The Soldier's Mission

But she was wrong. “Put that away,” he said, pushing at the notebook. “We’re not talking about me. I need to ask you a few questions. We have to figure out who’s trying to kill you.”

Laura took in his dirty shirt and the sweat beads on his skin. “Did you find someone?”

He shook his head, took the water his grandfather sat on the table. “No. Whoever was there is gone now. I found shell casings and tracks, footprints out toward the highway.” Then he handed her a dirty business card. “I did find this.”

Laura looked down at the piece of paper then gulped air. “That’s one of my cards.”

His smirk held a hint of accusation. “Yeah, saw your name right there on it. But nothing after that. I guess once we managed to get inside here, they left. But I don’t think they dropped this card by accident. They wanted you to know they were here.”

“But why?”

Instead of answering, he drank the water down, giving Laura plenty of time to take in his slinky, spiky bangs and slanted unreadable eyes while she wondered about why the shooter had left her business card.

He put the glass down and met her gaze head-on. “I think you know why. Ready to tell me the truth?”

“Me?” Shocked, Laura drew back, her head hitting the vinyl of the booth. “I told you as far as I know, no one’s after me.”

Paco leaned across the table, his expression as black as his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, someone is after you. Another inch and your rental car’s windshield would still be intact. But you’d probably be dead.” He sat back, his big hands centered against the aged oak of the table. “Now, think real hard and tell me if you’ve had any hard-case patients lately.”

“None, other than you,” she replied, the triumph she should have felt disappearing at the ferocious glare in his eyes.

“Look, lady, I didn’t ask you to come here. And up until about an hour ago, no one cared about me or what I’m doing. This place is about as remote as you can get. So I figure someone tailed you here and waited for the right opportunity to shoot at you. And that means you’ve probably got an unstable client out there with an ax to grind. So quit insulting me and think real hard about some of the people you’ve counseled lately.” He leaned over the table again, his tone soft and daring. “Besides me.”

Laura stared across at him, wondering how he could stay so calm when they were sitting here with a possible sniper still on the loose. “I don’t have a clue—”

“Think about it,” he said in that deep, low voice that sent ripples of awareness down her spine. “How many people have you talked to in say, the last three or four months?”

“Too many to tell,” she retorted. “I’d have to have access to my files.”

“You mean by computer?”

“Yes.” She tapped her big purse. “I didn’t bring my laptop with me. Besides, I can’t download every case history I have on file.”

Paco pulled a slick phone out of his pocket. “What if I get us some help?”

“But no one has access to my patient files. That’s confidential.”

“I know someone who can break into those files.”

She shook her head. “I can’t allow that. My clients trust me.”

“That won’t matter if you’re dead.”

The man certainly cut right to the chase.

“Who are you going to call?”

“Kissie Pierre. You’ve probably heard of her. She keeps computer records on all the CHAIM agents and she keeps files on anyone who has any dealings with those agents. And that includes counselors.”

“The Woman at the Well. But she can’t help us with this type of thing.”

“If you give her some names, she’ll be able to crack your files and compare notes.”

“Confidentially?”

“Yes, completely confidential, I promise.”

“Legal?”

“As legal as we can make it. This is an emergency. But if you think you can remember without us going to that extreme then talk to me.”

Laura preferred that method to hacking into private files. “Let me make a list of names. Maybe that will bring back some memories.”

“Good.” Paco grabbed her notebook. “Got a pen?”

She found a pen in her purse then handed it over to him. Walter passed by with phantom quietness, his rifle held at his chest. “Nobody coming to call. I think we’re in the clear.”

Paco looked at the door. “Keep an eye out, Grandfather. They might try to sneak up on us again.”

Walter nodded, his solid presence a comfort to Laura.

Paco and his grandfather were close. She could tell by the respect Paco offered the old man and by the way they teased each other, both serious and stoic but with a trace of mirth in their eyes.

“Are you thinking?” Paco asked, his gaze cutting to the windows and the door. “We don’t have much time. They might decide to come back for another visit. And bring friends along.”

Laura sank back, terrified of that prospect. “I’m a pastoral counselor. I mostly deal with church members with marriage problems, those who’ve lost a loved one, or teenagers who are going through angst. Things like that. And CHAIM agents and workers, of course.”

“Of course. Anyone who stands out in your mind?”

She put her head down, bringing her right arm up to settle on the table, then leaned her chin against her fist, a dark thought creeping into her mind. In that brief moment, Laura thought of only one possible suspect.

“About a month ago, we had a teenager come to the clinic. He was upset about something his father had done.”

“Go on.”

Not wanting to divulge the particulars, she shook her head. “I can’t talk about it—except that the teen was traumatized by what had happened. I counseled him, told him how to get help from the authorities next time it happened. He didn’t want to report the incident, but I could tell he was afraid. He was a lot stronger and calmer after our first couple of sessions, though. Then he didn’t come back.”

“Did he seem angry at you?”

“No, he was angry at the world.” And his father. The man had been extremely demanding and controlling. How could she tell Paco this without getting upset or giving away personal information? Or her acute sense of failure. “The young man killed himself about two weeks after he’d talked to me.”

Paco scribbled some notes. “What was his name?”

“Is this necessary?”

“We have to assume, yes.”

“Kyle Henner. He was sixteen.”