The Marine Next Door

The view was over and gone within another second, and Sergeant Maggie rolled to safety on the floor above him. John eased a tight breath out between his lips. Something dormant inside him had unexpectantly awakened. Was it just the fact that he hadn’t touched a woman for two years? Hugs with his sister and handshakes with doctors and therapists hadn’t zinged through him and thrown him off-kilter like this. And prickly redheads had never been his type.

He supposed he should be pleased to discover that life-threatening injuries and months of recovery hadn’t destroyed the baser urges heating his blood right now. But he was just beginning to get comfortable with being closed-off and antisocial. Just a few minutes ago, working his way up to normal civility had been a stretch. And now he was wondering if that whole sexual lightning bolt had been a fluke or if he was going to have to curb his natural instincts to maintain a “just friends” relationship with his new neighbor.

Busy sorting through his observations and emotions, and putting them away in various mental compartments, he was startled to see the long, freckled arm poking back into the elevator. “Come on,” Sergeant Maggie ordered. “Your turn.”

Her tone was much more authoritative and coplike coming from the free air of the seventh floor than it had been in the tight confines of the elevator. Intriguing. Maybe he ought to latch onto that chilly timbre instead of remembering how she’d filled up his hands if he wanted to keep a polite distance from her.

He chinned himself up on the edge of the outside door track, then reached for her hand. With a surprisingly firm grip, she gave him the extra momentum he needed to hoist himself out onto the floor. Allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, John rolled onto his back. “Thanks, Sarge …”

But the prickly redhead was already slipping her son’s backpack onto his slim shoulders and urging him to their front door. Nope, he didn’t need to worry about hormones going on alert, being confused about social expectations of him or trying to be casual friends at all. Sergeant Maggie’s quick retreat spoke volumes about how the two of them were going to get along.

Still lying on the rug, John realized that a nearby door was propped open and someone with black hair and glasses was peeking out at him. He obliquely wondered if the short, shapeless person was a man or a woman, but there was no mistaking the unblinking curiosity. “Elevator isn’t working,” he explained. “Welcome to the neighborhood, right?”

The door snapped shut and John laughed at the irony of his worrying about being the antisocial one here on the seventh floor. He sat upright and pushed to his feet. He picked up his boxes from the stalled elevator opening and headed for his apartment. “Yeah, this is one hell of a homecoming, John.”

“Excuse me?” the redhead asked.

John shrugged off the polite query. “Nothing, Sarge. Nice to meet you.”

Her hesitation spoke volumes. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Hey, Mom. Look.”

Great. They were right next door to each other. This could be awkward if the woman preferred him to keep his distance. John shifted his boxes and scooted around mother and son as the boy plucked down a folded piece of white paper that had been tacked to their door.

“Let me see that.” Maggie snatched the note from the curious boy’s fingers and unfolded it while John fished his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans. “That son of a … This isn’t happening. Not now.”

“Sarge?”

They both stopped with their keys turned in the locks of their respective doors. The instinctive urge to ask if something was wrong died on John’s lips when he saw the color bleed from her cheeks. She stared at the words scribbled on that paper as though hypnotized. Whatever was in that note scared her just as much as the stalled elevator had. Something was definitely wrong.

Not your business, John. She wanted nothing to do with him, her kid asked too many questions and he wasn’t looking to make new friends, right?

“Mom?” Travis’s fingers touched his mother’s arm. “Is it from—?”

“Go inside.”

“But—”

“Go.” She snapped out of her fixated shock and whisked his cap off his head to press a kiss there before reaching over him to open the door. “There’s a snack in the fridge to hold you until dinner.”

But Travis, his expression looking oddly mature for one so young, seemed reluctant to leave her. “I was just joking about that movie, Mom. I didn’t think you were really going to get cut in half.”

John nudged open his own door, giving them some privacy while his neighbor summoned a smile for her son. “I know, sweetie. I know. Wait for me to go through the mail and check the answering machine, though, okay? Now go.”

John’s muscles were weary with the exertion of the move and their great escape from the elevator as he set the boxes on the carpet. Yet when he turned to close the door, everything in him tensed with guarded apprehension. She was there, standing in the open door frame, the note wadded in her left hand while her right hovered near the gun on her hip again.

The warm smile she’d given her son had vanished. “Did you see anyone out here?” she asked. “A man who might have left this note?”

“No.” He was vaguely irritated that she seemed to be sizing him up again. Yeah, those green eyes had noticed the fake leg. They swept over the scars. He bristled under her scrutiny. Did she suspect him of tacking the paper to her door? “What’s it say?”

“Is this your first trip up from the garage?”

He took a step toward her. This was his apartment after all. She was the uninvited guest. “My sixth or seventh. What’s in the note?”

She braced her feet in an overtly defensive stance and he stopped. What the hell?

John backed up a step and her words came spilling out. “Was there anyone on the elevator with you during any of those trips? Maybe you saw someone in the parking garage you didn’t recognize? Was there anyone messing with the wires or controls on that elevator? Or flowers—did you see anyone trying to deliver flowers?” She glanced around at the closed doors behind her. “Sometimes the florist will deliver them to someone else if I’m not at home.”

“I didn’t see anyone tampering with anything, I don’t know anybody here. And I sure as hell didn’t get any flowers.”

“Did you see a guy with a shaved head and tattoos?”

“I’ve only met the super, Joe Standage.” And the older man wasn’t the shaved-head type.

“His hair used to be black. Sometimes he dyes it.”

“Joe does?”

“No, my …” Her freckled skin suddenly flooded with heat. Was she embarrassed by her ranting? Intimidated by his unapologetic scrutiny? Alarmed to suddenly realize she was the intruder here?

“Is this how you welcome all your new neighbors, Sergeant—” he dropped his gaze to the name badge on her chest pocket, pulled taut by the Kevlar she wore beneath her uniform “—Wheeler? Blow hot, blow cold? Make nice and then freak out? We haven’t even been properly introduced.”

Whatever this woman’s secrets were, she wasn’t telling. Instead of answering his accusation, she stuffed the note into her uniform slacks pocket. Then she huffed up in all her warrior Amazon glory, tipping her chin as her skin cooled to peachy dots over alabaster. “I’m Maggie Wheeler. Travis is my son.”

“John Murdock.”

“Are you military or KCFD?” She eyed the Corps logo on his T-shirt and the jarhead cut that he wore whether he was overseas with his Reserve unit or home in Kansas City, working for the fire department.

“Both. USMC, retired. For about a week now. Moving back to town after my last tour and some rehab. Firefighting is the job I’m coming back to after serving my stint in the Corps.” He made another stab at moving closer. “Sarge, um, Maggie … are you okay?”

Her eyes widened as though the question had startled her. Or maybe it was his advance. Before she answered, she retreated into the hallway. “Of course I’m okay. Thank you for serving our country—Captain Murdock, was it?”

“Just John now.”

She nodded. “I apologize for Travis being so nosy. He’s going through a phase where he’s completely nuts about baseball and firefighters and … everything. And he’s never been shy about speaking his mind.” She barely paused for a breath. “I’m sorry I freaked out on the elevator. And the note. It’s just that I … Like I said, it was a rough day. Well, you don’t need to know that. Welcome to The Corsican, John.”

Yep, that sounded sincere.

By the time John reached the door, Maggie Wheeler’s was closing. He heard not one, not two, but three separate locks sliding into place.

Something about that message, or the person who’d left it, had his neighbor spooked even more than getting stranded on the elevator had. Even though she wore a gun and a vest and sergeant’s stripes, indicating she was no rookie when it came to law enforcement, the woman was spooked.

John narrowed his gaze and looked up and down the hallway. Beyond the super checking him in this morning, and the curious person from the apartment down the hall who hadn’t spoken, he hadn’t seen a single soul out here all day long. A familiar niggle of unease crept along the back of his neck like when he’d sensed a sniper’s rifle focused on him up in the Afghan mountains.

He shook off the hyperawareness and retreated into his apartment. Afghanistan was seven thousand miles away. His years of service were done and he was reporting back to KCFD Station 23 this week to start his new job as an arson investigator assigned to the ladder company with whom he’d once fought fires.

He had plenty on his plate right now to deal with. Leggy redheads and curious kids and somebody else’s bad news weren’t his concern tonight.