by Vicki Hinze
“The same kind who’d ask a woman to marry him for his son.” Her eyes glittered black. “Don’t you dare get on your sanctimonious high horse with me, bitch. I’d do for Hawk about as much as you’d do for Jake.” Madeline’s anger drained, and a dead calm that sent shivers up Laura’s spine returned to her eyes.
“Sean’s alive, and we know it,” Laura said. “He’ll blame you, of course, for the ROFF mission’s failure. And even after all you’ve done for him, he’ll still refuse to love or accept you.” Laura straightened up. “I’m sorry for you for that.”
“I don’t want your damn pity.”
“I know you don’t,” Laura said softly. “But you do need it, Madeline.”
Laura had accomplished all she could. Hopefully she’d stirred up enough dust so that Madeline’s temper and sense of worth and self-righteousness would choke on it, and then Jake or Connor could get her to talk. Laura sensed that now the woman wanted to talk. She wanted to tell them how clever she’d been, and all she’d managed to do to the unsuspecting. She wanted to disclose all the reasons she was lovable, and why Sean should love and accept her.
It was pitiful. Tragic.
As for Laura, she’d had a gut full. She turned to Connor and Jake. “Timmy and I are going home.” She pressed a kiss to Jake’s temple, then whispered so only he could hear. “I bluffed. It’s speculation, not fact. See you when you get home.”
“You can’t just walk out of here, bitch.”
Laura stopped and looked back over her shoulder at Madeline. “Yes, I can. We chose different paths, and mine gives me the right to walk out of this room.” Laura dug deep for compassion and had a hard time finding it. Finally, she managed an alternate truth and was damn grateful for it. “I hope you receive more mercy than you’ve shown,” she said, then walked out without a backward glance.
Heading down the hallway toward Connor’s office, Laura’s eyes began to burn. She was tired, she thought, and sick of intrigue and lies. Sick of seeing shades of gray.
She wanted simplicity. Straight lines, where right was right and what was wrong was changed. She wanted people to be exactly who they portrayed themselves to be, including herself. No secret lives. No lies. No alternate truths.
She wanted to hug her son. To hear him laugh, and to laugh with him. To go home and towel-surf across the kitchen floor. To make double-fudge chocolate brownies for Jake, root beer floats for Timmy, and cherry cheesecake for herself, and then to gorge on all three and gripe because she’d overeaten. She wanted to take a hot bubble bath and soak, to sleep eight hours uninterrupted, and to make love to Jake. She wanted to tell him she loved him with all her heart, over and over until he believed her, and to keep on telling him how much she loved him for the rest of their lives.
She wanted to get past the shades of gray and see colors again.
Jake watched Connor and Agent 27 question Madeline through a two-way mirror. How could she seem so cool and controlled? So unaffected by all this?
Laura’s bluff had worked. Madeline was talking freely now, saying Hawkins had discovered the truth about her Intelligence assignments while she was employed by Colonel James and had threatened to expose her unless she did as he asked. She’d fought against coming into the ROFF fold, and Hawkins had blackmailed her into it. He headed ROFF.
The only thing she adamantly refused to discuss was her father. She wouldn’t so much as speak his name.
And now it was no longer necessary.
The court order had been obtained to exhume Sean Drake’s body. But all that was found in his grave was an empty coffin. Sean Drake was indeed alive. And Jake would bet anything that he and not Hawkins headed ROFF.
Jake walked back into the room. Madeline glared at him. “None of this ever would have happened if you’d just loved me. I was your wife. Me, Jake. But with you it was always Laura. Always, only Laura.”
From somewhere inside, he dredged up pity. “We were just friends. Laura isn’t to blame. You made your choices, and you’re responsible for them.”
“You won’t have her. I swear it,” Madeline vowed in a near whisper. “Regardless of what happens now, or whatever else you do, Laura is going to die.”
She was telling the truth. Fighting panic, Jake fisted his hands at his sides. “What have you done?”
Madeline gave him a vindictive, Cheshire cat smile.
“Timmy is with Laura.” Panic churned in Jake’s stomach. “Will you kill him, too?”
Plucking at the seam of her dirt-crusted jeans, she licked at her lips and then let her gaze drift to the ceiling. “Nothing is black and white.”
“You’ll murder your own son?” he bellowed.
She glared at him. “That boy stopped being my son the day he first called your bitch ‘Mom.’”
Trembling with a rage so deep it took every ounce of his control to suppress it, Jake scowled at her. “Either of them get hurt—either of them—and I’ll kill you myself.”
“I’m prepared to die.” She lifted her chin, looking so calm it chilled Jake’s blood to ice. “But me being dead won’t bring them back, will it, Jake? Nothing will bring them back. You’re going to know how it feels to be alone. You’re going to know how it feels to be me.”
Connor was already on the phone. Jake ran past him, praying Madeline had been bluffing and fearing deep in his soul she had been dead serious.
This couldn’t happen now. Not now. They’d come so far. Jake couldn’t lose them now!
Twenty-three
The house was dark.
Laura and Timmy went inside. “I’m going to take a bath, Tiger.”
“Can I have some ice-cream?”
“Sure. There’s root beer in the fridge. Have a float.” She walked straight through the kitchen, then down the hall toward her bedroom. Some sixth sense kicked in, slowed her steps, and had the tiny hairs on the back of her neck lifting. She made a U-turn, then headed straight back to the kitchen.
The door to the freezer stood open. Cold air poured out like fog. Timmy wasn’t there—anywhere—and her heart started a low, hard beat. “Timmy?”
No answer.
She shut the freezer door. Felt some kind of grime stuck to her fingertips, and flipped on the overhead light.
A thin film of dust blanketed the countertops, the table and chairs, the floor—everything.
And she remembered Jake telling her about the film of dust on the photograph, on the operatives. Biological . . .
“Oh, God.” She screamed, “Timmy?”
He came stumbling out of the bath off the laundry room. “What?”
He was okay. Right here, and okay. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I had to pee.”
Bury it, Logan. Bury it, and think. “Don’t touch anything.” She used her blouse to wipe off the phone receiver, then dialed the Ops Center. “This is Laura Logan. Who is this?”
“Captain David Perry,” the man said.
“I need help, David.” She reeled off the address. “Bring antibiotics and a biological decontamination crew. Hurry. My son and I have been exposed. Etiology unknown.”
“They’re on their way, Laura. General Connor already called in. Do you have any antibiotics in the house?”
“I-I don’t know. We can’t go to the hospital.” They couldn’t even go outside. “We’ll contaminate everyone.”
“Yes, you would. Just stay put. We’ll be there before you could get to the base, anyway.”
“I hate staying inside in this. Timmy is so young.” The effects on him would manifest quickly, if this proved to be botulism. ROFF had attempted to use it to contaminate the water supply, so she knew they had access to the technology and experience with the application. In truth, anyone with a jar of mayo and a source of heat as simple as a match could grow a botulism culture. But pr
ofessionals grew a stronger strain, and, professionally applied in this density, the germs wouldn’t take long to kill. The elderly and children were most susceptible to a particularly quick death. Half an hour, ten minutes, or perhaps less, and antibiotics would be worthless counteracting the effects. Clearly, whoever had infested their home knew what they were doing. And Laura would bet her backside that the typical “prime time” in which the germs were most active—and most lethal—had been extended from hours to days with the use of a retardant. God, please let it be strong anthrax.
“We don’t know what we’re working with yet,” David said. “The more confined you keep the contaminated area, the better.”
“I have reason to suspect botulism. Professionally applied.” Laura felt sweat trickle down her back and bead above her upper lip. “Will the crew be prepared for that?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just sit tight. They’ll be there momentarily.”
She wanted the crew. But even more so she wanted Jake. “Will my husband be with them?”
“He’s ahead of them by about five minutes, ma’am.”
“Mom.” Timmy held a hand to his stomach. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Hurry, David. Hurry.” Laura dropped the receiver. “Hang on, Tiger. I’m going to look for some medicine.”
She ran to the bathroom, tore through the medicine cabinet, knocking out bottles of aspirin and Tylenol, and found nothing of use. She checked the other baths. Again nothing. Where else? Where else could she look?
Jake’s gear.
She tore down the hall, burst into Jake’s room, into his closet and dragged out his survival gear bag. Frustrated by trying to rifle through it, she dumped its contents onto the carpet and then saw the blister pack. One blister pack. Enough medication for only one of them.
She snatched it up and ran down the hall back to the kitchen, her fingers fumbling with trying to break open the seal. Finally, she freed the capsule and gave it to Timmy. “Swallow this, honey. You can’t have any water. They’ve poisoned it.”
Timmy looked up at her, his eyes wide. “They poisoned everything, Mom.”
She hugged him to her. “It’ll be okay. Dad’s on his way home, and he’s bringing some people who know how to get rid of the poison. We just have to stay put and not touch anything until they get here.” Air carried the germs as well. Oh, God, make them hurry. “Don’t talk and don’t breathe deep, Tiger. Just little puffs, as few as you can manage, okay?” She pulled up his shirt front, covering his mouth and nose. “Keep this up like this, okay?”
He nodded.
As she pulled up her own blouse, she remembered Jake’s mask. The gear she’d dumped on the floor. A mask had been in it. It wouldn’t filter out everything, but something was better than nothing. It could only help.
She retrieved the mask and poured a bottle of alcohol on it, then fitted it over Timmy’s face.
Her stomach pitched and rolled, and she began to sweat. She had to throw up. “Stay right here,” she said near the living room window. “Watch for Dad, okay?”
“Are you leaving me here?”
“No. No, baby. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay.” He stood post, watching out the front window for Jake.
By the time Laura got to the bathroom, her head was spinning. Bent over the toilet, heaving, she sensed movement by the hallway door and covertly looked over. Paul Hawkins stood there watching her, a gun in his hand, looking every bit as dark and huge and menacing as he always had.
Oh, God. Oh, God. What now? What did she do now?
He stood between her and Timmy. Bury it. Bury it. Keep retching. Keep retching, and think.
Hawkins wasn’t wearing protective gear. That was good news—a positive sign that they had in fact used strong anthrax and not botulism. He’d never risk exposure. Whatever they’d used, antibiotics would handle it—provided the crew got their backsides to the house with some before too much more time elapsed. And provided Hawkins didn’t shoot her first.
She looked for a weapon. Gagged. A toilet brush and a can of Glade air freshener. Terrific.
And a plunger.
A wooden-handled plunger against a gun? Lousy odds, at best, but if she could stall, it would give the crew time to get here, and—please, God—Jake.
“You can quit stalling, Laura. I know you’re aware that I’m here.”
She lifted her head slowly out of necessity, then looked over at him, her stomach still in revolt. Black pants and shirt and eyes. Sharp bones. Dominant scar on his cheek where she’d slashed him through the ski mask with his own knife. He looked like the devil: menacing, unforgiving, merciless. And, God help her, she had to confront him without a weapon.
“Let’s go.” He waved her to him with the nose of the gun.
“I’m sick.”
“I know.” He smiled that oh-so-charming smile, and she resented not being strong enough to knock it off of his face. “Come on, now. Timmy’s waiting.”
Timmy hadn’t made a sound. Hawkins couldn’t have done anything to him. No, Sean! God help her, Sean was here, too.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m going to kill you, Laura.”
He said it so simply, without any emotion whatsoever, which made the threat all the more chilling. What kind of monster could threaten murder and not feel anything? “Why?”
“Why?” He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe the question. “You cost me my career. My honor. My damn country. And you ask me why?”
She grabbed the plunger, rammed it into him, knocking him off-balance. Before he could get his bearings, she jammed the plunger’s wooden handle into his abdomen, elbowed his chin. Dazed, he rocked back on his feet, and she kicked him in the groin.
He crumpled to the ground and curled into a ball.
She snatched up his gun, took aim at him, and then screamed, “Timmy!”
He appeared at the foot of the hallway. She nearly cried with relief. “Are you okay?”
He nodded and looked down at Hawkins lying on the floor. “That’s Hawk, Mom. Madeline’s friend. I saw him in the swamp with her.”
“I know.”
“If he moves, are you going to shoot him?”
“Yes, honey, I am.” Laura looked back at Hawkins. “That’s a promise.”
Timmy looked down at Hawk, a frown creasing the tender skin between his fine brows. “Don’t move, Hawk. Mom isn’t like Madeline. She doesn’t break her promises. Not ever.”
Hawk flinched.
“Timmy, is anyone else here?” she said. “Do you know?”
“Grandfather was, but he left when Hawk yelled.”
Hawkins’ face blanched white. Laura knew it was cruel, but she took pleasure in seeing it, until she realized Sean had taken the contamination out of the house with him. “Lock the door, Tiger. And then get me some rope from the garage and your ball bat.”
“My bat?”
Laura nodded. “I’m going to tie up Mr. Hawkins, and you’re going to guard him while I go after your grandfather.” Hopefully she’d find him before he contaminated the entire city of Fairhope.
“You want me to guard him?” Timmy sounded incredulous.
“Yes, I do. And if he moves more than just to blink, I want you to hit a homer on his kneecaps.”
Hawk winced.
Timmy shrugged. “Okay, Mom. If you say so.”
“I say so.”
In short order, Timmy returned with the rope and his bat, and Laura tied Hawkins up to where she doubted he could do more than blink. She reiterated Timmy’s orders, then left the hall and retrieved the Glock from her purse. She checked it, double-checked the safety, and then nodded at Timmy, who was standing over the trussed up Hawkins with his bat at the ready. There was no doubt in Laura’s mind that if
the man flinched, Timmy would crack him. More importantly, Hawkins’ expression proved he took Timmy seriously. His expression was tense, and sweat rolled down from his temples. He was a believer, all right. Just to reinforce her instructions, she told Timmy, “If he makes a move, do your best to hit a grand slam.”
“I will, Mom. That’s a promise,” Timmy said without looking at her, then warned Hawkins, “I’m not like Madeline, either.”
Laura made her way to the front door, then peeked out through the slender window beside it. Sean Drake stood there, not three steps beyond the landing. Wearing a black turtleneck, slacks, and jacket, he blended in with the night. Jake didn’t. He stood beyond Drake, his hands up, as if Drake held a gun on him. Drake was holding something in his hand, and Laura strained, but couldn’t see what.
Feeling weak, though her blood gushed through her veins, she debated strategies. Should she slip out the back door, come around the side of the house, and try to get behind Drake? Or should she depend on surprise and rush out through the front door?
The deadbolt was on, and she recalled telling Timmy to lock the door. If she opened it, Drake would hear the click. She had no choice but to opt for the quieter approach and go around the back.
By the time she got out of the back door and rounded the front corner of the house, she was in a cold sweat. Pausing by the big oak, looking at the damn ruts Madeline had left in the lawn, she heard their voices. From the sound of it, the men were in a debate. They’d picked a hell of a time for a heated discussion, in her humble opinion, but them being occupied would give her a little cover in maneuvering around and behind Drake.
She inched between the first two in the row of oleanders and then dropped to a squat. The pointed leaves jabbed into her skin, pricked at her face. Peering out from between the leaves, she grimaced, and her heart lodged in her throat. Drake held something, all right. She couldn’t make out what, but it didn’t look like a gun.
“Just keep your distance,” Drake said. “Don’t come any closer.”