Now didn’t he have a big mouth? “I was probably wrong. It’s over, don’t worry about it.” He tried his cell again, knowing there wasn’t magically going to be a signal when there hadn’t been one the last dozen times he’d tried.
Sure enough, no signal.
She said, “Right, I won’t worry my pretty little head about it. You moron.”
He somehow managed a grin over the grinding pain in his head. “No one’s called me a moron since I forgot the condoms and Louise Draper walked out on me.”
“Well, there you go,” she said. “Forget the cell phone. It’s the mountains, and no towers out here, like I said.”
“Okay, then, Parlow, Kentucky, here we come.” He looked once again at Timothy, still unconscious on the backseat, his face ghostly pale. But Timothy was alive, thank God, and Jack just had to keep him that way. At present, that was a pretty big joke—he was nearly ready to fall facedown onto the blacktop.
This was all she needed, Rachael thought, but what else could she do? She couldn’t leave this man here to fend for himself. Okay, so she’d arrive at Slipper Hollow later rather than sooner, no problem. Since Uncle Gillette didn’t know she was coming, he wouldn’t worry. She said, “I don’t think there’s anything more either of us can do except make it to Parlow and get some help.”
“Have you been here before?”
For the barest instant, her face froze before she said, “No, I haven’t.”
He studied her through a haze of pain, watching her hair curtain her face as she looked down, that braid cupping her cheek, then slowly nodded. “It’s okay, I haven’t, either.” He wasn’t stupid, he’d seen the shock of panic in her eyes, heard the lie, and wasn’t that strange? Who cared if she’d been in a little town in Kentucky? He ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it stand on end. “Parlow’s bound to have medical facilities, an ambulance.”
“Seems likely,” she said, and the way she said it—too studied—another lie.
Parlow would have a police chief or a sheriff, Jack thought. He really didn’t want to involve local law enforcement, but given his and Timothy’s current condition, he doubted he’d have a choice.
Walking beside the two-lane road was slow going. Jack was a big man and she had to take a lot of his weight to keep him upright and moving. After twenty steps, Rachael, now panting, said, “Stop a moment.” She leaned him against an oak tree beside the road. “This rest stop is as much for me as it is for you. Okay, okay, we don’t have much farther to go, we can do it.”
“Sorry, I forgot, what’s your name again?”
“Rachael—ah, well, last names aren’t really important, are they?”
His cop antennae flashed red again even though the Devil was pounding nails into his head. At least his leg was hurting a bit less so his brain could function a bit more. He wanted to ask her who she was and what she was afraid of, but he said, “I guess that would depend on why you don’t want to tell me. Do you think I’m going to hit on you and you don’t want me to follow you home?”
Hit on her? Her? “I guess your head injury is making you blind.”
“Oh no, a man is never blind when it comes to a woman. Well, unless he’s dead.”
She laughed, shook her head at him, pushed her hair behind her ear. The braid fell forward to dangle alongside her cheek again. He’d have told her it was sexy, if he’d had the strength. She said, “I saved your bacon—drop it. Well, to be honest here, you saved your own bacon, but then you dropped it and I picked it up. I figure you owe me.”
“Yes, ma’am, I surely do. I wonder if Parlow has a hospital.”
“Oh no—well, who knows? There’s probably a community hospital not far from here. We’ll see, won’t we?”
Got you on that one, kiddo.
“I hope you’re not dangerous,” she said, looking straight ahead, her shoulders and back hurting now from supporting so much of his weight. She looked up to see an amused look on his face. “If you weren’t leaning on me, like a drunk, you would look dangerous with your face all black like a night-ops soldier.”
“Nah,” he said, swallowing down bile and wishing he could simply fall over into those nice soft-looking bushes on the side of the road. No, he had to get help for Timothy, but the dragging pain was pulling him under. Concussion, he knew, remembering too well getting his brains knocked stupid in a college football game. Not pleasant, but he’d get through it.
She said, “Hey, I see a house. We’re nearly there, Jack. Hold on. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me your last name?”
“Nope. Can you help me another fifty yards?”
She was panting hard. “Sure, I was on the high school wrestling team.”
He laughed, the pain in his head flashed hard and hot, and he thought he’d bite the big one right there.
They finally reached the small white house she recognized very well. Two goats eyed them with little interest as they shuffled up the weed-choked drive. She remembered dogs, mongrels, a good half dozen, lazing in the sun. Jack said, “Thank the good Lord, I see phone lines.”
Rachael wanted to tell him not to hold his breath, that in her childhood Mr. Gurt had been known for not paying his bills until his creditors camped on his doorstep.
There’s no way Mr. Gurt will recognize me and blurt out my name, none at all. Trouble is, dammit, I’ve never been a good liar, and from Jack’s reaction, I must really suck at it. I’ve got myself back on track, I’ve got to try to sound honest and straightforward, I’ve got to think before I simply bleat out everything. I can do this, I’ve got to, no choice. If it gets back to them somehow that I’m alive, that I’ve been seen, they’ll come after me again.
Rachael didn’t think there was much likelihood of this happening, but they had such power, so many resources, she was afraid to take the chance. No, she would remain dead until she was ready to take them on. Well, first she had to make sure it was Quincy and Laurel, then she’d get them. As for right now, she was safe. You couldn’t get safer than dead.
Her knock was answered by Mr. Gurt, now a very old man indeed. He was still wearing ancient blue jeans tucked into scuffed army boots. The same ones? He stood in the open doorway and squinted at them out of suspicious old eyes that didn’t have a hint of recognition. Thank you, God, thank you, God.
But how could he not recognize her when he looked exactly the same to her, down to the sour look on his seamed old face? She looked into those rheumy eyes and realized he had no clue who she was.
“Yeah? What do you two want?”
Seems pretty obvious to me, you old coot, she thought, but since Jack was hanging on by a thread, she pushed her hair back from her face and said, “We’ve had an accident. Could we use your phone? We left our friend unconscious in the car. He’s hurt pretty bad.”
“What’d your husband do, missus, drink too much and drive you off the road?”
“Actually, he fell out of the sky at my feet. Please, sir?”
Mr. Gurt huffed, waved them in. Well, this was something. As a kid, she’d been in his house only once, with her mother, to bring Mr. Gurt Christmas cookies.
They stepped into deep shadows and smelled oatmeal and vanilla. She heard a dragging sound that had her heart galloping until she saw a very fat pug trotting toward them, his leash clamped in his mouth, the leather strap dragging along the floor.
“Don’t get yourself in a dither, Marigold, and don’t piddle on the floor. Let’s get the folks on the phone, then I’ll take you out.” He led them into a living room where the smell of fresh lemon wafted in the air. Every surface was covered with old-fashioned lace doilies and antimacassars, yellow with age. He said, “Marigold hates the outdoors, weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Just doing her business makes her nervous so I gotta be with her. Even Oswald and Ruby scare her.”
“Oswald and Ruby?” Rachael asked.
“Two goats chewing on God-knows-what in the front yard. There’s the phone. I paid the bill no more than six weeks ago so the b
uggers can’t have turned it off yet. I threatened to get me one of them newfangled cellular phones, but the gal at the phone company laughed, said there might not be a signal here until the middle of the century, aeons after I’m croaked. Don’t do no long distance, all right? Marigold, hold your water, I’m coming.”
Jack took the phone out of her hand. “I’m sorry, but this is priority.” He dialed Savich’s cell.
“Savich here.”
“Savich, it’s Jack.”
There was a brief pause. “Jack, let me say it is very good to hear your voice. You okay?”
“A little banged up, but I’ll live.”
“Dr. MacLean?”
“He’s unconscious, smacked his head good when he fell. He’s got a gash on his chest and I think a couple of broken ribs. We had to leave him in the backseat of Rachael’s car. We’re in Parlow, Kentucky, close to the Virginia border.”
“Who’s Rachael?”
“She watched me bring the plane in, helped me get it together.” He looked over at her as he spoke. She was twisting the skinny braid.
“All right. It turns out Parlow is where we’re heading, that was where they marked your mayday.”
“That’s a helicopter rotor I hear. Where are you?”
“We left Quantico fifteen minutes ago. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to you. Bobby’s heading to a private airfield owned by a Judge Hardesty just off Route 72, close to Parlow. There’ll be a car waiting for us there so we’ll be able to get around. Now, let me give you over to Sherlock before she rips the phone out of my hand.”
“Jack? It’s Sherlock. Mr. Maitland called us around seven-thirty this morning, said you went down—you bozo, do you swear to me you’re okay?”
Jack smiled. “Oh yeah, an angel saved me, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s Timothy. He could be badly hurt. Like I told Savich, he’s lying unconscious in Rachael’s car, which is broken down on the side of the road. We had to leave him there to get help.”
“All right, I’ll make a call, set up getting him medevaced to the closest trauma center. I’ll get back to you. Jack, please tell me there was some sort of mechanical malfunction.”
He was aware that Rachael was studying his face, listening to every word he said. He said only, “Very probably not.”
Savich came back on. “Okay, we’ll figure it out. I’ll call Mr. Maitland. He’ll get an expert out there to take a look at the plane. You need a doctor, don’t you? Wait, Sherlock’s got the medevac people, and they need to know exactly where Dr. MacLean is. Jack, you there?”
Jack felt his brain wafting away, and what was worse, he welcomed it. “Sherlock? I guess you’d best have Rachael tell you.”
Rachael took the phone from Jack and watched him collapse into one of the ancient, nubby gray easy chairs. She listened, then told the woman the location of her car, adding, “I’m very glad you’re coming because Jack needs help. As he told you, my car broke down, so we’re walking. We’ll meet you in whatever medical facility they have in Parlow. He’s got a concussion, he thinks, and his leg was hurt by a piece of debris from the plane. I’ll stay with him until you get here.”
“Thank you very much for helping him. We’re still a couple of hours away. What’s your name?”
But Rachael had hung up. Jack was barely conscious.
SIX
Parlow Clinic
Rosy Bill Avenue
Monday morning
Dr. Post straightened as Nurse Harmon ushered a man and a woman into the small examining room.
Sherlock stood in the doorway, staring at Jack, who was stretched out on his back with a sheet pulled to his waist, his shirt hanging open. A young woman was leaning over him, her long hair hiding her profile, carefully soaping the black off his face. There was a braid hanging down from her side part.
“Jack?” Sherlock took a quick step forward.
“Is that you, Sherlock? You look hot in that black leather jacket. Excuse me, but I’m not really with it,” and his eyes closed.
Dr. Post said, “Don’t worry, he’s asleep again, mostly from the medication. Let’s let him rest, all right?”
Sherlock drew a deep breath, smiled at the doctor. “I’m Agent Sherlock, this is Agent Savich, FBI. And this is Agent Jackson Crowne.”
“I know. He was awake enough to tell me when I found them on my doorstep.”
The woman standing over Jack straightened. “I’m Rachael,” she said. “I’ve been helping Jack.” She didn’t say another word. When Jack had identified himself to Dr. Post, she knew she was cursed. This was all she needed. And now there were three feds, all in the same small room with her.
Sherlock asked Dr. Post, “Tell us exactly what’s wrong with him.”
Dr. Post said, “He’s got a concussion and he isn’t going to feel too happy about it for a while. We don’t have an MRI in town, but the CAT scan didn’t show any abnormalities.
“He had a nice gash on his leg, but he was lucky, didn’t hit anything major, just needed some of my pretty stitches. I’ve put him on antibiotics and some pain meds. I’d like to let him rest for a while, but he should be all right. I’d like to keep him overnight, to make sure nothing else develops.
“I’ve invested lots of time in him and I don’t want him to leave the clinic and collapse on his face, undo any of my excellent work.”
Dr. Post looked curiously at the two FBI agents, who looked so relieved they were ready to high-five him.
“I guess you guys work together? Maybe you’re here on a case?”
Savich said, “Yes.”
Dr. Post pointed at Rachael. “She told me she isn’t his wife.”
Sherlock said, “No, she isn’t, but he’s going to think I’m his mother when he wakes up, because I’m going to chew his butt for scaring us so badly.”
Dr. Post laughed. “Okay, are you going to tell me what’s happening? The reason I’m asking is right after these two staggered into my clinic, I heard an ambulance heading through town, sirens blasting. Is someone else hurt?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Thank you for taking care of him.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Post.
Savich looked at Rachael. “So you’re Jack’s savior.”
Rachael still couldn’t believe it. FBI agents, all three of them. When she and Jack had stumbled up the steps to the clinic, Dr. Post was unlocking the front door, balancing a cup of coffee in his free hand. Jack had pulled out his ID and flashed it to the startled doctor.
And she thought again, why couldn’t Jack have been a nice rent-a-pilot? No, he was an FBI agent, a fed whose bosses could be all chummy with Quincy and Laurel, who might be bought or influenced, defer to them because of their power—no, she wasn’t going there. They believe I’m dead. They’ve got to keep believing that.
As long as these three federal agents didn’t find out her full name, she was safe, she’d be okay. She’d still be dead.
She knew every bureaucracy leaked like a sieve, the FBI included. No, she’d be very careful, she’d lie well, a novel experience for her. She smiled. “I’m Rachael.”
Savich said, “I understand you watched Agent Crowne’s plane come down and you helped both Jack and Dr. MacLean.” He stepped forward, stuck out his hand. “We’d like to thank you for seeing to them, Ms. . . .”
I’m the most fluent liar in the world, I’m the coolest, the smoothest—“Rachael Abercrombie.”
A lie, Savich thought, and wasn’t that strange? He said, smiling at her, “Yes, thank you, Ms. Abercrombie. The medevac took Dr. MacLean to Franklin County Hospital about twenty minutes ago. We don’t know his condition yet. I called your sheriff.”
“Oh no, he’s not my sheriff, Agent Savich. I’ve never been to Parlow before. I’m only passing through.”
Savich nodded, but his head cocked to the side, and he studied her face closely. Looking at that small clever braid, he decided Sherlock would look very sexy with one. “Well then
, we’re all strangers here. Hopefully the sheriff will come soon.”
Dr. Post saw the big tough-looking man look down at—of all things—a Mickey Mouse watch, and frown.
“We owe you big-time, Ms. Abercrombie,” said Sherlock.
“Oh no, please,” said Rachael, “Jack saved both of them. He pulled Dr. MacLean out of the plane before it exploded. I didn’t do all that much—call me the mule.”
Dr. Post said, “Deliah—that’s Nurse Harmon—told me Dougie—that’s Sheriff Hollyfield—had a septic tank problem this morning and that’s why he’s running a bit late. But he’ll get here, he always does.” He looked at them all closely. “I’ve never met any FBI agents before.”
Sherlock said, “He eats Cheerios for breakfast with our son, Sean,” and smiled. “I eat a slice of wheat toast with crunchy peanut butter.”
Dr. Post laughed. “Just plain folk? Maybe, but not to me. The two of you, you’re both FBI agents and you’re married, and you work together?”
“That’s right,” Savich said.
Dr. Post picked up Jack’s gun, which was sitting on top of the counter, next to his dirty, ripped slacks. “My dad owned a Kimber Gold Match 11. It’s a fine gun.”
“Agent Crowne believes it’s efficient,” Savich said easily, and held out his hand. Dr. Post gave him the Kimber, butt first.
“A ten-round magazine?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “And one in the pipe for eleven rounds at your fingertips.”
Rachael tuned them out. She looked hungrily at the gun now in Agent Savich’s hand. She’d wanted to steal it the moment she’d seen Dr. Post unclip it from Jack’s belt, but now it was too late. She couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t noticed it earlier, felt it, for heaven’s sake, when she was walking beside him, supporting his weight. It had been a rather hectic morning. She didn’t need a gun. All she needed to do was to keep her head. These agents had no idea who she was, where she lived, what she was doing when she’d come across Jack, and she had no intention of telling them anything. She had to remain anonymous, she had to remain dead. At least the two agents were focused on Jack.
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 35