by Gayle Lynds
Sweat streamed down the woman's cheeks, and a vein throbbed in her forehead. Her heavy-browed face was angry and . . . afraid. She had seen something in Beth that frightened her, just as the people at Renae Trucking had.
As the faint sound of a siren appeared in the distance, urgency filled Beth. She had to decide—now. "You'll die. But it won't be by me." Beth kicked her in the jaw just hard enough. The woman's head snapped back, and she went limp, unconscious. Beth turned.
Hammond, who was frisking the man at the bottom of the steps, glanced up at her with compassion in his dark eyes. "You could've shot her. You wanted to."
His sympathy surprised her. "True. But now you can have all of them for questioning."
"That's thoughtful of you." He liked the way she had handled herself, and whatever inner demon had gripped her seemed gone, at least for the time being. She was a strange woman, much more complex than he was comfortable with. "So you decided not to jump ship. I figured you'd be gone by the time I got back, seeing as how you think I'm such a blood-fevered murderer."
"You aren't? Oh. Well, I'm glad you explained that."
"Right." He shot her a curious glance and moved on to go through the pockets of the others.
"You'll have to check out what I found in the station wagon in those black boxes," she continued. "Very interesting. A lot better than this haul." She was examining the pocket contents he had left on the steps. There were no driver's licenses, passports, credit cards, nothing to identify the downed attackers.
"We'll take the woman," he decided. "She's lightest. When she wakes up—"
That was when another silenced shot whined over their heads. He jerked with tension, and with one thick arm he knocked Convey over and dropped flat. He pointed his gun down toward the bottom landing, but there was no one in sight.
"Hey," she complained. She had landed in a fetal position and was lodged at the side of the staircase, all curves and strain. It renewed her aches and pains, and for a stunned second she felt paralyzed.
He glanced at her. Her face was furious. Worry swept through him as he studied the landing, waiting for the next shot. The unconscious woman moaned. The man at the foot of the steps twitched. The three could wake up any time. In the background, sirens were yelping closer. He grabbed the pistol of the man lying closest to them, which gave him two weapons. The other pistol, the one belonging to the attacker who was crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, was still down there, near his slack hand. The man twitched again, slowly regaining consciousness.
"We've got to get out of here," Hammond told her. "Dammit—"
"I know. You wanted the woman so we could ask questions."
He liked the sound of we. He spoke quickly, "Professionals on stakeouts like this tend to work in pairs. We have three here. Number four was out there somewhere. I managed to forget that point. And now he thinks he's nailed us. I'll hold him off." He threw keys at her. "Get the car. We'll have to forget about taking the woman with us."
She caught the key ring in midair. It stung her palm. She almost told him to get the damn car himself. Then she shrugged. "Be right back."
He nodded as he focused below, waiting for a weapon, a hand, anything to show. He heard her leave, small shoe-sounds on the cement steps. She had a light tread. But the man below must have heard, too. He rolled across in a blur, and two shots rang out—high, aimed not at him but at Convey.
Hammond shot back, missed. But at least he had stopped the man from firing more. When he glanced over his shoulder, Convey was gone, and there was no blood on the steps.
Just then another bullet sang past his ear. The unconscious man at the bottom of the steps had awakened. Fury torqued his grizzled face, and he held his gun in a shaking hand. A loaded gun in an unsteady hand could still be lethal, and there were now two men firing at Hammond. The woman and last man could wake up any second, too. These were not good odds.
As the man below squeezed off another bullet, Hammond ducked back. Convey must be in the car by now and on her way to pick him up—if she were coming at all. One way or the other, it was time to get out of there. He rose on one knee, returned rapid fire to pin them down, and bolted up the steps. As he reached the top, shots exploded furiously behind him, and he dove for the safety of the sidewalk. He rolled, came up on his feet running, and saw with relief that the station wagon was heading toward him.
Convey slowed as she reached him. He yanked open the door and jumped in as more shots exploded and pedestrians scrambled, screaming on the sidewalk. She stomped the accelerator, and the station wagon leaped ahead, nearly running down two panicked walkers, then skidded around a corner and straightened to roar onward.
She glanced at him. "Thought I wouldn't come, didn't you?"
He pushed himself up into a sitting position beside her. "It crossed my mind."
"You need to trust more." She bit back a smile.
Hammond grinned, relieved. "No kidding." He paused. "Something odd . . . I know the local Russian community well, but I've run into only one of those four, back when he was tailing me last spring. So where have they been? Who's been hiding them?"
The station wagon was filled with tension as she drove them south. Not wanting to attract any more attention, she stayed exactly at the speed limit. She scrutinized the street and sidewalks, waiting for someone to spot the rusty station wagon or Hammond's face. He wore his baseball cap low, but still he was recognizable to anyone who looked closely.
They talked. It was as if a wall had suddenly collapsed, and their words spilled on top of one another's.
"I told you about me," he said. "Now what about you? What were you doing at Meteor Express?"
"It's a long story."
"Begin at the beginning. I want to know everything."
She glanced sideways at him. "You may not believe this. I'm not certain I do. And, of course, I could be completely wrong. . . ." She described her death at the courthouse, her heart transplant, and all the apparent "cellular memories" that followed. "Do you recognize these lines: 'If you love, then love without reason. If you threaten, don't threaten in play?' "
He thought. "They're familiar. But I can't place them."
"Considering your background, I was hoping you'd know." She sighed. "My doctor said it was all nonsense."
"You don't believe it was caused by the medication and lifestyle changes?"
"Not anymore." She described dialing the phone number and the Russian voice at what turned out to be Meteor Express. "Do you know who could've answered?"
"Not offhand. That's why you went there that night?"
"Yes. I told you about finding Colonel Yurimengri." She turned the station wagon west onto Roosevelt bridge, heading into Virginia. The Friday afternoon traffic was moderate, not yet the high-tide time for Washington residents to flood out to Virginia's woodsy retreats or for tourists to jam into the capital for a weekend of plays, concerts, sightseeing, and cherry blossoms in radiant bloom.
He nodded, but his eyes never stopped moving as he watched for trouble. "You must've been surprised to find out his name really was Yurimengri. I'll go you one better: His friends called him Yuri." Beneath them, the Potomac River spread wide and metallic green, shining in the sunlight. A yacht sailed out from under the bridge, heading north, its white sails unfurled. In the cars and trucks near them, no one indicated any particular interest.
"Terrific. That just adds to my slide into believing the impossible—that I've inherited memories from my donor." She hesitated. "I can't believe I just said that."
It sounded like complete nonsense to him. "Seems pretty incredible."
"Agreed. But then lately we've changed our opinions about a lot of things we thought were true. Take genes, which we used to believe were static. Now we know they jump around. We used to think the ground was solid. Nope. It drifts in slow motion, and continents collide and divide. Species we'd listed as extinct are showing up in the oddest places. Remember when scientists pooh-poohed the idea viruses caused ulcers or hea
rt disease? I used to think if I couldn't see it, taste it, or touch it, it didn't exist. Well, God got even with me. I'm learning a lot of lessons here."
He smiled. "I'd say you've had to rethink a few things."
"Oh, yes. One of the main reasons I exist is to learn humility."
"And have you?"
"Big time. Never again will I say never."
He glanced at her profile. She was watching the bridge traffic as she drove. Her face was tense, her eyes vigilant. Beneath it all was intelligence, a driving force that kept asking questions while remaining restless with the answers. Suddenly she turned and smiled at him. It was as if winter had turned into spring. She was beautiful. And he saw something new in her—a childlike curiosity and sense of amusement at herself that was enchanting.
"You're looking at me," she accused.
"I'm waiting for you to go on. So what happened after you reported Colonel Yurimengri's murder to the Virginia police?"
She told him about returning to the law firm too late for her meeting with Michelle Philmalee.
"Back up," he said. "Who's she?"
"Michelle was the client I was representing in the courthouse when I had the heart attack. Then while I had to stay home for a year to recover, the firm's managing partner assigned another attorney to represent her. That was Phil Stageman, the man you saw at my house. They fell in love. . . . "
"That guy who acted like he owned you was the boyfriend of both of you?"
"Sequentially. You have a problem with that?"
He chuckled. "No. But I'll bet you did. Michelle, too."
"It's a common mistake women make, confusing good looks and brains with other human characteristics. Men never make that mistake. Their big one is assuming legs and breasts are the foundation for a lasting relationship."
"Touché."
She started to smile. Instead her throat tightened. "There's a police car behind us."
Hammond dipped his head and looked back under the bill of his Orioles cap. "He's staring at us."
"Great." They were approaching the end of the bridge, where there were several routes from which to choose. "I've got an idea." Since they were in one of the middle lanes, the police would not know for certain which route she would take. Around them traffic was slowing in response to the sight of the police. "He's still with us. What's he waiting for? Why doesn't he turn on his beacons?"
Hammond was worried. "Ask, and ye shall receive. He's just flicked them on."
Pressure built in the station wagon as the police car closed in, its lights flashing. Around them, other drivers stared. Hammond's rugged face was taut. Beth felt herself start to squirm, and then her cool composure returned. It was almost as if she were going into court again with a losing case. Or stuck at a negotiating table with the worst of the lawless, domineering oligarchs. She knew how to do this, she told herself. She could get them out of this.
27
As the police car's siren screamed, Beth swung the station wagon to the right at the last minute between a pickup and a sedan, cutting so close she could feel their drafts pull at the wagon. Then before the police car could follow, she swerved the wagon off the bridge and took the exit onto Route 50 toward the Iwo Jima war memorial. She pulled in between two pickups and dropped her speed. With luck, the police car had hurtled onward toward Route 66.
Hammond was holding on to his door handle. She glanced at him once, saw his face had paled. He growled, "Mario Andretti . . . meet Beth Convey." He looked back. "He's still there, but he's a good quarter-mile behind."
Grimly she angled the wagon off into Rosslyn's busy streets, rushed ahead through intersections, until at last she rounded a corner, and another, and spun back onto Route 50, again heading west, away from downtown Washington.
Hammond stretched his arm across the seat top and turned again, staring back soberly. "The cop's gone. God knows where he is, but you can bet he's alerted the Virginia police. Where did you learn to drive like that?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe I've always known."
He took a deep breath. "We've got to get rid of this station wagon. Every policeman from Richmond to Baltimore's going to be looking for us."
"We could rent or borrow one."
"Can't borrow. Not a good plan." He described the people who had been watching his condo, the Post, and the Kennedy Center, where his uncle worked. "My guess is our friends and usual acquaintances are all being watched. We don't want to put them in danger. And renting is asking for trouble, too. We'd have to use a credit card. That's too easy to trace, not only by law enforcement but by anyone with the connections that the people we're up against seem to have."
She was silent. Uneasiness swept through her. "I knew they were killers. But I had no idea they had such organization."
"Get used to it," he said roughly. "We're not going to be safe anywhere. If we live to see daybreak, we'll have accomplished something." Mentally he ran through his short list of friends and relatives, trying to find one he thought might be safe. He considered his fellow reporters at the Post, but the few he was close to would be watched. As for his former girlfriends, no way. And of course, unless he wanted to give up, the FBI and Bobby Kelsey were out. The more he weighed how few options he had, the more disturbed he was. This was payback for the isolation of all the years of his undercover life.
As they continued west on Route 50, she told him about quitting the law firm, returning home to sort out her life, and her decision to visit Stephanie Smith for information about cellular memory.
When she reached the part where Stephanie's car went out of control and burst into flames, her voice broke. "Sorry."
"Must have been awful for you. It's amazing you survived."
She nodded silently.
"One thing you've got to understand, Beth. May I call you Beth? Convey seems a little ridiculous now, although you may prefer Ms. Convey. What do you think?"
She was taken aback. He was so formal. "Beth's fine."
"Good. Call me Jeff. Now that we've got that out of the way, let me give you a tip. I told you that you didn't know what you'd gotten into, and the truth is I don't know, either. Whoever's behind all this seems to be a lot better than the usual incompetents who break the law. You were damn lucky to get out alive. You can't feel responsible for Dr. Smith's death. The killers are responsible."
"I tell myself that."
It was his turn to nod. The space between knowing intellectually and convincing your emotions could seem insurmountable. So he simply said, "Go on."
She recounted her return home and her decision to try to find the address from her nightmares.
"And did you?"
"Yes, unfortunately. Or fortunately, depending on your view." She told him about breaking into Alexei Berianov's house in Chevy Chase, searching his office, discovering his utility bills, and finding newspaper and magazine clippings.
"A bill from a company in Stone Point?" Jeff was excited. With one big hand he grabbed her shoulder bag from the backseat. "I want to read what you found."
"Wish you could, but the bill and clipping are gone." She described the stranger who had attacked and tied her up. "When I awoke, he'd loosened my ropes, and I was able to get free easily. But apparently he took the clipping and bill with him."
"Odd. Tell me about them."
As they sped past the Seven Corners shopping mall with its big Home Depot and Best Buy stores, she described the bill from the tile company in Stone Point. "It was addressed to someone named Caleb Bates."
"Bates owns a big piece of property above Stone Point. Runs a hunt club there." His broad face was intent, a study of fissures and planes. "Describe the ad."
"It was publicizing a dairy farm for sale near Gettysburg. There was a photo of a lovely old colonial-style mansion." She repeated the address.
He thought about everything he had heard about Caleb Bates's hunt club, about the extensive fencing that had caused locals to speculate about Bates's wealth, and about the hunters who had visited
the club over the past three years. He had heard they were close-mouthed and kept to themselves. But that could describe the locals, too.
That was when a fundamental question occurred to him: If it were a hunt club, why the fencing? Bates and his fellow sportsmen would surely have wanted game that could roam freely, unless they had something to hide, like exotic animals being kept for special shoots. But he doubted that. If exotic game was being kept so close to town, someone would have known, and he would have heard the gossip.
No, there had to be some other reason for the fencing. And now, because the clipping was found in Berianov's house, there was a connection between Bates and Berianov. That alone was important.
He decided, "I need to go there."
"Where? West Virginia? Are you crazy? You're wanted for murder in West Virginia."
"No. To Pennsylvania. It's our best lead."
"Makes sense."
He watched her as she slowed the station wagon to pass through historic Falls Church, notorious for its speed traps. Some kind of new emotion swept over him. He had seen her for the first time only two days ago, and he really wanted to get to know her better. He liked her brain, her looks, her determination. In fact, he liked her so much he was willing to overlook her being a lawyer. He was glad he had saved her, and he was glad they were now riding side by side in this ramshackle car, surveying for trouble. Although he could do without the trouble.
But he refused to put her at risk again. It was too distracting. Too hard on him. "Do you have someplace you can stay while I check out the dairy farm? Someplace safe, where no one would think to look?"
She frowned. "What are you talking about? No way are you going to do anything or go anywhere without me. I've gone through hell to get this far. I'm the one who told you about the clippings. If you think it's worth going to Pennsylvania because of them, I'm going, too. Remember, I'm the one in the driver's seat. Where I come from in California, we call that wheel control."