Duty With Honor Book Five: An Unexpected Pause

by Jordan Bollinger

  "Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. I'm just so worried about her. I warned Sir Anthony that she'd bolt. I told him. Richard and Sir Roger are getting frantic as well.

  "And, she had been talking to someone..." he didn't finish his thought.

  "What was that?" Jack asked.

  "Nothing. At least I don't think it's anything. I'll call Helen and get back to you.

  "Thanks, Jack."

  "No problem, Andy."

  *****

  "Mr. Drew, I checked the back of the drawer and there's no money there."

  "Are you sure you're looking at the right drawer?"

  "Yes, sir. Miss Beth took the drawer out and gave me the cash when I had to take John to the hospital."

  "But you don't see any signs of someone being in the house?"

  "Well, now that you ask, a couple of days ago we went over to West Farms Mall -- it's almost to Hartford. So we were gone a good part of the day. There wasn't anything specific, but I just had a feeling.

  "You know I'm left-handed, so I put the dishcloth on the left, and I found it on the right side of the sink. It might have been John who moved it, but still. And, Elvis looked smoother...as if he'd been brushed."

  Andrew let out a long sigh, before he said, "Yes, well then I think we can be sure Beth was there in Litchfield for a short while two days ago.

  "Thank you, Helen."

  *****

  "Jack, Beth's been to the Litchfield house...two days ago. I know there was--"

  "Andy...I'm sorry to cut you off, but we might have a bigger problem."

  "What?"

  "I was talking to Fitz earlier, and I mentioned that the body of a woman matching Beth's very general description had been found at the Montreal Airport, and another was discovered in the Port Authority building.

  "Both women were strangled and found in bathroom stalls."

  "Yes, but I don't see--"

  "Let me finish. Ruth became very agitated and said that a woman's body had been found at St. Pancras Station and another at Orly Airport.

  "They've all been strangled and stashed in bathroom stalls. And, they all are similar to Beth's general description."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm wondering if we're the only ones trying to find Beth. What if someone is following her -- and looking to kill her?"

  "Bloody hell!" Andrew exclaimed. "This just keeps getting worse and worse."

  "The thing is," Jack said, "why would someone -- anyone -- want to kill her? From what you and Fitz have said, she was working on a personal project for Sir Anthony since you all found out she was pregnant.

  "She hasn't been anywhere or done anything for someone to have the need to kill her. And, it's worse than just killing her. Whoever this is doesn't care how many people they kill before they get to Beth. These are some seriously pissed off people.

  "But, who and why?"

  "That's just it, Jack. I have no idea who would be after her, or why."

  "Any chance that Gregory or Meeker had someone else involved with their antics?"

  "No, I don't think so. Gregory was too careful, and Meeker killed everyone who knew anything about him before he left Monte Carlo."

  "You don't have any ideas at all?"

  "Well..." Drew hesitated, before answering, "No."

  "Why am I not convinced about that?" Jack asked.

  "You know that there is no question about her passing any information -- at all? No matter what she's been accused of, right?"

  "Of course, not knowingly -- at least. But, isn't it possible that she passed something without knowing it?"

  "I suppose it is technically possible, but what could she have passed on? And, to whom?"

  "Well, yeah. That's the question, isn't it?"

  "We were in Washington, D.C. until Sir Anthony called us back, so Beth could escort her old college acquaintance. I don't think we went anywhere except Richard's house before the day of her assignment. She was injured and we found out about the baby. Then she was doing Sir Anthony's special project -- in the little studio apartment off his own office.

  "I'm not sure we even went out once we knew about James. She worked all day and went to bed early. And, the few days I was away overnight, Sarah or Fitz stayed at the house. I just can't imagine who she would even see to talk to."

  "Well, don't take this personally, but MI-6 obviously has some serious background check issues. Isn't it possible there's someone else who's slipped through? Someone she would see -- work with?"

  "Again -- technically, yes, I suppose so. But, realistically, I don't think so." Andrew sighed again and added, "I just want to find her, Jack. It's bad enough she believes that Sir Anthony -- her own godfather -- thinks she's a security risk.

  "Now we think someone is after her, and she has no idea she's in danger."

  "What about that idiot, Tom? She wouldn't go to him, would she?"

  "No. Especially since he's been sending emails demanding his alimony back. She's told him the solicitors are working on it, but he's such an ass."

  "I'm not going to argue with you. I can't stand the guy."

  "You know, you could have come through the kitchen that night, shooting, and accidently killed him."

  "Yeah, it might have been better, but, we need to focus on Liz."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Undisclosed Motel

  Somewhere, Just off Interstate 95

  United States

  Beth entered the generic motel room, carrying a large black pocketbook, a small tote bag, and a McDonald's bag and drink. She set the food on the corner of the dresser and threw her purse and bag on the nearest bed, before she turned and triple locked the door. Then she dragged a chair in front of the door. It wouldn't stop someone from breaking in if they got through the locks -- but it wouldn't let them sneak in.

  Although, for the life of her, she didn't know why she bothered. The only people looking for her were her family -- and they didn't want to hurt her.

  She kicked off her shoes, grabbed her dinner, and plopped down on the empty bed. She picked at some french fries, as she channel surfed -- searching for some mind-numbing TV show that she could veg out to.

  She hadn't gotten nearly as far as she'd hoped, but the weather was awful. And the used car she'd bought in Trenton wasn't very fast. What it was, was a broken down Toyota Corolla that leaked oil and guzzled gasoline.

  She took a chicken nugget and ate it, as she opened up her purse. It was the one she liked to use on trips, because it had a zippered pouch on the outside that had slots for money and credit cards -- so she didn't have to open the main part of the purse.

  Of course, she didn't have any credit cards. Still, not having to continually open her hand bag, meant the pile of driver's licenses and IDs she had remained safely hidden.

  The purse was the one thing she'd taken from the Litchfield house.

  Well, that and all the cash she could find, a comb and brush, toothbrush and toothpaste, some deodorant, a couple of shirts, and a random assortment of undies -- and the front license plate from the Park Avenue parked in the garage.

  With any luck, John wouldn't notice it was missing for a while.

  She carefully sorted out the cash into piles of ones, fives, tens, and twenties -- smoothing each bill out. She counted them out, and then counted them out again.

  It wasn't nearly enough money to get to San Diego. Especially, since because of the bad weather, she'd decided on traveling down I-95 to Jacksonville, where she could pick up I-10 to head west. It was an easier drive, but probably at least forty per cent longer than if she'd gone diagonally, across the central states.

  She was only averaging about three hundred miles to a tank of gas. And, each tank cost about thirty dollars. Even eating only once a day and sleeping in the cheapest motels she could find, she was spending about one hundred dollars a day.

  She was going to have to stop somewhere and get a job, and earn some money. But, where to stop? Sighing, she decided she had to make it to
Jacksonville -- at least.

  *****

  She got as far as Moss Point, Mississippi. That's when the engine started smoking, and she was running dangerously short on funds. A helpful trucker who'd stopped to assist her managed to coax the Corolla into running the few more hours needed to allow her to make it into New Orleans.

  She'd done a lot of thinking about everything, and decided that she'd find a room and get a job in the French Quarter. There, surrounded by hotels and restaurants, she was sure she'd be able to find something that paid her cash under the table -- serving tables, cleaning hotel rooms, or washing dishes.

  The trouble was the weather had been rainy and cold, and she really didn't have warm clothes. She didn't even have a coat. She arrived in New Orleans tired, headachy, and feverish. But, she managed to find a dingy room in a boarding house on Ursulines Avenue, not far away from the convent.

  It wasn't great. In fact, it was a dump, but it did have its own toilet and sink in the room -- which meant she could barricade herself into her room at night. It also had a hotplate and tiny refrigerator. Best of all, it was cheap. She went to bed and hoped to feel rested and healthier in the morning, because she needed to find a job.

  The problem was Elizabeth didn't feel much better the next morning -- even after a good night's sleep. Still, she forced herself up and out. The simple truth was she had to find a job. Of course, a waitressing job would have paid better, plus she'd get tips. However, while she'd done her best to keep herself and the few clothes she had clean and presentable, after more than a week of traveling, she was losing ground.

  And, no one was interested in hiring someone who looked grubby, let alone someone sick, and coughing constantly, to work as a server.

  After two days of searching throughout the French Quarter, she found a job -- as a maid at a hotel. The good thing about this was they at least provided her with a uniform. The bad thing was the pay was awful. She wouldn't be earning much more than it would cost her to pay for her room, a few groceries, and to clean her clothes.

  How would she ever save up enough money to go on to San Diego? She wondered if she just shouldn't call her folks in San Diego. Maybe, if she asked them, they wouldn't call Andrew, or Richard, or her father.

  But, she knew the answer. They'd do almost anything she wanted. They'd send her money, they'd come for her, they'd take care of her -- as they always had. However, they wouldn't shield her from the rest of her family. Especially, when she was sure they were all frantic about her.

  No, she couldn't contact her parents -- at least, not yet. She hoped she could make a bit of money, buy a more professional outfit in a thrift store, and then find a better job. It might not have been a great plan -- but it was the only one she had.

  Working as a hotel housekeeper was hard work. Especially for someone who had been extremely ill, was severely depressed, and running in a blind panic from the nightmare her life had become.

  And things just kept getting worse. What she thought was a cold, turned into a bad case of the flu. She continued to work, but in her weakened condition she was a walking target for any illness around. Because, as soon as she'd shaken off the cold type flu, she came down with a case of intestinal flu. She just couldn't seem to get well.

  She managed to work for two weeks, before her health plummeted. She'd collected her pay check for the week, and stopped at a small corner store for some food. Even then she'd held herself to a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a box of tea bags, and a bag of sugar.

  She'd also splurged on a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Beth had the weekend off, and hoped, if she just rested, she'd be on the mend by the time she had to go back to work on Monday. The thing was she was beyond tired. And that's how she never even noticed when someone stole her purse -- along with what little money she had and all her IDs.

  She only discovered it was gone when she was back in her room. Her head ached. She was hungry. And now, she was destitute. The only thing she could think of as 'good' was that her room was paid through another week, and she had a tiny bit of food.

  She refilled a water bottle from the rusty tap and carried it over to the lumpy, creaky bed, where she collapsed -- still wearing her stifling polyester uniform -- from exhaustion, frustration, and despair.

  *****

  Unknown Location,

  London, England, United Kingdom

  "You're going to have to join Mrs. White in New Orleans and identify the woman. And then, you had better find what you lost. I hope you realize how important it is -- to you, personally -- to complete this successfully, don't you?"

  "Of course, I understand. If you'd let me go after her, I would have had her by now, instead of leaving a trail of corpses across two continents."

  "If you hadn't bungled things in London, I wouldn't have had to send someone after her. And now, someone to help them. You should be halfway through the list by now."

  "Am I to replace them?"

  "No, you are just to help identify the woman. Mrs. White will kill her. It's what she does. And, you'd better hope the woman has what you lost on her body."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Oliver Flat

  Chelsea,

  London, England, United Kingdom

  "I need to talk to him, Ruth."

  Fitz swallowed hard and asked, "Why? What's happened?"

  "Please, honey. I need to speak to him," Jack said, his voice sounding forced and strained through the phone.

  "All right--"

  "Wait, I'm sorry. But, you know how he feels about me telling you things first."

  "It's all right, Jack," Ruth said softly into the phone. "I understand."

  "Honey, he needs to meet me in New Orleans.

  "Jack..."

  "It's bad, Ruth. Please, honey, I need to talk to him now."

  "All right, I'll get him."

  "I need him in New Orleans, as soon as possible. Find him a good flight -- a direct one, if at all possible. Then call me with the information, and I'll pick him up at the airport." He paused for a minute and then added, "And, Ruth, I might ask you to do something for me -- for his own good."

  Jack waited on the far end of the phone. He'd never had a problem dealing with whatever his job presented him -- but, this was different. He loved them. He loved them both, and this might be the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do.

  "Hello." Drew's voice sounded hollow and empty.

  "Andy, I need you to meet me in New Orleans. Fitz is making your flight arrangements."

  "What's happened, Jack?"

  "Well, the Toyota Corolla that Mary Jane Johnson bought in Trenton was towed from a street in the French Quarter. The VIN matches and it's also got your missing license plate."

  "So, she's in the French Quarter? You've found her?"

  Jack heard the hope in his friend's voice, and continued on, knowing full well he was about to deliver a crippling blow, "Andrew..."

  "I was sure you'd find her--"

  "Andy...you don't understand...a body's been pulled out of Lake Pontchartrain...another woman was strangled -- but this time the pocketbook strap was wrapped around her neck. And...there were a pile of IDs inside, all with Liz's picture."

  "What are you saying, Jack?"

  "Andy, please, just get on a plane. Ruth will let me know when and where to meet you." There was a glaring silence, before Jack added, "I'm sorry, Andy. I'm so very sorry."

  *****

  Andrew hung up the phone slowly -- deliberately. Jack's news -- what he had told Drew -- was bad enough. But there had been more. It was what Jack had not told him.

  It was another second before the penny dropped and the awful truth dawned on him. The body had been in Lake Pontchartrain.

  The purse, with all its IDs, was how the police had identified the body because it had been in the water. And, what lived in that lake? What was the area known for? For its shrimp, crawfish, crabs, and catfish. All bottom feeders.

  They'd identified the body from the papers in her p
urse because they couldn't identify her from her face -- because she no longer had a face.

  It was a very good thing he was sitting down, because he was shaking so badly, he wouldn't have been able to stand up.

  *****

  Moisant International Airport

  New Orleans, Louisiana, United States

  Jack was standing at baggage claim, waiting for Andrew, as he'd promised. And, before Drew could even say anything, Jack spoke, "It might not be as bad as I originally thought. I've spoken to a police detective. He's going to meet us at...at the...morgue. He has his own ideas about this woman’s identity."

  "It's all right, Jack. I'm all right," Drew insisted. "I'm surprised how calm I am. If I didn't know better, I'd say Fitz slipped a couple Valium into my tea. I slept most of the flight -- which is something I never do."

  Andrew had been attempting to make a joke, but from the way his friend's face went slack, he wasn't at all sure he hadn't been drugged.

  But, he decided it wasn't worth worrying about. If Fitz had slipped him something, he was sure it had been on Jack's instructions, and what was done, was done.

  He could be wrong. He might have just needed the rest. Although, he did feel inexplicably unruffled for a man going to see if it was his wife's ravaged body, lying on a slab in the morgue.

  His friend led him to a large, vintage Cadillac in the parking lot. Andrew managed a smile, as he asked, "How do you do it? Another boat of a car. Especially, since they haven't made these mammoths in twenty years."

  "I went to school in NOLA -- graduated from Tulane. So, I have a lot of friends here. One of them is richer than you are and a bit of an eccentric."

  "An eccentric?"

  "Yeah. That's the politically correct southern term for a loony tune. He collects old cars -- among other things. And, he always lets me borrow one when I'm here." Jack paid the parking stub, and pulled out onto Veteran's Highway and then onto the I-10 before he continued. "And, he's in South America for the next six months or so...which means we have his apartment. Wait until you see it."