The CD played, showing him a younger version of the woman whose older face he'd seen from a photo in the file in his office. There was little here for anyone to see. Morgan Kirkwood's early life through some photos of her in detention centers, her adoption proceedings which had been filmed as a matter of court record, several practice sessions in various gyms with different outfits and different degrees of skills, and her performance at the Seoul Olympics. The CD moved onto Morgan with a tearstained face, holding her roses as she sang. Like everyone else in America, Jacob remembered this moment. In the following interviews when she looked afraid and alone, she never answered the question of why she sang, more than to say she thought it seemed appropriate.
He wondered whether Brian Ashleigh and Forrest Washington had held out on him. Finding Morgan Kirkwood was not Jacob's responsibility, just as protecting her wasn't Jack's. Jacob dealt with people in the program, not finding missing persons, but she had raised the consciousness levels of someone extremely high up in the system. His director, Christopher, had said it. She was too small a person to concern people like Brian Ashleigh, yet he'd come personally to a meeting about her. That intrigued Jacob, but he was finding reviewing her life a waste of time. There was definitely something missing that made Morgan Kirkwood important.
Jacob read between the lines. At the level Morgan Kirkwood sat, she must be unfurling some extremely high feathers. She'd been home from Seoul for twelve years. She'd lived a normal, unassuming life. Then suddenly Olympic fever hits the country and her life is in danger.
What was the link? Whose buttons did Morgan Kirkwood push? Who was pushing back? And with a deadly force.
Krysta's voice, high and laughing, pierced the silence, and Jacob knew she was coming in from the water. In a moment, Marianne would appear and tell him it was time to get away from his job. She never asked him who he was working with or what was going on. She'd been part of the program and understood the confidential nature of what he did. This CD was part of every public television system in the U.S. He'd seen it over and over on the news since Morgan's home exploded, and no sign of her had been found since. But Jacob knew she was alive. Somewhere between St. Charles and Washington, D.C., she was with his friend, Jack Temple. They were together and in danger.
"Daddy, I went swimming." Krysta bounded into his office and ran to him. Her three-year-old voice couldn't say "swimming" correctly, but Jacob understood her. She climbed into his arms, her swimsuit and body wet from the pool. He ignored the water and pulled her onto his lap.
"How far did you swim?"
"As far as Mommy. All the way to the other side." She pointed toward the window. Jacob swung around in the chair and looked over his shoulder.
"That's wonderful." He kissed her wet hair.
"Who is that?" Krysta asked, switching her attention with lightning speed the way children often do.
"One of America's heroes," he answered, knowing any explanation would be too much for her to understand.
Marianne came in then. "Krysta, you're wetting your daddy."
Krysta looked at her mother as if nothing was wrong. Jacob glanced at his wife and his heartbeat thumped. He thought after five years of marriage her presence wouldn't affect him so strongly, but he was wrong. He hoped the urge to make love to her never went away. Even when they were in their nineties he wanted to look at her and feel this sudden quickening of his heart.
"Come on, it's time to get dressed." Krysta jumped down and ran toward Marianne's outstretched hand. Marianne looked over her daughter at him. "It's time you closed up shop."
"Closed up shop," the little girl repeated. They turned to leave. At the door Krysta turned back. "Daddy, can I be a hero?"
Jacob smiled. "Of course you can."
"Do I get a ring, too?''
"If you want one." Jacob didn't understand the reference, but appeased her anyway.
"And flowers?"
"All heroes get flowers," he said.
They left the room and Jacob reached forward to terminate the program. His hand stopped in mid-air.
***
Jack hung the phone up. Morgan looked at him, more nervous than she could remember being since she stopped competing. The garish light of a convenience store on some back highway not far from Indianapolis washed Jack's features into craggy shadows that made him look more dangerous than she knew him to be.
He had led her from the hotel to a black Jeep Cherokee and driven until the density of the city population gave way to suburban developments and then to rural farmland.
"They'll be safe," he told her.
"How do you know?"
"Because I trust the people I just talked to," he snapped. She watched his shoulders drop and knew he regretted it. In a calmer voice, he said, "They'll find them and keep them safe."
"Maybe I should try one more time.'' Morgan moved toward the phone, but Jack's hand on her arm stopped her.
"You've tried, Morgan. She isn't answering that cell phone and you already said it's been years since you dialed it. You don't even know if the number is still hers. People change plans all the time."
Morgan felt defeated, beaten, helpless. She could accomplish nothing, help no one, not even herself, and it was her fault her friends could die. She should have known. They'd made a pact. It sounded silly now to think about it. It was what friend did in high school. And Morgan didn't have many friends. She hadn't given that pact a thought until she saw Jan and Allie on the television screen. They had been so young at the time. Morgan was eighteen. Her mother had died only two weeks before and Jan and Allie came to her, both of them fifteen, taking her with them, back to their families, so she wouldn't be alone. They had vowed that summer that they would be friends forever. If any of them needed the others, they would come. All they had to do was call.
Jan and Allie stood by that vow, like musketeers taking up the banner of truth, and it was Morgan's fault that she had not held up her end. That they would look for her, after so many years of silence, was something outside of her realm of belief. No one ever looked for her, except her mom. No matter how many years had passed Morgan still thought of herself as alone in the world. For a small space of time, while her adoptive mother lived, Morgan had been part of something, a family, friends, her gymnastics partners, but when her mom died, everything went with her.
"Trust me, Morgan." Jack broke into her thoughts. She squinted at him in the harsh light. His face was set, still deeply detailed by the bulbs that had mosquitoes creating a glow about them. Every once in a while she'd hear the sizzle of a bug light. At the moment nothing passed between them except the grotesque sound.
Morgan realized she did trust him. She'd hardly trusted anyone in her entire life. She could count the people on three fingers whom she'd be willing to let into her life. No wonder she didn't recognize the feeling when it came. But it was there for Jack. She'd trusted him since they left her house. He'd do what he said and she wasn't going to have to pay for it. He wasn't going to come by later with something she had to do to pay up for the deed. Jan and Allie would be safe because Jack was a man of his word. Jan and Allie could be trusted to keep the vow. Morgan felt ashamed of how well she had kept it.
***
Senator Hart Lewiston sat quietly in his campaign office. Huge reproductions of his face graced the walls. Bumper stickers, posters, buttons with lewiston for president were scattered about. A computer sat on his desk and a television was mounted on the wall. It was switched on, but he'd muted the sound. Outside the glass-enclosed office, phones rang, people scuttled around, the place was a battle zone of activity. For a moment he could just watch. He hadn't had a moment to himself since months before he officially threw his hat in the ring. From that point on it had been at least one event every day, some days more than one. He'd talked to labor and industry, visited college campuses, whistle-stopped across the heartland, shaken hands with the old in nursing homes and lifted children into his arms in kindergartens. He was tired and ready for the end. But
he had months ahead of him before the election.
It hadn't been an easy road for Hart. Unlike his wife, he hadn't grown up having all his needs fulfilled. He never wanted for food or clothes, but his family couldn't afford the latest fad clothes or the newest electronic toys. Yet he grew up happy. His father had been a country lawyer and Hart idolized him, expecting to follow in his footsteps. When he thought of his life, he never chose public office as a goal. Then his father was made a judge and their lives took a different course.
Hart went to law school as expected, but after graduation he clerked for a judge in D.C. before training at the Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA made all the difference, sending him to foreign countries on covert missions. It took him to Seoul, where he was caught and sent to prison. Hart hung his head, remembering the nightmare of his time there. Sweat popped out on his brow. His breath came in gasps. His heart beat faster. He stopped the thoughts. He wouldn't let them return. The nightmares were over. The panic attacks were in the past. He wouldn't go through those memories again.
Elliott Irons, his campaign manager, came through the door. Hart sat back, silently thanking the younger man for and jerking him out of a dream that could occur whether he was asleep or awake. Elliott was forty-seven, but looked twenty years younger. He had a full head of blond hair, stood six feet tall, had been married to the same woman since the day he graduated from Harvard Law School, and believed in all the ideals of America. How he got into politics, Hart would never understand. Hart came from a family of politicians, but Elliott wasn't made in the same mold.
His family was a strain of men with so many skeletons in their closets that to go to the can they had to negotiate for toilet paper. Elliott's grandfather had been governor of California during the 1930s. He'd left a colorful legacy including some scandalous activities involving land deals and the Hollywood movie machine. Elliott's aunt had caused a major scandal in the political arena when she was discovered with a high-ranking official of a foreign government in a state of total undress. His father was a senator, serving on some of the same committees as Hart, and Hart had to constantly keep him from dipping into the till. Yet these people had produced Elliott, a trustworthy young man with boundless amounts of energy. And Hart would trust Elliott with his life.
"I had a great idea this morning."
Hart wondered if Elliott ever slept. Or did he dream of campaign strategies during periods when he should rest.
"Have you been watching the news?"
Hart nodded, glancing at the television with its mime figures. It was his duty to follow the news, listen to what everyone was saying. Often he used opinions for his benefit.
"Did you hear they haven't found any trace of that gymnastics champion?"
Again he nodded. This time his entire body tensed, but Hart was too good at hiding his feelings to let anything his campaign manager and friend said show on his outward countenance.
"She was in Korea at the same time you were in prison there. I thought we could pull this into the limelight somehow. Perhaps showing footage of her in the full arena during the Olympics and couple that with a reenactment of the daring escape you made the night the Americans took first place in that competition. It will tear America's heart out."
Elliott paced the room like some Hollywood film mogul with a new idea.
"I prefer to forget that ordeal," Hart said.
"Hart, it's perfect." Elliott sat down in a chair in front of Hart's desk. "Right now Olympic fever is sweeping the country. This campaign and those athletes vie nightly for the first and second spots on the news. When that girl went missing it would be the perfect combination. We could increase our percentage poll by at least a point--maybe two."
"We don't need a point, Elliott. We've got enough votes now to swing the election. As long as I don't do something rash like rob a bank or go on national television airing dirty laundry, I'll be president-elect come November."
Elliott stood up again. "It never hurts to play it safe."
"Elliott, when it comes to political candidates, the public has a thin layer of trust. Either they believe in them or they don't. In our recent past they've had plenty of reason to distrust the lot of us. It won't keep them from voting, even if they have to choose the lesser of two evils. I think we have plenty going for us right now. We don't want to kill our own campaign with distrust."
"What do you mean? Look at the polls. If the election were held today, you'd win in a landslide."
"And I'd have you to thank for it." Elliott didn't often need stroking to know he was a force in this campaign, but Hart understood that Elliott was a push-forward manager. He never looked back and he never stopped. He wanted to keep going forever advancing until the race was won. Hart often thought Elliott would have been a great coach for some sports team. They'd been friends a long time and Elliott's enthusiasm for winning had never wavered.
"We've got commercials running every hour," Hart explained. "Billboards crisscross the country, bus and subway advertising in all the major cities, speaking engagements so close together that any deviation in time schedule could collapse the entire structure. People can't turn around without tripping over something with my face on it. It's getting to the saturation point. Soon they'll notice that line they've drawn. The one that will make them question the reality of the campaign promise."
"Hart, you believe in everything we've said."
Hart nodded. "I do. But I'm not John Q. Public. The man on the street when inundated with information will often begin to question it. I'm saying we need to keep doing what we're doing, but adding a commercial that correlates me with Morgan Kirkwood may not be the best idea."
"It would be wonderful. And don't worry about the public. They believe what we tell them to believe. The good thing is it's all true."
Elliott left him a moment later, when one of the campaign workers knocked lightly on the door and whispered that he had a problem. Elliott was right on top of it. He would handle it, solve it and go on to the next item that cropped up. Hart was privileged to have him in his camp. He was an idea man, a visionary, a take-charge guy and a strong supporter.
As activity on the outer side of his door escalated to a new level of frenzy, Hart pulled a phone from his inner pocket and dialed. He didn't want to use the one on the desk.
"Is it done?" he asked without acknowledging either his or the receiver's identity. A second later he disconnected the call, returned the phone to his pocket and observed Elliott speaking into a phone in the center of the room.
Elliot's idea wasn't without merit. The use of Morgan Kirkwood's footage might add a few points to the polls, but it would bring him back to a time in his life that he didn't want to revisit.
***
Morgan sat in the Jeep next to Jack. She didn't know where the vehicle had come from. Jack offered no explanation and Morgan didn't ask for one. They hadn't talked much since leaving the convenience store. Morgan had her own thoughts to contend with. She wasn't comfortable with the trust factor, but she wasn't uncomfortable with it either. She knew Jack's orders would be followed. His voice on the phone had been no-nonsense. She could imagine people flying through doors and tires squealing as they jumped into cars and peeled rubber to get to Jan and Allie. She was still a little nervous for them. She wouldn't be completely comfortable until she knew they were safe.
Jack had talked of other things while he spoke into the phone. He hadn't mentioned the name of the person he spoke to, but she had listened to the one-sided conversation. Other than the safety of her friends, Jack had spoken about a meeting. They were on their way to it now. Morgan had to trust that if he could help Jan and Allie, he could also get her to safety.
She glanced at Jack. He didn't talk much, but she guessed in his line of work silence was a matter of course. His profile in the dark was strong, and Morgan admitted he looked better now than he had when they were in Seoul. And back then she thought he was gorgeous. She wondered if he still swam as often as he did when she first k
new him. He had to be doing some exercise because when he'd kissed her she felt every inch of his body. It was just as hard as it had been in Seoul. His face had changed though. He'd lost an almost indefinable quality of. . . freedom was the only word she could use to describe it. He had more character lines in his features and he moved with an air of command, but he moved inside an invisible box. One that said, don't touch me.
Morgan felt a little sad. He reflected her own life. Both of them had been changed by that trip to Seoul. Somehow she knew it had begun there. When Jack entered a room, people noticed. They instinctively moved aside as he passed, sensing both the danger he radiated and the aloofness that set him apart.
Morgan knew these traits could also be a powerful aphrodisiac. It drew her to him. Without volition, her thoughts returned to the hotel bathroom and Jack's mouth crushing hers. Quickly she dashed thoughts going in that direction, but not fast enough to keep her body from flashing hot.
"Why did you decide to do this kind of work?" Morgan asked the first question that came to her addled mind.
"Tired of your own company?"
"A little," she admitted.
"You don't decide this," Jack answered. "You get recruited."
"Who recruited you?"
His head slowly turned and he looked at her with piercing eyes. She could even see them in the half-light of the Jeep's cabin. She knew he wouldn't answer.
"How long have you been at it?"
"Too long."
"Well, you must be very good."
"I thought you said I wasn't doing a very good job of protecting you."
More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3) Page 12