Whisper of Bones (Widow's Island #3)(22)

The saddest factor in the entire equation was that Mom wasn’t so far gone that she wasn’t self-aware. She knew her mind was failing, and it terrified her.

Tessa walked toward her mom and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s too late to call her now, but you can talk to her tomorrow if you like.”

“When did she go to Seattle?” Mom resisted Tessa’s efforts to steer her toward the table. Tessa released her and went to the thermostat to turn up the heat.

“How about a cup of tea and a cinnamon roll?” Tessa hated redirecting her like a child, but her mom had a sweet tooth. Bribery sometimes worked.

“I’m not hungry. I want to talk to Barbara!” Her mother’s voice became shrill.

“OK.” Tessa tapped her phone and sent Barbara a text. “Let me see if she’s still awake.”

It was going to be a long night.





8


The explosion rocked the dusty desert street beneath Logan’s feet. He raced toward the vaccination clinic, the one he’d just walked past on patrol.

The one that had been filled with dozens of women and children. The blast had deafened him, and all Logan could hear was the drumming of his own heart. The explosion had ripped a jagged hole in the south wall and torn away most of the clinic’s roof. He slid to a stop in the entryway. The door had been blown off its hinges. Bloody, burned bodies littered the floor.

He scanned the room for movement but saw none. In the center of the space, a woman was draped across an overturned chair. Blood soaked her head scarf. Her eyes stared vacantly at nothing. Two children sprawled alongside her. Both clearly gone. Logan breathed, his body operating on autopilot. He could not allow his brain to process what he was seeing. If it did, he would be useless. The sheer horror would paralyze him.

He sensed more people coming through the doorway behind him. Two other soldiers. They swung left. Logan turned right.

A faint scuffle caught Logan’s attention. He looked down. A little girl lay in a heap of spindly limbs. Logan squatted in the debris. She was covered in so much blood, Logan could not identify where it was coming from.

A hunk of ceiling rafter fell to the ground three feet from the child. Dust and ash billowed in a cloud. He had to get her out of here.

The child screamed, the high-pitched sound of pain and terror penetrating Logan’s muffled ears.

“You’re going to be OK. You’re going to be OK,” Logan promised the bleeding child as he scooped her into his arms and headed toward the door. Squinting against the blinding desert sunlight, he paused. He could see a triage area being set up down the street.

The child’s screams faded into soft choked moans.

“You’re going to be OK.” If he kept saying it, maybe it would come true.

Holding her tightly against his chest, he broke into a run. Blood soaked his uniform, the warmth of it reaching the skin of his chest and arms. He reached the triage area in a minute or two. All around him, mothers and children screamed, but the little girl in his arms sagged, silent and still.

Bang!

Logan rolled off the bed. He landed facedown on the floor, instinctively covering his head with both hands. Sweat dripped down his chest and back, and his pulse slammed through his veins as he waited in the darkness for more explosions, gunfire—or screaming.

Gradually, he became aware of the hardwood floor under his body, the black shapes of the bed and nightstand in the predawn dim, the faint gray light seeping through the slats of his window blinds. Twenty seconds passed before he realized he was in the forest ranger cabin on Widow’s Island, not Afghanistan.

The nightmare must have woken him. Odd. He’d had the same dream dozens of times, and he never woke before the horrifying conclusion. He was always forced to relive the entire event. He would hear the high-pitched wailing of terrified children until the day he died.

Logan sat up and shoved a shaky hand through his hair. He knew how the flashback ended, with him handing the child to a doctor—and his heart breaking as the doctor gently put her tiny lifeless body aside so he could concentrate on the victims who could be saved.

His T-shirt was damp with sweat, and the room was cold. Shivering, he got to his feet. His legs were shaky. Even though he was alone, the weakness of his knees embarrassed him.

Three loud raps came from the other room, startling him. Someone was knocking on his door.

Shit.

He reached for a pair of cargo pants folded neatly at the foot of his bed. He stepped into them and drew them up over his boxers. Buttoning his fly, he headed for the door. He glanced out the window. Tessa stood on his porch. She held a stainless-steel travel mug. Happy to see her but also still a little embarrassed, he opened the door.

Her gaze scraped over his face. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, though he knew he must look like hell. “What’s up?”

“I called your cell, but you didn’t answer.”

Logan glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven thirty. “I’m sorry. I must have slept through my alarm.” He’d also been up half the night with insomnia.

“I brought you coffee.” She brushed past him into the tiny living room–kitchen combo and set the cup on his kitchen counter.

“Thank you.” It wasn’t full daylight yet, but December days were short this far north. The sun didn’t rise until almost eight a.m. “I can be ready in a couple of minutes. I just need two minutes to shower.” He turned toward his bedroom.