Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Can I help?" Grant offered.

  "No," she answered with a long sigh and laid her head against the upholstery. It had been a long time since someone had tried to kill her. The first and only other time it had happened, she’d threatened to leave the service. She didn’t want to be an undercover agent. It was then that she had been transferred to the program and had taken the assignment of pro­tecting Brooke and Kari. The assignment had been easy up to yesterday. If Jacob hadn’t come to pick her up, she would have gone back to that room and been killed. She shuddered.

  "Are you cold," Grant asked. He reached for the air conditioning setting and raised the temperature of the digital display. Grant had reached Route 33 and was heading toward the restaurant.

  "You’ll have to pass the turnoff for Yesterdays and take the Parkside Avenue-Zoo exit," she directed.

  Marianne sat quietly afterward. The car took ten minutes to reach the location, and at that point, she sat up and directed him past the park and onto the quiet tree-lined street where she lived. Her house was unlike Brooke ‘s in that it was a tall but narrow Victo­rian. The paint, a soft blue trimmed in salmon pink, set it apart. It sat nestled among other Victorians of bright and muted colors.

  Grant pulled into her driveway and got out. He went around and helped her out. She was wobbly at first, and for a moment, he was about to lift her and carry her up the five steps that led to the small front porch. She regained her balance and walked across the grass to grasp the handrail. Getting her suitcase, he followed her.

  Inside, the rooms were dark since the windows were hung with heavy drapery. The furniture was sparse, giving the rooms an airiness when she threw every drape open.

  "I’ll be fine now," she told him. Grant wasn’t so sure. "What happened, Marianne?" he asked for the second time since leaving the airport. "You’ve obviously been in some sort of accident. I can keep a secret, if that’s a concern, but you look like you need someone to talk to."

  She hesitated, her chin shaking, as if she wanted to say something but was forcing herself to remain quiet. Her action reminded him of Brooke and her deter­mined effort to control her words. "Would you like me to call Brooke?"

  "No!" she shouted too loud and too quickly. "Don’t call Brooke. She’s much too busy right now." Her voice was lower.

  "How about some tea?" he suggested. It was a trick Robyn used to use on him to make him tell her things he didn’t want her to know. "A cup of tea will make you feel better."

  In the kitchen, Grant filled the kettle sitting on the stove with water and searched the tea canister. It was filled with individual bags, but in the cabinet next to the sugar he found a box of loose apple spiced tea. Searching further, he found a tea ball in the drawer and used Robyn’s recipe to make hot apple spiced tea. The aroma filled his senses and momentarily brought Robyn back to life. Then, he remembered the sad woman in the other room. He placed several spoons of sugar in the hot mixture and took two cups to the living room.

  Marianne was curled up on the window seat. Her arms were wrapped around her body tightly as if her life force would escape if she didn’t hold it in. She stared vacant-eyed through the glass at the gray day. Grant could tell that her mind was miles away. Maybe she was back in her weekend. Something had hap­pened there that had frightened her. He called her name. She didn’t respond.

  He set the two cups on the window ledge and took the seat next to her. "I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened."

  She came back then. His voice drew her from the sound of the shattering glass and from Jacob holding onto her to prevent any harm from happening to her. Without his quick thinking, she shuddered to imagine where she would be now, dead or in the burn unit of George Washington Hospital Center.

  "There was a fire," she told a half-truth. A bomb exploding in her hotel room had set it to burning. "My hotel room caught on fire. I barely escaped."

  "Are you all right?" Grant’s eyes went to the ban­dages.

  "I wasn’t burned badly." Her voice was monotone. "I was just scared, and my arms have a few blisters. The doctor said they won’t scar." She swallowed a sob and lifted her chin.

  "What started the fire?" he asked in a whispered tone.

  "Electrical wiring," she lied. "It was a faulty switch in the room. Everyone escaped unharmed." Marianne sipped her tea. Life seemed to be returning. She felt better now that she was back on familiar ground. But if someone knew her exact hotel room in Washington, they also knew where she lived. Jacob had her house checked out. He’d been on the phone, barking orders since they’d left the hospital, and he’d taken her to his house in Rock Creek Park.

  It was Jacob who had sent a message to Brooke tell­ing her Marianne would be staying an extra day. He didn’t explain anything, and Marianne knew Brooke wouldn’t pry. The two of them had come to an unspo­ken understanding years ago, and neither of them in­terfered in the other’s life. At least not until Grant had come to donate blood for Kari. Then, Brooke appeared to open up a little, giving Marianne glimpses of her feelings, but Marianne had been forced to keep her own feelings to herself.

  Grant watched her. She was nervous and needed someone to help her. She drank the tea methodically. It must have been a trauma to find herself in a burn­ing room. Grant hadn’t known any burn victims, but he’d seen films of plane crashes and had been required to take classes to handle emergency landings. The greatest hazard in force landing a plane was the like­lihood of fire. Case studies of survivors told him the trauma lasted long after the victims were safe. And Marianne had all the symptoms of delayed shock.

  She finished her tea, and Grant coaxed her into go­ing to bed. When she climbed the stairs, he used the phone to call Brooke. She was there in minutes.

  "How is she?" Robyn asked the moment she came through the door.

  "I’m not sure. She’s has bandages but doesn’t ap­pear to be in much physical pain. She looks like she needs someone."

  "I’ll go up."

  Grant kissed her lightly on the mouth. "I’m going to the hotel. I’ll call later."

  Robyn nodded and headed up the heavily carpeted stairs. Marianne was lying on the bed fully dressed. She took one look at Robyn and burst into tears. Robyn ran to her, cradling her head in her arms and letting her cry. Her body shook in spasms. Robyn knew she had to let fear run its course. She spoke in a whispered voice, telling Marianne it was over. The fire was out, and there was nothing to hurt her now. After a long while, she stopped crying. Exhaustion made her sleep. Robyn covered her with a light blan­ket and went to the kitchen.

  The tea Grant had made was sitting on the warming plate. Robyn poured herself a cup. She started for the pedestal table when the phone rang. Quickly, she snatched it from the wall, hoping the sound had not jarred Marianne from her much needed sleep.

  "Hello," she answered.

  At the other end, someone coughed then cleared his throat. "I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number." A muffled voice spoke into her ear. She was about to say something when the line went dead. Robyn looked at the phone before replacing it. There was something familiar about the voice, but it was disguised. Yet some­how she knew it.

  Taking her tea to the table, she sat down. Her brows knitted in thought, trying to focus on the sound she’d just heard. There was something authoritative about it, almost military in nature. The only man she knew with a voice like that didn’t know Marianne.

  That man was Jacob Winston.

  ***

  She was all right. She was safe. Jacob told himself over and over. Marianne had stayed an extra day, but when he’d driven her to the airport, she was still pale and fearful. He’d had her house checked, and it was clean. But he didn’t want her to return. He wanted her to stay with him where he could keep her safe, but she’d told him she couldn’t do it. Her obligations were to Robyn and Kari, and there was no way he could do his job if he had to continually check on her.

  Jacob knew she was right, but he didn’t like the way she looked. Her vibrant per
sonality had been changed by the bomb. The facade of control she tried to show was cracked, and he could see it. He was sending her back alone. There was no one she could tell what had happened. They had gone over the story she was to tell to explain the bandages. He’d squelched any mention of the bomb in the news services, and the official ver­sion spoke of a faulty electrical switch that had been replaced that afternoon. The hotel was more than willing to keep the incident quiet.

  The truth was a small bomb had been placed over the door. He hadn’t seen it until he’d turned to leave. And there it was, hanging inches from Marianne’s head. It was amateurish, but the second blast that had been set off by the first had all the marks of a professional demolitions expert. Jacob had the room combed. His findings proved the professional theory. There wasn’t enough left of the bomb to fill a thim­ble. But he knew it was a calling card. Alex Jordan has risen from the dead, and this time he was after him.

  Alex would get his wish. Jacob’s attention was fully focused. Marianne was an innocent. She had nothing to do with the Crime Network. This was meant to be a warning that they were close. Icy fingers skittered up Jacob’s spine.

  It was personal now.

  ***

  The private elevator to Chase Dalrymple’s of­fice reminded Jacob of the Hoover years. Although J. Edgar Hoover died years before the first shovel of dirt to build the block size building bearing his name was ever turned, the elevator would have afforded the notorious director the cover of secrecy to hold his nocturnal meetings. As far as Jacob knew, Chase had never held a meeting after dark. There were con­ferences that flowed over into darkness, but the clan­destine reports of Hoover’s era were not part of the Christopher culture.

  Jacob stepped into the room. Chase looked up from his massive desk.

  "How is she?" he asked.

  "A little pale, but Marianne’s a strong woman. She’ll be fine." Jacob remembered Cynthia, another strong woman. He’d never seen fear on her face as he’d seen on Marianne’s when she couldn’t breathe or felt the surge of protectiveness that came over him at the hospital when she’d put her arms around him.

  "Has she returned, yet?"

  Jacob took the chair opposite Clarence. "This morning. I put her on the plane myself." She insisted on returning against his wishes. He knew she was scared and returning alone was her way of dealing with it. He had called her this afternoon and Robyn answered. It was lucky he recognized her voice before he spoke. But Robyn was smart. He wasn’t sure he’d fooled her.

  Clarence picked up the pen in front of him and looked at it for a long time. "What have you found out about the explosion?"

  "The bomb hanging over the door was crude and of no consequence. It was placed there as a decoy to prevent anyone from leaving the room. But the one behind the bar was the work of a professional. The plastic explosive was army-issue and experimental. It was designed to both explode and incinerate, leaving no trace of itself behind. It’s cropped up in several terrorist attacks in recent years."

  "Where do you suppose he got hold of it?"

  "We’re working on that. So far, the only place we’ve come up with is an out of the way air base in northern Canada."

  "Canada?"

  Jacob nodded. "We picked it up during the com­puter search that cross-referenced the blasting caps and the plastic explosive. Apparently, there’s a research unit up there working on thermodynamics." Jacob knew that translated into bomb.

  "Have they discovered any of their supply miss­ing?"

  "Not according to their records, but I have someone checking the physical inventory."

  Clarence nodded his assent, then looked down at the report on his desk. "I’ve read your reports on ac­tivities in the last five years related to the Crime Net­work. Do you believe they are still in operation?"

  "All the evidence points in that direction. Before Jordan was found, the targets were specific and ex­pensive. The unit must have needed money to keep everyone in the elaborate lifestyles they were living. In the past five years, the actions have bordered on revenge. Each of those assassinated, we think, had an association with the other. Several members of the same army unit, three men who were roommates at college, and seven business partners. The list is short but there is a connection. I have the feeling we’re looking for a small group of people or even a single man who’s doing the hits."

  "Any idea who or why?"

  Jacob shook his head, frustration evident in the cast of his shoulders.

  "What of Mrs. Richards?"

  Sitting up straight, he looked directly at the director. "She hasn’t mentioned the photo Marianne brought. Someone could have discovered her identity, and then again it could be a false lead."

  "You think her husband sent it?" Christopher asked.

  "He could have." Jacob shrugged. "We haven’t been able to prevent him from continually seeing her. We gave his service a greater work load, but he still manages to sporadically appear. There was a sale of surplus aircraft scheduled, for next month. After last night’s bombing, I had it moved to this week. He’ll be too busy with it to have time to make trips to Buf­falo."

  Christopher nodded.

  "Do you think he might be of use to us?" Clarence asked.

  "As an unwilling pawn?" Jacob’s brows went up.

  "You don’t like that idea? It’s how we got Mrs. Richards to testify five years ago. And I know you don’t approve of those kind of tactics, but sometimes it’s the only way to get the job done."

  "Maybe," Jacob said. "But if we’d just asked her she might have considered it her civic duty and helped without coercion."

  "We didn’t have time for that. Jordan was well con­nected. As it was, we had to protect her during the investigation.

  "What about resettlement? We could give her a new identity; have her start over. This time her husband could go, too." Christopher suggested.

  "That would be very hard on Kari, her daughter. She’s four."

  "What’s your suggestion? She’s either a target for some unknown assailant or uprooted." Christopher spread his hands. "It’s your call."

  Jacob didn’t want to call this one. He remembered the first time he’d seen Robyn. She had looked like a frightened little bird about to be eaten by a giant cat. But she fought valiantly, if in vain. This time, she had to make the choice. It was her life. Too many people were running it without her knowledge.

  ***

  Marianne was winning. She woke up without the burning pain that had plagued her arms and face. The room was dark, and she knew she’d been asleep a long time. Looking at the small clock with two white cher­ubs on it that Brooke had given her for Christmas two years ago, she found it was after eight o’clock. The crowd at Yesterdays would be spilling onto the porch. She should be there to help Brooke. A shaft of pain in her head as she tried to move warned her not to consider the possibility.

  She raised herself up on her elbows. Pain shot up the back of her skull and threatened to blind her. The pain killers the doctor had given her were sitting on the night table. Suddenly, she remembered Brooke had been there. Brooke had given her the pills, and she’d fallen asleep. She reached for the lamp and turn it on. Her eyes squinted against the brightness that swept over the room.

  Swinging around, she placed her feet on the floor. The pain in her head intensified to white hot. A wave of nausea threatened her, and she remained still until it passed. Gingerly, she stood up and went to the bath­room.

  Brooke heard the movement from downstairs. She’d just finished making another cup of tea. Marianne would certainly be hungry by now. She poured a sec­ond cup and placed both cups on a claw-footed silver tray. She added a plate of the muffins that Grant had dropped by and climbed the stairs to the master bed­room.

  Knocking lightly, she opened the door. Marianne was standing in the bathroom doorway, a paper cup in her hand. "Have you been here all day?" she asked, dropping the yellow flowered cup into the waste-basket.

  "Most of it," Brooke nodded. "Gr
ant came back to make sure you were all right. He told me what hap­pened. I’m so glad you’re going to be all right. But you should have called me. The message Pete took only said you would be a day late in returning. Noth­ing about an accident"

  "I’m sorry," she apologized, knowing Jacob wouldn’t volunteer any details that weren’t absolutely necessary. "The hospital was busy with all the people coming in with minor burns and injuries."

  Actually, she didn’t remember much about the hos­pital. Just Jacob holding her.

  "How do you feel now?" Brooke watched Marianne make her way back to the bed and sit down.

  "I have an awful headache, but my arms don’t hurt anymore." She looked at the bandages that were still on her arms. Underneath, her skin had first and sec­ond degree bums. Most of the covered area was red, and part of it was blistered. She knew it was time to change the dressing. Jacob had wrapped them for her this morning before he took her to the airport.

  "Would you like me to change those?" Brooke ap­peared to read her mind.

  "I brought some gauze back with me. It’s in my suitcase."

  Grant had left the case in the downstairs hall.

  "I’ll get it. Have some tea and muffins. You must be hungry. Would you like me to order you some food?"

  Marianne started to shake her head but the pain stopped her. "The muffins look good."

  "Grant brought them by before he left," she ex­plained.

  "He’s gone, already." Usually, he stayed a few days when he came. She yawned. The pills she’d taken were making her drowsy.

  "Something came up suddenly, and he had to go buy some planes. He didn’t have time to explain it to me."

  Brooke left to get Marianne’s suitcase. Marianne un­derstood Grant’s departure. Jacob was manipulating his presence. The fire bombing had told them that dan­ger was closing in. Grant had to be kept away from Brooke.