The color leaked out of Jackson’s face again. “Three?”
She shivered and rubbed at her arms. “So far.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her into the house. “They’ll take care of this. You go finish getting dressed.”
She looked down, only then becoming aware that she had on jeans and her thin robe—which in the sunlight was transparent. “Oh, great.” She’d been flashing the entire neighborhood, including the kid across the street.
“Terrific view, but some are a little young.” Jackson smiled.
Morgan growled at him. “How can you smile about this?” Feeling unjustly betrayed, she glared at him and then at her Jeep. “They found three freaking bombs on my car.”
“So far.”
Next to the front door, she turned toward him and let her voice carry a warning that resonated down to her soul, “Jackson …”
“Three devices,” he reiterated, stepping up onto the porch to stand beside her, “and four flat tires, which guaranteed that you wouldn’t be driving the Jeep to detonate any of them.”
That stopped her cold. “What’s your point?”
He glanced at her. “They invaded your space to scare the hell out of you, Morgan. They didn’t mean to kill you, at least not this time.”
How reassuring. “Well, they succeeded. I am scared.” Her jaw quivered. “What if that child had opened the car door? He could have been killed.”
Jackson dropped his voice. “He wasn’t.”
“But he could have been,” she insisted.
“But he wasn’t, Morgan. And I’ll bet the door was locked.” Jackson led her inside and then walked her toward her bedroom. “You get dressed while I have a look around.”
“Be careful, okay?” She paused. “If they were in the garage, then they could have been anywhere.”
He paused to look back at her. “The garage is under the security system, too?”
“Yes. They had to disarm and then rearm the alarm after they got the Jeep out.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t hear anything?”
“Nothing,” she confessed. “Which is pretty damn spooky.” How could she sleep in peace ever again, knowing someone had beaten her alarm and gotten in, and she hadn’t known a thing about it?
She changed into aqua slacks and a white top trimmed in the same shade, then slid into matching sandals. Pivoting her foot in the mirror, she considered how many times she and Jackson had had to run yesterday and the way today had started out with her running.
Screw style. You need mobility, woman.
She reluctantly gave up her sandals—they made the outfit—then bent down and pulled her white sneakers out of the closet. As far as sacrifices went, this one was pretty painless. She sat down on the edge of the bed and shoved her foot into the right shoe.
Something cold and hard snagged her toe.
God, had they been in here, too?
She jerked her foot out, dumped the shoe upside down, and tapped it against the floor.
A gold coin spilled out and rolled across the hardwood floor.
Morgan watched it, transfixed, until it hit the wall, fell over, and stopped. When she recaptured her senses, she called out. “Jackson!” Her voice sounded weak, shaky, and hollow. She regrouped and tried again. “Jackson!”
He ran around the corner and into her room, saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, and frowned. “You bellowed?”
“Look.” She pointed at the coin, flat on the floor next to the wall.
He dropped his gaze. “Where did you get that?”
She looked up at him, trying not to let the fear jackhammering through her completely steal her control. “It was in my shoe.”
Seeing how upset she was, he walked over to her. “You didn’t put it in your shoe, did you?”
She shook her head. “Would I be upset if I’d put it in there?”
“Sorry. You’ve had a tense morning, you know? Just wanted to verify.”
“Well, now you have, okay?”
“Sorry.” He apologized again, then clasped her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her temple. “You’ve never seen the coin before, either, I take it.”
Again, she shook her head. Tears were welling, and she fought like hell to keep them from falling and making her seem like an unprofessional fool but, damn it, this was her home and she was so scared, and even more angry.
Jackson sucked in a breath so sharp it expanded his chest. “It’s all right, Morgan.”
“It’s not all right.” Her voice cracked. “They were in my house. The sons of bitches were in my bedroom, Jackson. Right next to me, and I didn’t even know it.”
He kept his voice low, level. “They’re gone now.”
“But they could have killed me.” Didn’t he get it? The level of outrage you felt at being invaded, your space violated. She was at home, her safe place and refuge from the world—her sanctuary—and in her own damn bed. A woman should be safe in her own damn bed.
“They didn’t hurt you.” He cupped her face in his hands, and she felt him trembling. “They didn’t hurt you.”
He wasn’t unaffected; he was worried sick, and he’d been terrified for her. And that, on top of everything else he was going through, ignited an even deeper outrage in her. One so deep that a sudden burst of unbridled fury erupted, and she scrambled to her feet. “They’ve gone too far, Jackson. Way too far.”
“Yes.” The anger in his eyes burned as deep as hers. “And they’ll pay for it.” He let her see that truth, its promise in his eyes, before he stood up. Then he moved over to the coin, but he didn’t touch it. “Where the hell is this thing minted?”
“I have no idea.” She picked it up, careful to only touch its edges. “But I’m going to scan it into my computer and shoot it over to Darcy. If anyone knows where it’s from, she will.”
“And if she doesn’t know?” he asked.
“She’ll find out,” Morgan said with total confidence, and then headed to the computer.
Minutes later, she tapped the send button. At the same time, her doorbell rang.
Jackson answered it, and the bomb squad specialist standing on the doorstep introduced himself as Frank Garvey. He and Jackson shook hands, and Jackson asked, “You finished up?”
“Yeah, finally,” he said. “There were a total of seven devices on the vehicle. Damnedest amount of overkill I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been at this twenty-one years.”
“You were informed that Dr. Cabot is a psychologist with Providence affiliations, right?”
“That’s why we’re here.” He parked a hand on his hip. “If she’s a head doctor, then we’re probably looking at a patient, just like she suspected. No one sane would bother with that kind of redundancy.”
It was definitely not the work of a patient, but letting Frank Garvey believe it had been was easier for Jackson or Morgan than coming up with a logical cover story.
Morgan sniffed. “Someone wanted to punctuate a point, I’m afraid,” she said, pausing so that the idea could root in Garvey’s mind. “People do strange things when they’re stressed out.”
He nodded, but doubt burned in his eyes.
“I appreciate your help.”
“No problem, Doc. I’ll turn the report in to Colonel Gray immediately,” Garvey said. “The commander wants to be kept abreast of all events. He’ll probably call you in a bit. Usually does anytime we respond to a call.”
“Thank you.”
Morgan’s home phone rang. She left Jackson and Garvey talking at the door and went to answer it, hoping it wasn’t another hang-up call. With everything that had happened, she was already about to jump out of her skin.
“I got your message and attachment,” Darcy told Morgan. “The coin is actual currency used predominantly in a small group of islands in the South Pacific.”
“You sure it’s not some kind of doubloon, like for Mardi Gras?” Morgan had felt that festive sensation so strongly when touching the coin.
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“No, it’s cash. No doubt about it.”
Interesting, and apparently one instance of Morgan’s thirteen-percentage-point stats when her intuition was on hiatus.
“So why is it important?”
Morgan would answer Darcy’s question and report this freaking home intrusion, but the stir it would cause was one she would definitely have preferred to live without.
When she’d finished the briefing, Darcy withheld comment, although on hearing Colonel Gray, the Providence base commander, would likely be calling Morgan, Darcy had groaned like someone dying. The pissing contest between Gray and Drake had her shielding her unit operatives and consultants as much as humanly possible.
“You’d better assemble your team,” Darcy said. “The commander is going to want a group conference ASAP.”
“At Providence?”
“Hang on.” Darcy’s line went silent, and a few moments later, she returned. “Hospital conference room at nine o’clock this morning. Drs. Foster and Vargus will be consulting.”
Morgan interpreted. Blood work results on Bruce were back and the ME’s report had been released to Joan. “Is Jackson supposed to be there, too?”
“He was at the residence when shots were fired, correct?”
Bruce and Laura’s residence. “Yes.”
“Absolutely, then.”
“Okay,” Morgan said. “Thanks.”
Darcy hung up, and Morgan hit flash on her phone then placed a conference call with Jazie and Taylor Lee. Jazie was obviously up and about, well rested, and sunny. Taylor Lee sounded half dead and barely conscious. “Are you all right?” Morgan asked, afraid Taylor Lee had broken her promise after all.
“I’m fine,” she said. “We were out late. Dancing, not drinking.”
That, at least, was good news. But where she’d found the extra energy after their last two days, Morgan had no idea. “I’d like some of your stamina.”
“None to spare at the moment, but I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”
Morgan grunted. “Jazie, maybe you’d better reschedule our patients at the clinic today. Actually, go ahead and reschedule tomorrow’s, too.” The pretzel was spawning new twists by the second. “I think this situation might take a little time to clear up.”
“Will do,” Jazie said. “Who’s covering?”
“Anyone you can find who’s upright and semi-willing,” Morgan said. “Be at the hospital at nine sharp.”
“I’ll be there,” Jazie said.
“Damn.” Taylor Lee grunted.
Morgan took that as the best confirmation she was going to get.
CHAPTER 9
Morgan spent the next hour phone shopping for a rental car. Finally, she located one, and she and Jackson had breakfast while waiting for it to be delivered. The rental service assured her she would have a car in her driveway no later than 8:00 A.M.
Greg LaGrange, the owner and chief mechanic from LaGrange’s Automotive, picked up the Jeep at seven thirty, assuring her he’d have new tires on it—since all four had been slashed in several places—and check the Jeep out bumper-to-bumper himself before the end of Morgan’s workday. He was a jewel.
She swallowed the last of the pancakes and sausage Jackson had prepared while she had been taking care of business, and then set down her fork. “Very good.” She smiled. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He drained his juice glass and then refilled it. “The side door to the garage was jimmied open, but there are no signs that anyone tampered with the locks or entered the house.”
“Except for the coin in my shoe.”
He grunted. “The alarm wasn’t turned off and then reset. I checked with the monitoring service. There’s no record of any interruptions before it went off, when you ran outside after the kid across the street.”
“The coin was in my shoe. The shoe was in my closet, Jackson. Someone had to get into the house to put it there.”
“I’m not disputing that the coin was there,” he said, lifting her plate from the table and taking it to the sink. “I am disputing that G.R.I.D. or anyone else came into the house while you were asleep and dropped the coin in your shoe.”
That was fair. “Okay.” She cleared the rest of the table and then nudged at him with her hip at the sink to take over loading the dishes in the dishwasher.
He cleared the counter. “It’s a foreign coin, not exactly popular in these parts. Yet Laura had one, too.”
“Yes, she did.” And that didn’t strike Morgan odd so much as significant. “So did someone plant the coin in her office, too?” Morgan asked Jackson.
“It’s possible.” Jackson snagged the dishcloth and wiped down the counter.
It was possible, of course, but there was another possibility that also warranted consideration. “Would you say”—Morgan poured soap into the dishwasher, then closed the door and pushed the button to start the cycle—“that’s more or less possible than Laura breaking into my house and planting the coin in my shoe?”
From the goofy look he slung her way, that idea struck him as silly. “Laura breaking into anything, anywhere, is beyond ridiculous.”
Morgan rinsed her hands and wiped up the water she’d splashed on the sink’s stainless rim. “Would it still be beyond ridiculous if she did it to help Bruce?”
Jackson didn’t hesitate, just reacted. His expression sobered, and the light in his eyes darkened. “That could be different.”
Morgan stilled, leaned back against the cabinet, and stared off at a point beyond the ceiling.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m trying to remember exactly when I last wore those shoes.” She searched her mind, thinking back day to day for the last clear memory. Since G.R.I.D. had reared its nasty head in those Intel intercepts, her running schedule had been decimated. A week. It’d been a week. The last time she’d had them with her had been the day … She gasped.
“You’ve pegged it.” Jackson interrupted, clearly dreading what he was about to say. “When do you run?”
Oh, God. He was already heading in the same direction.
“After work. I run on the beach.”
He leaned back against the bar, across from her. “When did you last run wearing those shoes?”
Definitely heading in the same direction. Morgan decided she might as well make it easier—and less time-consuming—for them both. “I intended to run the day Laura came to see me in the office, but I had an emergency come up and it preempted my plans.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “So your running shoes were in your office.”
She nodded. Laura had been late, and Morgan had figured she’d cancelled. She had just taken out her bag with her running gear to change clothes when Laura had arrived. They’d talked thirty or forty-five minutes, and then Taylor Lee had interrupted their discussion with an emergency call.
Morgan had gone to the consult room to take it so she could enter her orders in the computer system in private. “I did leave the office while she was there,” Morgan told Jackson. “Laura had access. She could have put the coin in my shoe then. I didn’t run that day, so I wouldn’t have noticed.”
Jackson refilled his glass with water and took a long drink before responding. “Okay, let’s suppose she did put the coin in your shoe then.” He emptied his glass and set it in the sink. “Why did she do it? What is significant about those coins?”
Morgan had no idea. She snagged a paper towel, dampened it, and then dabbed at a dot of syrup on Jackson’s shirtfront. “I have no idea,” she admitted on a sigh, and tossed the paper towel into the trash.
Jackson caught her arm, the edge of his mouth lifting. “You’re a nurturer.”
How he felt about that wasn’t clear. He looked a little amused, but his voice had a hard edge.
“I guess.” She shrugged. “Selectively.”
“I like it.”
She stilled and glanced up into his eyes. “You don’t look as if you like it. Actually, you
look a little put out about it.”
“I don’t like liking it,” he confessed.
“Why not?” She was baffled. “Tender touches …”
“Are too easy to get used to, and then if they depart the fix, a man’s left missing them.”
Depart the fix. Pilot lingo for leaving. So he flew, too. She wondered what type of aircraft. Helicopters? Planes? Both? “Jackson?” Morgan reacted on gut instinct. “You have abandonment issues, don’t you?”
He pulled her to him, until he rested against the cabinet and she rested against him, then he met and held her gaze. “I never have,” he admitted. “But I think I could be developing them.”
Her heart skipped a full beat and then thudded. “So what do you need?” If he said for her to back off, she was going to be one very unhappy woman.
“I don’t know.” Blunt and honest, he looped his arms around her waist. “Maybe to know how you’re feeling about what’s happening between us. That could help resolve some things in my mind.”
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.” She fought to give her feelings voice. “I like you. I’m very attracted to you, and I feel connected to you. But we’re in intense times, and that’s not the best time to try to sort out these things.”
How would he react to her special abilities? Would he back off? Run? Others had and, like him, they’d been strong men. Unlike them, he was not a man she ever wanted to lose. Sounded crazy considering the short time they’d known each other, but sometimes a woman recognized things at deeper levels than consciously or logically made sense, and this—whatever this was—with her and Jackson was deeper … and it was right.
“Life is intense, Morgan.” He tucked her hair behind her ears. “There are no perfect conditions, especially not for people in our professions.”
“That’s true, but still …”
He dipped his chin. “Stop being logical and professional about this. It’s personal, damned personal, and logic has nothing to do with the heart. In your profession, you surely know that.”
“I do. And because it is personal, that’s all the more reason to be careful.” She rested her hands on his chest. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I damn sure don’t want to be hurt, Jackson.”
Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04] Page 18