The Colonel's Daughter

“La...Lance’s grave site.” She tried to sit up.

He gently touched her shoulder. “Lie still until the EMTs arrive.”

She grabbed his hand. “The m...monument was desecrated.”

Sirens filled the air. Two Freemont police cars pulled into the cemetery and stopped close to where Michele lay. An ambulance turned onto the grounds. Overcome with relief, Jamison remained at her side as the officers neared.

The older of the two made the introductions. “Sir, I’m Officer Tim Simpson with the Freemont Police Department.” Mid-forties, the guy had a buzz cut and thick brows that he raised as he pointed to the wiry, younger officer next to him. “This is Officer Bobby Jones.”

Jamison flashed his identification, gave his own name and Michele’s and quickly explained what he had witnessed.

“I saw Miss Logan when I pulled into the cemetery. She was hurrying around the curve in the road toward her car. The rain was falling hard, and she was trying to pull her cell phone or her keys from her handbag.”

“M...my keys,” she responded, her voice weak.

“The car appeared to accelerate just before it hit her,” Jamison added.

She glanced at Simpson. “I...I didn’t hear a motor.”

“Can you give us a description of the vehicle, ma’am?”

“Black or dark blue with a silver hood ornament.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure about the make or model.”

“Were you able to see the driver?” Jamison asked, still hovering over her.

“The windows were tinted. Earlier, a man...by the oak tree. He had binoculars.”

“Military binoculars?”

“I’m not sure. I thought he’d left the cemetery by the front entrance.” She wrinkled her brow. “It could have been the same car.”

The cop looked at Jamison. “Did you get a visual, sir?”

“Not on the driver. I was too far away, and he left through the rear exit. The vehicle was a small, four-door sedan with tinted windows, as Miss Logan mentioned. Late model. Dark color. Could have been a hybrid.”

Simpson pursed his lips. “Which would have been the reason she didn’t hear the engine.”

“Exactly.”

The ambulance pulled alongside the police cars, and two EMTs quickly approached. “Sir, can you step back and give us some room?”

As much as Jamison didn’t want to leave Michele’s side, he had to let the medical team do their job.

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll talk to the police while the EMTs ensure that you’re okay.”

Her grip tightened. “Lance’s grave. Someone cut into his marker.”

“I’m heading there now.”

As the EMTs strapped Michele to a backboard, Jamison turned to Officer Jones. “Can you get the names off the headstones near the oak tree? The family members need to be questioned in case one of them was the man with binoculars.”

“Good idea. I’ll take care of it.”

Jamison motioned to the older cop and then pointed up the incline. “Let’s take a walk and check out the marker.”

Having visited Lance’s grave with Michele on occasion, Jamison led the way. His stomach soured at the sight of the damage done to the monument. What kind of vicious person would do such a hateful act?

Bending down, he studied the cuts in the granite and the spattered liquid. “Looks like blood, although it might not be human.”

Simpson nodded. “A piece of raw steak could provide enough blood to cover the entire monument.” He scratched off a sample and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. “Whatever it is, I’ll have it analyzed and let you know the results.”

Jamison glanced back at where the EMTs were talking to Michele. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders.

The grave desecration was a vindictive act against the Logan family. Judging from the location of gash marks on Lance’s etched likeness, the defacement appeared to be connected to the murder on post.

Jamison’s heart lurched with a terrifying realization. The cold, hard truth sent chills along his spine. Just like with Dawson, Jamison hadn’t put the pieces together fast enough to realize Michele would be an easy target at the cemetery. That mistake had almost cost Michele her life.

FOUR

As much as Michele didn’t want to go to the hospital, she gave in at the insistence of the EMTs. Freemont had a modern facility with a good emergency room where she could be checked over by a physician.

“You’re one lucky lady,” the driver of the ambulance told her as the EMTs repacked their equipment and prepared to leave the cemetery.

Michele didn’t feel lucky. Her thigh ached, and she must have pulled a muscle in her back when she landed on the rain-soaked grass. Nothing serious, she felt sure, but not what she wanted today, of all days.

Jamison stood away from the circle of first responders, cell phone jammed to his ear, as he relayed what had happened back to CID headquarters. She had warned him not to call her mother. Not yet, at least.

Roberta had enough to worry her without hearing her daughter was involved in a hit-and-run accident. Once the doctor at the hospital gave the all clear, Michele planned to call home with positive news that she was all right.

Disconnecting, Jamison approached the stretcher where she lay and touched her hand. His eyes were darker than usual, his brow drawn in what seemed like a continuous frown. Jamison had laughed so often when they were dating that she considered asking him to force a smile or, at least, relax the tension that tugged at his full lips.

She remembered how he used to tease her with his kisses. In the beginning, the warmth of his embrace and the sweet gentleness of his caresses had melted the cold interior of her heart, a heart that had frozen after Lance’s death.

Jamison had been a good influence when they’d dated. His optimism had rubbed off on her. Without realizing it at the time, Michele had started to share his vision of how life was meant to be lived, in the present and with hope for the future.

After she left Fort Rickman, the light Jamison had brought into her life dimmed, leaving a noticeable void.

Jamison’s love for life seemed to have diminished, as well. Could ten months have made such a significant difference in both of their lives?

Tragedy was transforming and not necessarily for the better. The shoot-out on post ten months ago could have been the catalyst that caused the change in Jamison. Or had something else been the reason?

Something or someone?

Unable to accept that she might be to blame for Jamison’s newfound gloom, Michele fisted her hands.

Jamison leaned over the stretcher, his face so close she could feel his warm breath against her cheek. “What’s wrong, Michele? Did you remember something?”

She remembered his kisses. “Did you tell Dawson not to call my mother?”