Deadline (Sandra Brown)

my impending retirement and notified me only as a courtesy to a colleague. He was careful not to divulge too much, but he did tell me that he’s been digging into Jeremy Wesson’s background looking for a link to Carl and Flora.”
    Dawson raised his brows in silent query.
    “Nothing. Jeremy Wesson’s birth certificate—a copy he used to enlist—is from Ohio. Says he was born to and reared by Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So Wesson. He graduated high school in the town where he grew up. Earned a degree at Texas Tech. Joined the Marines. His history looks commonplace until he wigged out and got mixed up with a redneck’s wife.”
    “No leanings toward domestic terrorism?”
    “None apparent.”
    “What’s Knutz’s take?”
    “He advised me to leave it alone. The Bureau has bigger fish to fry these days. Nobody really gives a shit about Carl and Flora anymore. The consensus is that they’re probably dead. That burglary at the armory in New Mexico was the last crime attributed to them. That was in ’96.”
    “Seventeen years ago. A lot can happen in that amount of time.”
    “Doesn’t mean they’re dead.”
    “But with no indication that they’re still alive, it’s logical to assume otherwise.”
    “Logic and assumption be damned. I want to know, don’t you?”
    “At this late date, what possible difference does it make?”
    “It makes a hell of a difference to me!”
    Dawson sliced the air with his hands. “Okay. I get that. But this decorated Marine, who might have been their son—”
    “He was. I know it.”
    “No you don’t.”
    “The DNA says he was.”
    “It isn’t foolproof.”
    “As good as.”
    “All right, even if he was their kid—”
    “Aren’t you curious to know what happened to him after Golden Branch, where he’s been?”
    “Not in the least.”
    “I don’t believe that.”
    “Believe it. What good would digging into it—”
    “I thought you’d want to.”
    “I don’t.”
    “Then do it for me.”
    “Why? He’s dead . End of story.”
    “It could be the biggest story of your career.”
    “It’s certainly the biggest of yours!”
    Simultaneously, they realized they’d been shouting. Headly glanced toward the door as though expecting to see his wife there, coming to check on the commotion. Dawson brought his voice down to a more reasonable level. “If you want to know the rest of the story, why don’t you go to the trial in Savannah?”
    “Because Eva would divorce me,” he grumbled. “Besides, like I told you, I’m as good as out of the Bureau. If I went meddling down there, I’d look pathetic. Like a hanger-on who doesn’t know when his time is up.”
    Dawson ran his fingers through his hair and released a sigh of agitation. He loved Headly. He knew how badly his godfather wanted closure on the defining incident of his career. But he was asking too much. Dawson was exhausted and disheartened by his experiences overseas. Even on his good days, his nerves felt raw and exposed. The last thing he needed was additional aggravation, like dredging up this unfinished saga. What possible good could come of it? Whether or not Jeremy Wesson was Carl and Flora’s child, it didn’t make one iota of difference.
    Quietly he said, “I’m sorry. Even if there was no Harriet in my life sending me someplace else on another assignment, I wouldn’t go to Savannah. Your pal Knutz is right. Some things should be left alone.”
    Headly gave him a searching look, then his shoulders slumped with acceptance of Dawson’s mind being firmly made up. He tossed back the remainder of his drink and said no more about it. Shortly after that, Eva extended Dawson an invitation to stay for dinner. He declined, using as his excuse the need to pack for his trip to Idaho. Keeping eye contact with them to a minimum, he beat a hasty retreat.
    He was leaking anxious sweat by the time he got into his car. At the first traffic light, he took another pill, washing it down with the lukewarm water left in the bottle. Rush-hour traffic out of DC into Virginia didn’t improve his mood, making him really on edge by the time he let himself into his Alexandria apartment.
    He was tugging off his boots when his cell phone chirped, alerting him to a text message. It was from Headly: There’s a clincher .
    He knew he was being baited, but curiosity won out over his better judgment. He texted back. What’s the clincher?
    The reply was quick in coming. J Wesson only presumed dead. Body never