Primary Valor, Jack Mars [black female authors .txt] 📗

“Stockholm syndrome,” she said outloud.

It was okay, though. The feelingoften went away over time, all by itself. She didn’t have to do anything exceptrecognize what it was. She could do that. She was a survivor, after all. Shehad survived her parents’ divorce, and she had survived her father’s death. DarwinKing would rot in jail, and she would survive this, all of it.

“Did you say something, hon?” avoice said. “I thought I heard you call out.”

Charlotte looked up.

Her mom was in the doorway. Herbody blocked out some of the light from the hall. Her hair was tousled. Hereyes were puffy, as though she had been crying. Her shadow reached deep intothe bedroom. Her mom wasn’t sleeping these days, either.

God, she had missed her motherso much.

She had a flashback to when shewas young, a little girl. She had loved her mother so much, so intensely, thatit was impossible to describe the feeling. That feeling had faded over time,but she remembered it now.

As Charlotte watched, her mom cameacross the room and climbed onto the bed with her. Her mom hugged her, and theylay down together. Within a minute, she felt her mom’s body shaking as shecried silently, her face in the pillow.

Charlotte hugged her mom eventighter. She felt a lump well up in her throat, but she would not cry. She hadto be strong for both of them, she and her mother, and she would be strong.

“I said it’s good to be home, Mom.”

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

6:05 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time

Fairfax County, Virginia

Suburbs of Washington, DC

“What is this nightmare world?”

Luke and Megan Rose Abbott, themissing girl from his childhood, were sitting on the floor, facing each other. Theywere in a bright white room. The room was stark, nothing in it. The floor wascarpeted in white. The walls were white. There were no doors or windows. Thelight was coming from somewhere, but it was impossible to say where. Shewatched him closely, but didn’t answer.

“What is this nightmare world?” hesaid again.

Somewhere nearby, a siren began tohowl.

Megan’s eyes were blue, pale blue,bluer than any eyes had ever been since the dawn of time. They were also sadeyes.

“You’re a good man,” she said. “Anda brave man. That’s enough. It has to be.”

“Okay,” he almost said, but beforehe could speak, she began to evaporate in front of his eyes.

“I’m going to go now,” she said. Soon,she was like a soft mist on a lake at dawn. Then she was gone.

The siren grew louder and louder.

Luke snapped awake.

The baby was crying.

Next to him on the table, in thedark of their bedroom, was a digital clock. He glanced at its red numbers.

6:07.

He took a deep breath. He couldn’tfall asleep last night. There was too much on his mind. He had dozed off for anhour, maybe an hour and a half. It hadn’t done him much good. If anything, ithad made things worse. The clocks had changed last weekend. Spring ahead, so he’dlost another hour. That hadn’t helped any, either. Luke had been stumblingaround, half-awake, like a zombie, since he came back from Honduras.

A tuft of Rebecca’s hair poked outfrom under the blankets. Soft blue light filtered into the room from a nightlight in the bathroom. Her voice came from under the covers, thick with sleep.

“Can you get Gunner? I got himlast time.”

That was true. Truer words werenever spoken. She got him last time.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

It was fair. It was normal. Beccawas under the impression that Luke had gotten hurt when he and Ed wrestled agun away and subdued a suspect while they were in Florida. That could happen toa normal husband who happened to work for the FBI. If she suspected anythingmore, she wasn’t saying.

Luke stood and padded slowlyacross to the crib. Gunner was down in there, wide awake, his eyes the size ofsilver dollars, his mouth turned down, his face a grimace of anguish,existential horror, hunger, every bad thing. Terrible. Just terrible.

Luke picked him up, mostly usinghis right arm. His left shoulder was healing, coming along nicely according tothe doctor, but Luke still wasn’t getting much use out of it. The range ofmotion was not good. Lifting heavy stuff was out.

But he could use the hand. Thatpart still worked. He ran that free hand over the kid’s bottom. Nothing there. Thediaper didn’t need to be changed. Thank the Lord for small miracles.

“Bottles are in the fridge,” Beccasaid. “Use the oldest one first.”

Luke nodded. “Yep.” She had it allorganized, under control. The bottles were labeled with white surgical tape. Dateand time. Use the oldest ones first. There was a system in place, it was simpleand easy to follow. Even a butterfingers like Luke Stone could handle it.

He carried Gunner in one arm outof the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. He moved slowly, walkinggingerly on his wrapped ankle. It was healing too, but it was taking its sweettime.

The kid knew what was coming andhad already let up on the crying, if only just a little. Luke opened thefridge. Top shelf, there was a bottle right there, the first soldier in line. 4/12.3:45 p.m. Getting old. The one behind it was 7:15 p.m.

Luke glanced across the opencounter and into the darkened dining room. The table was cluttered with platesand bowls left over from dinner. There was an empty bottle of beer where Lukehad been sitting. You couldn’t control everything. Sometimes even the bestsystems failed.

He went into the living room,bottle in hand, baby on his arm. He was ready for action. He plopped down onthe couch.

He gave Gunner the bottle. The boymade a new face. He did something you’d almost say was shaking his head.

“Cold, huh? I know, but it’s thebest you’re going to get right now.”

Gunner realized that. He drank.

Luke glanced around at the house. Theycould have a great life here. It was a beautiful home, modern, with floor toceiling windows, like something out of an architectural magazine. It was like aglass box.

God, it was nice. Between thisplace, and the cabin out on the Eastern Shore, could you really ask for a nicerlifestyle?

He could never afford