Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls #1)(6)
“Major,” Tucker interrupted with a raised palm, “I’ll get a report from Lieutenant Wise.”
Grant stopped. Something was up. He’d been Tucker’s second-in-command for ten months. The colonel squinted at him, his weathered skin creasing around his eyes. “Sit down, Grant.”
Wary, Grant eased into a chair. When Tucker used his first name, the news was personal.
The colonel eyed Grant’s forehead. “Is that serious?”
“No, sir. Just a scratch.” His adrenaline flow ebbed. Deep in his limbs, Grant felt every ounce of fatigue from two nights with no sleep.
Tucker opened his desk drawer. He poured two tumblers of scotch from his stash. He handed one across the desk to Grant and waited until Grant had tossed his back before speaking. “I got a call from the States.”
Grant stiffened, bracing himself. Had his father finally succumbed to his physical and mental afflictions? The retired army colonel had held out far longer than anyone would have predicted. Grant had been expecting a call about his death since he’d been deployed ten months ago. “What happened? Is it my father?”
“No. I’m sorry, Grant. It isn’t your father.” Tucker’s eyes went hard, and his words were the last thing Grant expected to hear. “Your brother and his wife were killed.”
Grant’s ears were still ringing from the battle. He couldn’t have heard that right. He only had one married brother. Grant usually spent part of his leave with Lee’s family. Lee was the family touchstone. There was nothing remotely dangerous about his life. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Your brother Lee and his wife, Kate, were killed last night.”
Liquor and grief numbed a path through Grant’s gut. This was impossible. “How? Car accident?”
Tucker shook his head. Sympathy softened his voice. “It seems as if they were robbed.”
Once Grant digested the initial shock, his next thought was of the children. Carson and Faith were alone. Orphans.
He stared at the floor. “I have to go home.”
“Pack your bag. Emergency leave paperwork is already being processed. Sergeant Stevens is arranging transport.” Tucker returned to his desk. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir.” Grant stood, willing the wobble from his legs. He faced loss of life on a daily basis. But the death of his quiet suburban lawyer brother was different. Grant wasn’t prepared for the emotional hit to his flank. He’d been ambushed all over again.
He checked in with Sergeant Stevens. He’d gotten Grant a spot on an outbound troop transport helicopter. Grant had a few hours to prepare. He packed, showered, and donned fresh ACUs on automatic pilot. It wasn’t until he was seated in the Chinook, watching the dirt cloud churned up by the tandem rotors, that it sank all the way in. Pain bored through Grant’s soul like a bullet.
Lee and Kate were dead.
Chapter Three
Monday night
Grant wiped a layer of mist from his face. The temperature in his hometown of Scarlet Falls, New York, was similar to the aching cold he’d left behind, but he appreciated both the moisture in the air and the absence of moon dust, the dirt powder that coated everything, including lungs, in Afghanistan.
Taking a deep, pine-scented breath, he followed Detective Brody McNamara up the concrete steps and into the side door of the municipal building. From the outside, the Colonial-style structure blended into the quaint small-town image, with blue clapboards and barn-red shutters. Inside, it was all tired office building. But since the detective had agreed to meet Grant at twenty-two hundred hours, he wasn’t complaining about the lack of interior design.
The police station shared the two-story structure with township administration. Just inside the doorway, a freestanding sign directed visitors upstairs to the tax collector, zoning office, and township clerk on the second floor. The cops had the ground level all to themselves.
He followed the cop through a gray tiled lobby. They passed the elevator and a reception counter, then walked down a short hall into a dark, open room. Detective McNamara flipped a switch on the wall. Overhead fluorescents illuminated a cluster of cubicles and a row of metal filing cabinets. A few closed doors banked the far wall.
“Sorry, we’re a small force. Night staff is skeletal, just patrol and dispatch.” The detective skirted the cubicles and unlocked the center door. McNamara was a year or two older than Grant’s thirty-five, with the ruddy, windburned complexion of a skier. Jeans and a navy-blue jacket with an SFPD patch on the sleeve hung on a rangy body. He led the way into a cramped but neat office. Two plastic guest chairs fronted an old metal desk. McNamara rounded the desk and dropped into his chair.
Restless, Grant stood. “I appreciate you meeting me here this late.” He’d called the cop from I-87 an hour before he hit town.
“Glad to help, Major. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Grant’s throat constricted. He’d been shot once and nearly blown up twice by IEDs. He had enough shrapnel buried under the skin of his leg to set off a metal detector. Keeping people like Lee and Kate safe was the reason he fought. How could his little brother, secure back here in the States, be dead?
Suddenly exhausted, Grant eased into a hard-backed chair. “Where are the children?”
The cop reached behind him. A mini fridge sat on top of a credenza. He pulled out a bottle of water and offered it to Grant. “As I said on the phone, we were unable to reach any family members the night your brother and his wife were killed. Child services placed them in a foster home.”