Читать книгу A Soldier's Oath - Debra Webb - Страница 8

Chapter Three

6:20 p.m.

Over three hours.

Willow had left Jim Colby’s office at three o’clock. He’d promised to call as soon as he was prepared to brief her on his strategy for recovering her son.

She’d checked into a motel close by. She’d been waiting ever since.

Her cell phone lay on the bedside table, the charging icon blinking. She’d almost forgotten to plug it in. That would have been bad. That portable device had become her lifeline in the past few months. She never knew when the P.I. currently working her case would need to reach her, so she’d kept the thing turned on 24/7.

She thought about Jim Colby and his insistence that he would ensure she got her son back. That was definitely a first. She’d had several ambitious P.I.s claim they could handle her case upon initial acceptance, but not one had looked her dead in the eye and stated unequivocally that he would get the job done.

A blend of hope and uncertainty twisted in her chest. Could Jim Colby really do this?

Who was this man who would dare to make such a promise?

Before coming to Chicago she had looked up what she could about him on the Internet, but most of the stuff that had popped up on her search was actually about his mother and her private investigations agency. His past appeared to have fallen beneath the radar somehow. Whether that was good or bad she hadn’t decided just yet.

But if he could get her son back she didn’t care what lay behind that slightly marred, flinty face. Who he was didn’t really matter. All that mattered was whether or not he could do what he said he could do.

She wanted desperately to cling to that hope, but she needed to know more before she let herself believe fully in this man. However prestigious his mother’s reputation, he was an unknown and unproven entity.

God, she was so tired. She’d barely slept last night. As much as she wanted to crash and sleep for hours, she couldn’t do that until she had some indication of what would happen next.

…you’re looking for a miracle…

Maybe Davenport had been right. Maybe she was looking for a miracle. She’d certainly had the kind recounted in the Bible told to her over and over again as a child, but did real miracles actually happen anymore? And the next question was, had she found that miracle, if it really did exist, in the Equalizers?

A knock on the door of her motel room had her practically jumping out of her skin.

Housekeeping? Surely not at this hour. No one knew she was in Chicago. Not that she had anyone. Even her folks had disowned her when she married someone they considered a terrorist. That had been the kinder of the names they had given him.

Evidently they had been right after all. Certainly devil came to her mind whenever she thought of her ex these days.

A second knock jerked her back from the preoccupation that total exhaustion allowed to creep up on her so easily and at the least likely moments.

She stood. Smoothed a hand over her skirt and walked as quietly as she could to the door. Pressing her eye to the peephole she resisted the urge to draw away in surprise or fear or possibly both as her brain registered the stranger standing on the other side of the door.

Male. Thirty or thirty-two maybe.

Tall, strong-looking.

Uneasiness coursed through her veins.

This had to be a mistake. He had to have stopped at the wrong room.

Should she say something? But then he’d know she was in here…alone. Why hadn’t she bought pepper spray months ago? Coming here like this—doing all she’d done over the past eight months—was more than enough reason to be concerned with protecting herself.

The trouble was she hadn’t been thinking about anyone except her son. Dumb, Willow. What good would she be to her son if she got herself killed?

“Ms. Harris?”

Willow took a big step back from the door.

How could this stranger know her name?

“Ms. Harris, my name is Spencer Anders. Jim Colby sent me to discuss your case.”

She allowed herself to breathe. Jim Colby. Okay. But why would he send someone to her motel? Had she even told Mr. Colby where she’d be staying?

For a moment she couldn’t think, then she remembered. Yes, she’d left word. She’d called the receptionist and provided the name and address of the motel where she could be reached. After her experience with the receptionist, Willow hadn’t been sure whether Mr. Colby would get the message or not. Evidently he had.

She stepped to the door once more. “Do you have identification?” She cleared her throat, annoyed at the tremble in her voice. New concerns immediately started to surface. Why wasn’t Mr. Colby handling her case himself? He was the one to insist he could get her son back. Was this his way of copping out? If his man failed would Colby be off the hook for making such a claim so hastily?

Willow closed her eyes and fought the vertigo of fear and confusion. She had to stop this. She had to focus.

She opened her eyes and watched through the tiny hole as the man who had identified himself as Spencer Anders reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a wallet. When he held a Louisiana driver’s license up for her to see she confirmed that his name was indeed Spencer Anders.

“Why do you have a Louisiana driver’s license?” Relevant or not she wanted to know. Louisiana was an awfully long way from Illinois. If he was a licensed P.I. in Illinois, wouldn’t he need to be a resident of this state? Too many questions that just didn’t matter. She was borrowing trouble and putting off the inevitable.

“I’m new to Chicago.” He slid the license back into his wallet, then tucked the wallet into his pocket once more. “Look, Ms. Harris, if you’re uncomfortable speaking to me in your room, I’ll wait for you in the coffee shop down the block.”

Maybe she should call Jim Colby and confirm that he’d sent this man.

“We’ve worked out the strategy for recovering your son,” Anders said, drawing her attention back to him. “If you’re still interested in hearing the details, I’ll be waiting in the coffee shop. Take a left at the motel entrance and you can’t miss it.”

…recovering your son…

Willow wrenched the door open when he started to walk away. “Wait.”

He hesitated a moment before turning to face her. A new trickle of trepidation slithered down her spine. Stop it, she ordered. This man was here to help her. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t be productive.

He faced her and only then did she actually look at him closely enough to absorb the details. Dark hair, really dark. Gray eyes. Tired eyes. His expression wasn’t precisely grim, but the lines and angles of his face spoke of having seen more unpleasantness than any one human was built to take. Just like his employer.

His height, six-one at least, put her off just a little. At five-two, she found that almost everyone was taller than her. Perhaps it was the broad shoulders that went along with the towering height, coupled with the grim face that unsettled her just a little. No, she decided, it was the eyes. Somber. Weary. The eyes looked way older than the thirty-one or -two he appeared to be. And yet there was a keen alertness staring out at her from those solemn depths.

What she saw or didn’t see was of no consequence. He was here. He had a plan. That was the whole point…the only point.

“Come in.” She squared her shoulders and told herself to get past the hesitation. All this attempting to read between the lines was making her paranoid. She’d never met Davenport’s man, the one who’d probably lost his life while getting close to her son. For all she knew he might have been far more intimidating than this man.

Willow moved away from the door to allow Anders entrance. After coming inside he closed the door, but remained standing directly in front of it.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opened the conversation. The next move was clearly hers. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Anders.” That was a mega understatement, but it would suffice. She could thank him properly when he’d gotten her son back.

“I have a few questions for you, Ms. Harris.” He reached into an interior pocket of his leather jacket. “The information you provided was helpful, but I need more details to round out our strategy.”

Jim Colby had asked her to make a list of the events that had led up to her decision to ask for a divorce from her husband, as well as anything she could think of related to him or his family that might be useful in the coming task. She’d spent an hour coming up with as many details as she could call to mind. Mr. Colby had obviously passed her list along to Mr. Anders.

Might as well get comfortable. If this went anything like her interviews with previous investigators, it would take some time.

“Please.” She indicated the chair next to the small table positioned in front of the window. “Sit.” She perched on the edge of the bed and tugged at the hem of her skirt to ensure it stayed close to her knees where it belonged. She cleared her mind of any static prompted by worry or anxiety as she clasped her hands in her lap and waited for him to begin. Listening carefully was essential in understanding the details.

As he took the seat she’d offered, she focused on the man in an effort to get a fix on him. First, she considered the way he dressed. The leather bomber jacket was brown and had the worn appearance of being a favorite. The blue jeans were equally faded and obviously a favored wardrobe selection as well. The black V-neck sweater he wore beneath the jacket was layered on top of a white T-shirt, both of which looked new. If she had to assess him solely on his overall appearance she would conclude that he was a nice man with a lot of painful history.

Willow abruptly wondered if he came to the same conclusion about her. Nice, with a heavy load of hurt slung around her neck like a millstone.

“Did you sign any kind of legal documents when you married Mr. al-Shimmari? A prenuptial agreement or other binding arrangement? Anything at all besides a marriage license?”

Willow regarded his question carefully before shaking her head. There had been essentially no paperwork involved. “Nothing. I know it sounds strange now, but we really were in love. Or, at least, I was. I had no money, other than my salary and a few small investments, and he didn’t appear worried that I would attempt to steal any of his.” She’d already been down this road with her attorney during the divorce proceedings. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing it, but she kept that to herself. She needed to give this man a chance.

“Did he or his family pressure you to convert to the ways of Islam?”

A frown tugged at her forehead, the tension somehow reaching all the way to the base of her skull. This was one she hadn’t been asked before. “No. Not really. It was suggested a couple of times, but he knew I wasn’t going to convert when we married. We talked about that. He didn’t have a problem with my decision.”

Spencer Anders leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Harris, do you know if your ex-husband was Sunni or Shia?”

She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Sunni.” His hands kept distracting her. They hung between his spread thighs, relaxed but infinitely dangerous-looking. A person’s hands said a lot about them. She’d always been fascinated by hands. She blinked, forced her eyes to meet his and her brain to get back on track. “Why?”

Those gray eyes searched hers as if he needed to be sure she didn’t already know the answer he was about to give her. What was it he thought he knew that she didn’t? Apprehension started its dreaded rise once more.

“According to the laws of his country and his religion, he could marry you without consequence. He could have children with you and retain full custody in the event you divorced—under one condition.”

She’d learned about that law the hard way. Her attorney hadn’t been able to find any exceptions or conditions. “What condition?” If what he was about to tell her impacted his ability to help her get her son back…maybe she didn’t want to know.

“That you didn’t convert. A non-Muslim woman cannot be granted custody of any child, girl or boy, when divorcing a Muslim man. You didn’t need a pre-nup because as a non-Muslim you weren’t entitled to any property or money. That’s the law, Ms. Harris. You never had a leg to stand on.”

He was right. This part was definitely no surprise to her. “I found that out too late.” She should have been smarter. But she’d been in love. The idea that Khaled had urged her to retain her own beliefs for underhanded purposes sent fury roaring through her even now. He’d insisted that he was perfectly happy without her bothering with conversion. She’d considered his understanding an act of love and trust. Lies. All of it. His assurances had all been for one thing alone—to guarantee he couldn’t lose any children they might have.

There was just one thing about the way the marriage ended that didn’t sit right with that scenario. Her attorney hadn’t been able to give her an answer to that question. “Since the law protected his right to custody, why ship me out of the country so secretively?” He’d kidnapped her off the street and sent her to L.A. with two of his goons. They’d left her there, with no money and no ID. It had been a nightmare. Why had he bothered? Was the act meant to humiliate her? To frighten her? That he’d later denied it only added insult to injury.

“To justify his claims of desertion,” Anders offered as if that answer should be crystal-clear. “Though you had no right to custody, you could have challenged the divorce as long as he had no legal grounds against you. Dumping you back on American soil made you look like the bad guy and gave him exactly what he needed—legal grounds to support his accusations and sympathy.”