder mixed with the roar of her pounding pulse.
Vandals had chiseled thick gashes into Lance’s image, turning his handsome countenance into a macabre caricature. The marks cut into the stone exactly where the killer’s knife had slashed Yolanda’s flesh. A dark, viscous substance covered the mutilation and dripped like blood over his name and the date of his death.
Unable to look any longer at the defacement, Michele turned and ran away. Down the hill she fled, trying to distance herself from the desecration of her brother’s grave. Fat raindrops pummeled her face and mixed with the tears cascading down her cheeks.
She skidded. Her feet slipped on the wet grass. Stumbling, she righted herself and hurried on. Michele reached the road on the opposite side of a sharp curve from where she had parked her car.
The sky opened up as if it, too, were weeping for the dead. She dug in her purse, searching for her keys, and raced around the bend, hardly able to see because of the tears flooding her eyes.
The sound of tires rolling over asphalt startled her. She glanced up. Her heart jammed in her throat.
A car loomed in front of her.
Black sedan, tinted windows. The chrome hood ornament was headed straight for her.
She lunged, trying to jump clear.
The fender and outer side panel swiped against her thigh and sent her flying like a rag doll. Hot streaks of pain ricocheted through her body. She fell to the ground, clutching her leg and gasping for breath.
Unable to cry for help, Michele lay in pouring rain enveloped by darkness.
* * *
Jamison’s heart stopped as he pulled into the cemetery. In one terrifying flash, he saw it all play out.
Michele!
Accelerating, he raced forward, taking the turns at breakneck speed. Please, God, let her be okay.
Punching Speed Dial on his cell, he connected with the local police. “Hit-and-run at the Freemont Cemetery. Send an ambulance and police. Now!”
Fear clamped down on his gut. Would he get to her in time?
Halfway into the last curve, the tires lost traction. Jamison eased up on the accelerator and turned the wheel into the skid. Once the car had straightened, he put his foot on the gas and closed the distance to where she lay.
Leaping from his car, he charged across the rain-sloshed grass. His only thought was Michele.
Fingers of dread clawed at his throat. The rain eased