Page 82 of Blood Game

She said nothing, but the pain of that loss was there—in lines that appeared between those slender brows, the set of her mouth—still raw, an open wound that had yet to heal.

“Mark was four years older, a natural athlete—anything, everything.”

“Practice every day, all year long—football in the fall, basketball, baseball season. Sometimes they overlapped. He could have gone pro...but there were other things he wanted...”

The frown deepened. Other things that had taken him in another direction. The choices one made. Much like the choices he'd made.

Another memory brought a faint smile. “He coached me in soccer during high school before he left. I always suspected it was probably because of Jennifer Masters.”

“Ah,” he commented, shifting against the pain of the wound, the warmth in the room reminding him that neither of them had had much sleep the last two days.

“Ah, the real reason.”

There was that smile again. Another memory.

“He was such a pain in the ass. He knew all my friends. I couldn't go anywhere that he didn't know about it.”

“Looking out for you.” But she wouldn't have seen it that way, he thought, as the last twenty-four hours caught up with him.

She pressed several more pieces of tape into place. “When you're sixteen and some place you're not supposed to be, that your parents definitely wouldn't approve of, the last thing you want is your brother showing up and embarrassing the hell out of you.” She shook her head.

“We spent a lot of time in one of those all-night waffle houses, and talked about all sorts of things.” Her voice softened on another memory.

“He never told them about that.” She remembered the conversations, the arguments that had followed.

“Then, 9/11.”

He saw that flash of emotion, the slight hesitation, then she pressed another piece of tape into place.

“He was determined to go into the military. He felt it was important, he wanted to make a difference.” She smoothed the last strip of tape into place.

She looked up. His eyes were closed, his head slightly back. Asleep.

Was it always like that? she thought. The need to make a difference, to believe in something that was bigger than oneself? And the price some paid?

Seven hundred years ago on a distant plain in Spain, then seventy years ago in another war on the beaches of Normandy? Vietnam? September 11th?

She pulled the comforter over him, and then stood, so tired that she ached. She gathered up the bloodied bandages and threw them into a wastebasket along with her neck scarf, then pressed one of the buttons on the wall switch, the room dark except for the glow of the gas fire in the fireplace.

There was just the one bed, a table and chair, and the basin. That left the floor.

To hell with it, she thought. She kicked off her boots, stepped out of her jeans, and crawled into bed.

She wasn't certain what woke her, or even where she was at first. Then, she felt the movement beside her and heard mumbled sounds, vague at first, then a long arm suddenly thrown across her.

He wasn't awake. His eyes were still closed as he mumbled something, then that name again. A friend? One of the men he'd lost?

She could only guess. But the nightmare tore at her.

It didn't let go. He tossed and turned, lost in that place, fighting the dreams, fighting to hold on.

The comforter had come off. She pulled it back over them as she curled around him. And the tears came as she listened to the pain in his voice, the battle he fought but could never win.

“It's all right,” she whispered, not even certain he could hear, holding on. “I've got you.”

James sat at the edge of the bed, head buried in his hands as if he could physically push the memories back into the box.

It was still dark. There was only the faint glow that spread across the floor of the room, from the flame of the gas jet in the fireplace.