Flashback

The knock on the glass top half of her office door disturbed the silence. She motioned with one hand, giving Winton Grimes permission to enter. As it had half a dozen times today, her heart began to race a bit in anticipation of what he might have come to tell them.

“Got something?” she asked as he opened the door and stuck his head in.

“You said you wanted to hear anything we thought might be…significant.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, okay, this is a little bit… Hell,” Winton said with an embarrassed grin, “it’s a whole lot off the beaten path, but I thought since we ain’t got much of nothing else, you all might want to hear it.”

“So tell us.” Dean’s tone suggested he’d listened to enough hemming and hawing.

“If this wasn’t who it is, I might have just let it go, but…”

“Damn it, Winton,” Dean exploded, “spit it out. Nobody’s got time for your pussyfooting. Not today.”

“It’s okay, Winton,” Eden soothed. “We want to hear. Whatever it is.”

“Jake Underwood.”

Eden couldn’t quite identify the sound Dean made in response to the name. Laughter? An expression of disbelief? Whatever it had been, Winton stopped again, his thin lips flattening.

“Who’s Jake Underwood?”

Her question brought the young deputy’s eyes back to her, but it was Dean who answered.

“His grandmother was Miz Etta Wells. The Wells that was one of the founding families. Jake spent summers here when he was a kid.”

Eden waited, but neither man seemed inclined to go on. Finally she prodded, “And you’ve got some reason to believe he may have had something to do with the Nolan girl’s disappearance.”

“It’s not that,” Winton said. “At least…not exactly.”

The sound Dean made this time was clearly one of contempt. Eden couldn’t be sure, however, whether that had been directed at Jake Underwood or the deputy. “Then exactly what is it?” She tried to imbue her voice with the same authority her father’s seemed to command naturally. Apparently, it was effective.

With another glance at the older man, Grimes began to talk. “Underwood says she’s in a cave or something underground. Says somebody’s keeping her down there. He says it’s wet and dark, and all you can hear is water dripping.”

There was a long silence. Since she’d asked the question, Eden felt it was up to her to break it. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. Except he said she’s scared. Terrified is the word he used.”

Despite the fact that she had no basis for believing the validity of any of that description, it had chilled Eden. A four-year-old child kept in the dark would be terrified. Anyone would know that. How Mr. Underwood could know the Nolan child was there was another question.

“And he knows all this how?”

There was another hesitation, and another glance at Dean, before Grimes answered. “Says he saw it in a flashback.”

Flashback. The term produced images of 9/11. Or of soldiers from her father’s generation who’d come back damaged mentally from a jungle hell. How the word could possibly apply to a child who’d been kidnapped this morning… “Flashback? You sure that’s what he said?”

“Yes, ma’am. Look, I told you this is out there. And if it was anybody but him, I wouldn’t have told you.”

“You believe him?” Dean’s tone expressed the same contempt as his earlier snort.

The kid stood his ground. “Like I said, if this was anybody else…”

“You keep saying that,” Eden tried to clarify. “What does it mean?”

“It means he thinks Underwood’s a hero,” Dean answered, “and therefore exempt from the same commonsense scrutiny he’d give anybody else coming in here with that cock-and-bull story.”

“That’s not—”

Dean didn’t allow the deputy to finish. “God knows, I don’t want to speak ill of somebody who’s served their country. But the truth is Jake came back from his last tour a little less put together than when he left.”

“From his last tour” and “who’s served his country” were obviously references to the military. What Eden didn’t understand was the cryptic finish. “‘Less put together’?”

“Head injury. Along with some other stuff. It’s the brain damage, though, that would put thoughts of seeing that little girl into Jake’s head. And that’s all this is, you hear me.” The last was clearly directed at Grimes. “You go spouting this story around town, and you’re liable to get somebody hurt. Somebody who sure as hell doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Then…you don’t think this man might have had something to do with the kidnapping?” Eden asked. “I mean, someone who’s brain-damaged and having visions of a missing child… Seems to me that makes him a prime candidate.”

It didn’t make sense for Dean to dismiss the idea out of hand, although she couldn’t argue with the warning he’d just issued. If the people of this town thought one of their own had been involved in Raine’s kidnapping, emotions would definitely run high. That was something the department, its resources stretched to the limits, shouldn’t have to deal with.

“You talk to him, Chief,” Grimes said. “See what you think. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Oh, trust me,” Eden assured him, getting up, “I’m going to talk to him. Just forgive me if I’m a little less receptive to his story than you seem to be.”

Her heart was actually pounding, blood rushing through her veins like thunder. Since the call had come in about the kidnapping, this seemed to be the first potentially important piece of the puzzle they were trying to solve.

Of course, it was always possible the brain damage Dean referred to had caused this guy to hallucinate about the crime, given the second-by-second media coverage that had been going on all day. But it was equally possible, she decided, that a man deranged by the horrors of war and by injury had seen an attractive child around town—

Eden broke the thought, determined not to speculate about this guy’s motives, or his guilt or innocence, until she had more information. “Where is he?”

“I put him in the conference room. I thought that might offer more privacy.”

“For him or the department?” Eden asked, as she made her way across the office.

Winton didn’t answer. She was aware that the two men trailed her as she walked down the hall to the room they used for department meetings.

Operating under the influence of the adrenaline flooding her system, Eden opened the door and then realized she hadn’t even stopped to think about the best way to question someone who might be classified as a prime suspect.

The man who’d been seated at the long conference table stood up, his back suddenly ramrod straight. And for his next trick, Eden thought cynically, he’ll snap off a salute.

“Mr. Underwood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His posture was the only thing remotely military about the man standing before her. Dark stubble covered his lean cheeks. His hair, blue-black under the fluorescents, was badly in need of a trim.

She also noted, her survey automatic, that his clothing, although nondescript, appeared to be clean. The threadbare jeans, white T-shirt and boots were practically de rigueur for a certain type of Southern male, though she’d met enough bright, hardworking “good old boys” not to characterize anyone strictly by his dress.

Still, she acknowledged as she walked across to the table, her reaction was not the same as it would have been had Underwood been wearing a suit. Or a uniform.

“I understand you told Deputy Grimes that you’ve seen the Nolan girl.”

The steel-gray eyes shifted to the doorway. Eden didn’t turn, understanding that the ex-soldier was silently chastising Grimes for not making the situation clear. Neither she nor the deputy bothered to disabuse him of that notion.

“If he told you that, ma’am, he was mistaken. I haven’t seen her. Not physically.”

“Then how?” The question sounded confrontational, which wasn’t the tack she should be taking.

The thought that this man might have harmed a little girl infuriated her. Even if Dean was right, and he hadn’t been responsible, the idea that he could be in any way, shape or form pulling their chain about this—

“I have flashbacks. Yesterday morning…” The soft words halted as Underwood took a breath, one deep enough to move the strongly defined pectoral muscles underneath the thin T-shirt. “A child—a little girl—was in the one that morning.”

“In a flashback about Iraq?”

“This one wasn’t. I don’t know where it was. I was in a place that was wet and dark and cold. Then, just before it all disappeared…there was a child in there, too.”

“Raine Nolan,” Eden suggested flatly.

“I don’t know. The image lasted only a second. It was…almost an impression, rather than an actual sighting. I told him that.” Underwood indicated the young deputy with a lift of his chin. “But after I heard about the kidnapping, I wondered if maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Dean’s question brought the ex-soldier’s head up.

“If maybe I was somehow connected to her.”

“And how would that happen? That ‘connection,’ I mean.” You son of a bitch, Eden thought as she asked her question. If you did something to that little girl…

“I don’t know. It just… The longer this went on, the more I wondered if somehow, in her terror…”

“You told Deputy Grimes she was terrified. If you didn’t even get a good look at her, how could you tell what she was feeling?”

Underwood took another breath, his lips tightening briefly before he spoke. “Because I was feeling it, too.”

“Terrified?”

She was blowing this, Eden realized, her skepticism too obvious. A good interrogator would be more sympathetic. Less hostile. She knew that, but she couldn’t get the images of what a man this size and this muscular could do to a four-year-old out of her head.

“Look, I don’t blame you for not believing me. I just thought I needed to let someone know. Just in case, as insane as it sounds, that there might be some connection between what I saw and the Nolan girl.”

There might be some connection, all right. But not the one you’re trying to sell.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Underwood, and tell us everything.”

“That is everything. I realize you think I’m crazy. Believe me, you aren’t the first.” There was a bitter amusement underlying the comment. “In this case, you’re probably right. As I said, I just thought, if there was the remotest possibility something helpful might come of what I saw…” He hesitated, clearly waiting for their response. When no one said anything, he turned and took a step, obviously heading for the door.

“Where were you Tuesday night?”

It took a second before he reacted, but whatever damage Jake Underwood’s brain had suffered didn’t keep him from figuring out where she was going.

“I was home. In bed. Asleep. And whatever you’re thinking, you can think again. I didn’t have anything to do with that child’s disappearance. I came here because I was trying to help.”

“By telling us you ‘saw’ her in a flashback.”

“Obviously, it wasn’t a flashback. I don’t know what it was. All I know is what I saw.”

“I thought it was just an impression.”

“That’s right. An impression that I was in a dark, wet place with a terrified little girl.”

Until now, despite the absurdity of his claim, Underwood’s tone had been reasonable. As if he were trying to explain things to someone whose IQ didn’t quite come up to his standards. This time, however, there was a definite hint of anger in his response.

And Eden intended to use it to her advantage. “Anybody there with her? Her abductor, maybe?”

“There was nobody else.”

“Well, you see, that’s what makes me wonder.”

“Whatever you’re wondering, you can forget. I told you. I didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance.”

“She just somehow…showed up in your flashback.”

“Yes.” The single syllable was cold, controlled, but patently furious.

“What do you think was the reason for that, Mr. Underwood?”

“I have no idea, Chief Reddick.” His sarcasm echoed hers.

“I think you do.”

“I don’t give a damn what you think. I came here because I thought it was my duty to tell law enforcement what I’d seen. What you do with the information is now up to you.”

He rounded the table and walked toward the door. Eden’s gaze automatically followed. The head injury Dean had mentioned hadn’t been obvious, but his stride, though rapid and purposeful, was uneven.

A little less put together than when he left…

With that memory, the rest of Dean’s words echoed in her head, as well. Served his country… Last tour… Hero.

Maybe in her desperation to put an end to the nightmare the Nolans and this community were experiencing, she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. The guy seemed sincere. And sincerely frustrated by the way she’d interpreted his story.

“You have to understand that anybody coming in here claiming to have seen Raine—”

Almost at the door, he turned sharply on his heel. “Oh, I understand. Believe me. Blame my naiveté about how investigations like this are handled for not getting the message before. I stupidly thought those requests for information—any information—were genuine. I guess you were just casting the wider net for suspects. I’m sorry I stumbled into it. You know where to find me if you have further questions.”

He pushed through the narrow doorway without touching the two officers who were still standing frozen on either side. In the silence that fell after Underwood’s pronouncement, the three of them listened as his limping footsteps faded down the tiled hallway. A few seconds later the outside door slammed shut.

Only then did Eden make eye contact with her deputy chief. “I blew it, didn’t I?”

Dean laughed. “I’d say your interrogation skills might need a little polishing.”

He didn’t seem upset about what had just happened, but then Dean hadn’t believed from the beginning that Underwood had any hand in the kidnapping. Neither had Winton.

And reviewing the interview in her mind, she could understand their reservations about considering the ex-soldier a suspect. Despite her own preconceived notions, his reaction to her suggestion had rung true. As Dean had said about Ray Nolan, if Underwood was hiding something, he was a consummate actor. The problem wasn’t that she’d had suspicions. Any law-enforcement officer would have, hearing his story secondhand. The problem was in the way she’d handled the face-to-face.

“I imagine the guys from the Bureau are going to be ticked off,” she acknowledged.

“You gonna tell ’em about this?”

“You think I shouldn’t?”

“I think they’ll react the same way you just did. But if you believe that’s what you ought to do…” Dean shrugged.

“I don’t think I can legitimately keep Underwood’s story from them. Do you?”

“Major Underwood.”

An officer. Something she should have gleaned from his attitude, if nothing else. “Do you?” Even as she repeated the question, Eden recognized that, in this case, calling the Bureau might fall under the category of “covering your ass.” If she didn’t pass this information on to the FBI, and something eventually came of it, she’d be considered derelict in her duty. The same word Jake Underwood had just used, she realized.

I thought it was my duty…

“Up to you, Chief,” Dean said, refusing to let her off the hook. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it makes a hill of beans difference what you do. I don’t think Jake had anything to do with that little girl’s disappearance. But I also think he can probably hold his own with the Feds. After all, he’s been dealing with bureaucratic red tape most of his life. I suspect he’ll be more than a match for the boys from Jackson.”

Dean sounded as if he was enjoying the thought of that confrontation. The realization that he had no doubt how Underwood would handle himself should have been comforting, given that she felt she had little choice about sharing this information with the agents. If the ex-soldier thought she’d hassled him…

Eden blew out a breath, the frustrations of the past two days suddenly catching up with her. She needed a couple of hours sleep to go along with the partially eaten sandwich. Maybe then she could get some perspective back.

They’d done everything they could think of to find Raine Nolan. The feeling that it wasn’t nearly enough was compounded by the realization that, despite the horror she’d felt listening to Jake Underwood’s “flashback,” despite the ridiculousness of even considering the possibility that what he’d seen was real, that vision—or whatever it had been—was the most positive indication they had had yet that Raine might still be alive.

Chapter Three

“I just want to make certain I understand what the term means.” Eden looked up to make sure the door to her office was securely closed, although she had already done that before she’d placed this call.

It was bad enough that her inquiry into Jake Underwood’s medical condition felt like an invasion of privacy, she wasn’t sure how others in the department would interpret her interest. Dean’s dismissal of what the ex-soldier claimed to have seen had been swift and definite. In spite of that, she felt compelled to check with someone who had more expertise in these matters than either of them.

“Brain damage can mean a whole lot of different things,” Dr. Ben Murphy said. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific if you want me to give you a medical opinion.”

“I don’t know what I want,” she admitted.

Doc Murphy had been her father’s physician as well as his friend. She trusted both his discretion and his judgment. “Closed-head trauma?”

“I don’t even know that. All I know is he was a soldier.”

The silence on the other end of the line made her wonder if Doc, with his quick intellect and broad knowledge of this town, had already put it all together.

“This an official inquiry?” he asked finally.

“Nope. This is just me asking a trusted friend for some guidance.”

“Fair enough. Generalities, then. That all right?”

“If that’s all you got.”

“Give and take, Eden. Give and take.”

“Well, you got all I can give, so…I’ll take whatever you’ll offer.”

“The brain’s a delicate thing. It can be damaged by cumulative injuries, like a football player who has too many concussions during his career. Then you can get stuff like ALS, maybe years afterward. He doesn’t know his brain’s been hurt until it’s too late.”

“I don’t think that’s the case here.”

“I didn’t figure it was. In war, the injury is usually obvious. A blow or a concussive force from an explosion, resulting in an open or closed wound to the head.”

“Which is worse?”

She could almost hear Doc shrug. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. It’s the degree that matters. And the treatment, of course. In modern wars men survive things that would once have killed them, if not immediately, then within a matter of hours. Now sometimes within minutes, we get them off the battlefield and into a trauma unit that’s as good, if not better, than most of those in our major hospitals. They relieve the pressure on the brain, maybe by removing a piece of the skull so it’s got room to swell. Maybe with drugs. Whatever we’d do here, they can do there.”

“And after that?”

“Depending on the damage, rehab to recover function.”

“Function?”

“Mental and physical. I could do a better job of explaining this, Eden, if I had some clue as to what kind and degree of injury we’re talking about.”

“I can’t help you with that. Just keep it general. So with this quick treatment, do most of them recover?”

“Some do. Some don’t.”

“And if they don’t, what kinds of problems would they have?”

“Physically? You ever see somebody after a stroke? That’s a kind of brain injury in itself. Muscle weakness, usually confined to one side of the body. Mentally? It could involve amnesia. Aphasia. Even personality changes.”

The tip of the pencil she’d been jotting notes with lifted. “What kind?”

“Any kind. Somebody who’s been mild-mannered and shy becomes overbearing. Or vice versa. Or they may suffer from extreme excitability. Impulsivity. Have anger-management issues.”

“Might they become violent?”

Again there was a silence on the other end of the line. “It’s possible. Anything’s possible, Eden, but most of the men and women who suffer brain injuries come home and resume their lives. They may struggle with mobility or memory or control, but they don’t become somebody else. If they weren’t violent criminals before, most of them don’t commit acts of violence after. They just come home and try to be the best they can be, despite what’s happened to them while they were fighting on our behalf.”

The silence this time was Eden’s. She broke it finally to suggest, “I don’t guess I need to tell you that I’d appreciate your keeping what we’ve talked about to yourself.”

“You don’t need to tell me. But I’d do it anyway. As on edge as folks in this town are right now, the suggestion that we’ve got somebody around here who’s become dangerous because he’s had a brain injury could be disastrous. Frankly, I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“Thanks, Doc. I appreciate your help. And the advice.”

“Your daddy would be proud of you, Eden. You’re doing a good job. And the hardest one you got facing you may be keeping the yahoos here from going off the deep end. I’d hate to see that happen in Waverly.”

“Me, too, Doc. Me, too.”

“While you’re taking care of everything else around here,” the old man said, “don’t forget to take care of you. We need you. Your daddy knew that, too.”

“Thank, Doc. That means a lot.”

“You just do what he taught you. You’ll be fine.

YOU’RE A DAMNED slow learner, boy, Jake thought, as he watched the special agents’ car disappear behind the cloud of dust that enveloped any vehicle exiting his property this time of year. Or maybe he was as brain-damaged as the surgeons who’d worked on him had feared he might be.

No matter the impetus, going to the police department had been a colossally stupid, totally idiotic mistake. One he still couldn’t believe he’d made. And now that blonde Barbie, who hadn’t believed a word he’d said, had sicced the Feds on him.

The old adages were true. Never volunteer. Keep your head down and do your job. Mind your own business.

That’s exactly what he’d do from now on, Jake vowed. Even if he had another of what the agents had called “his visions.”

Not that he planned on doing that. At least not the kind he’d had yesterday.

He had enough ghosts in his head already. He didn’t need Raine Nolan’s there, too.

BY THE END of Day Three, the effects of being overextended were apparent on everybody in the department. And probably on most of the townspeople as well, Eden acknowledged. The local search parties had been joined by teams with cadaver dogs—an unwelcome reality check, based on the passage of time since the Nolan child had been taken.

“You talk to the lab?” Dean asked.

“Yesterday and today. Special Agent Davis called them, too. They say they’re doing the best they can. And, truth be told, I’m not sure we sent them anything that’s going to tell us much.”

Cliff Davis was the senior of the two agents the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation had sent down. Eden had found him helpful and professional, but a couple of times, she thought she’d detected a gleam of contempt in his eyes when she asked for his opinion of things the department had talked about doing.

Paranoid, she chided herself. Everybody was grasping at straws, including the Bureau.

She’d been open with her officers, that if they had any ideas about other avenues they should be pursuing in this investigation, they should speak up. Several had, and they’d already put a couple of those suggestions into play.

And of course, they were still concentrating on the tried-and-true. They’d interviewed the registered sex offenders in the region—at least the ones they could track down. They’d also canvassed the upscale neighborhood where the Nolans lived to see if anyone had seen or heard anything unusual, not only on the night of the kidnapping, but also in the days leading up to it.