Veil of Fear

by Judi Lind

  He pulled the paper from her hands and read it aloud. “You have ignored my warnings. This is your last chance. If you want to live beyond your wedding, you must listen to me. Meet me tonight, at midnight, at the Lincoln Memorial. To ignore this warning is to accept death.”

  Like the others, the words were cut from magazines and the message was unsigned.

  Mary grabbed Trace’s wrist. “What do you think this means?”

  “It means he thinks we’re really stupid. Obviously, this is a trap. What we need to do now is call the Metro P.D. and let them show up in our place at midnight tonight.”

  “No,” Mary said. “He’s too smart to fall for that. If he sees a bunch of cops, he won’t show himself.”

  “They’ll find him, don’t worry.”

  “But what if they don’t? What if he gets away again? What will he do next time? This may be our only chance to get this guy, Trace. We have to go for it.”

  “Are you crazy? Hold a midnight assignation with a man who has made repeated threats against your life? No way, Mary. I can’t go along with that.”

  Once again, that normally well-hidden inner core of steely resolve surfaced in Mary’s voice. “Suit yourself. Whether you go with me or not doesn’t change a thing. At midnight tonight, I’ll be waiting at the Lincoln Memorial.”

  Proving only that he could be just as stubborn as she was, Trace slammed his lips closed and refused to utter another word. They rode in silence down to their temporary home on the seventh floor.

  The red light was blinking on the telephone. The desk clerk told Trace that a Mr. Tobias had called and left the message that “the subject was clean.” With a snarl of frustration, Trace dropped the receiver back onto the base. If the FBI couldn’t dig up anything on Robert Newland, that meant there was nothing to be dug up.

  Of course, the fact that Newland had no criminal background didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t be the stalker. Plenty of criminals got a late start in life.

  Still, the lack of any background material to support his theory only added to Trace’s lousy mood. He parked himself in an easy chair in the sitting area while Mary busied herself in the bedroom, both of them intent on keeping their distance.

  When the phone rang, she picked it up in the bedroom. Her voice rose excitedly as she spoke with Jonathan, intensifying Trace’s already dark mood. Although he picked up the newspaper and made an elaborate pretense of ignoring Mary’s conversation, his subconscious kept listening for the terms of endearment one might expect to hear when an engaged couple are separated.

  With a self-directed curse, Trace snapped the paper closed and dropped it onto the floor. What was he doing anyway, wasting his time worrying about another man’s intended? He’d been hired to accompany Mary when she left the hotel. That’s what he’d do. If she was either crazy enough or suicidal enough to want to tangle with a would-be murderer on the mean streets of Washington at midnight, it wasn’t his business to dissuade her.

  His business was to keep her from harm, and by damn, that’s what he’d do. They’d make that appointment, Trace vowed, and he’d be right by her side with his gun drawn. With any luck whatsoever, this whole thing would be over, one way or another, shortly after midnight. Tomorrow, Trace would be shed of Mary Wilder and his own senseless emotional entanglement with her. He’d go back to his solitary, but uncomplicated life having relearned a valuable lesson: never get emotionally involved with a client.

  A moment later, Mary wandered into the living room. She’d changed into a pair of black jeans and matching turtleneck jersey. Her shoulder-length blond hair was swept up in some kind of knot and she carried a dark knit cap. Without preamble, she said, “That was Jonathan on the phone.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s coming home day after tomorrow.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “He agreed with you, by the way.”

  “Oh?”

  Mary nodded, seemingly undismayed by Trace’s lack of interest. “He didn’t think I should go tonight, either.”

  Trace cocked his head. “You two are a good match. At least one of you has some common sense.”

  “Sulking doesn’t become you.”

  “And I doubt lying on a slab in the morgue will do much for your appearance, either.”

  Mary stalked across the room and stood before him, her fists thrust on her hips in that defiant stance Trace had once thought endearing. Tonight, she just looked obstinate.

  She glared at him for a long moment. “Look. We’re arguing over a dead issue.”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Maybe. But true, nonetheless. I don’t feel like bickering. It’s giving me a headache.”

  “Me, too,” Trace admitted glumly. “Either that or we’re both starving to death. We forgot to eat lunch.”

  Holding out her hand, Mary said, “Then let’s call it a truce, shall we? Come on, let’s go have Chinese. I’ll buy.”

  Trace stood and solemnly shook her hand. “Deal.” He glanced at his watch. It was already after seven. “Give me a minute to change clothes.”

  Following Mary’s lead, Trace also put on dark clothing. When he took her elbow and led the way to the elevator, she broke the tension that was still hovering between them. “We look like a couple of cat burglars. I hope we don’t get arrested.”

  It was a wonderfully balmy evening, so they walked to a nearby Chinese restaurant for dinner. Although their initial conversation was still uptight and stilted, they managed to relax somewhat during the course of their meal. By the time they finished their last cup of green tea, Mary and Trace were back on wary but friendly terms.

  He looked at his watch again. “It’s just a little after nine. We have three hours to kill, but I’d rather go back to the hotel for the car and head over to the memorial.”

  Mary nodded. “Stake out the scene?”

  “Sort of. If we can find a spot with good concealment, we can be waiting for him—instead of the other way around. I’d like to at least have the element of surprise on our side.”

  She tossed her napkin on the table and returned her fortune cookie to her plate. “Let’s go.”

  “Aren’t you going to read your fortune first?”

  Biting her lower lip, she shook her head decisively. “What if it tells me this is a good night for me to curl up in bed with a good book?”

  “I can see where that might spoil your fun.”

  Mary’s eyes slitted in warning. “Don’t start with me, Armstrong. This isn’t a game to me, and you know it. It’s my life. You can get off your cute butt and come help me, or not. But I’m going to see this through.”

  He rose to his feet with a sigh and broke open his own fortune cookie. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he said as he read the message on the scrap of paper and tossed the scrap on the table.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what it says?”

  “Sure. It said this would be a good night for me to curl up in bed with a good woman. I don’t suppose you’d volunteer?”

  “You wish, Armstrong.”

  “Never hurts to ask. So, you really think I have a cute butt?” he teased as he led the way from the restaurant.

  They continued their good-natured banter as they walked back toward the hotel. Hardly aware of his actions, Trace wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and drank in her intoxicating nearness. He was only fooling himself with her temporary proximity, but he didn’t care. Just for tonight, he’d pretend Jonathan Regent didn’t exist, and that Mary’s wedding date wasn’t looming on the horizon.

  A sudden breeze blew a silky strand of her hair against his face and Trace gloried in its crisp, clean scent. When she reached up and casually smoothed her hair away, he felt bereft, as if she’d taken something precious from him.

  Using more self-control than he’d ever imagined he possessed, Trace forced himself to return his attention to their surroundings.

  Traffic was heavy on the busy thoroughfare. Friday nig
ht. The city was out en masse, seeking entertainment and release from the tensions of daily life. Sleek black limos cruised the boulevard, shielding their occupants from the curious eyes of the riffraff on the streets.

  As they continued to walk, Trace gradually became aware that the weather had changed dramatically while they were dining. The atmosphere was tense, still. The temperature had risen dramatically, as had the humidity. A storm was coming and its electrical energy was already charging the air.

  Trace moved closer to Mary. Danger was also crackling through the airwaves. He could feel its fingers pinching his flesh, crawling up his spine.

  Someone was watching them.

  Carefully, so as not to frighten Mary, Trace eased his arm from her shoulder. Using slow, deliberate movements, he scrutinized the surrounding area and the passersby, his eyes seeking someone who would be staring back.

  Perhaps feeling the tension emanating from his body, Mary asked in a low voice, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Just a feeling. Keep walking and don’t look around. We’re only two blocks from the hotel. We’ll make it.”

  Mary didn’t answer, but increased her pace fractionally.

  They were only a block from the hotel, when Trace saw him. Across the street, sitting on a wooden bench in the small park, ball cap thrust low over his face.

  “Stay here!” Trace shouted to Mary as he pulled his gun and ran to the corner.

  He had to wait for a break in the near-solid line of traffic before he could cross the street. As he dashed across the blacktop, dodging honking cars, Trace was amazed to see his quarry hadn’t moved. Surely, with all the commotion, the man saw him coming.

  Once he reached the sidewalk on the other side, Trace picked up speed. With only a dozen long strides, he approached the park bench. The man sat, hunched over, unmoving.

  Thrusting his gun back into his shoulder holster, Trace grabbed the man by the shirtfront and yanked him to his feet.

  Shaking the man with all the rage he’d been storing inside, Trace said between gritted teeth, “All right, you miserable SOB. Start talking, and don’t stop or I swear I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp. Why have you been following Mary Wilder?”

  The man moved then, tilting his head upward. “Careful, bub, don’t break my bottle. What’re ya so worked up about? I’ll let you have a drop—got plenty.”

  Suddenly, Trace smelled the liquor that permeated the man like a vile, alcoholic aura. Still holding him by the shirt, Trace dragged him out under the streetlight. The ball cap was the familiar bright purple with the gold insignia of a howling wolf. But the face...the man’s face was seamed with the lines and wrinkles of a lifetime of pain and booze. He held a brown paper parcel protectively against his chest and looked at Trace with red-rimmed, watery blue eyes.

  Trace had just busted a drunk. A derelict. The old guy was nothing but a street bum.

  But...but the hat was the same.

  Frowning in confusion, Trace gave the drunk another, but much gentler shake. “Where’d you get that cap, old-timer?”

  Still clutching his paper-wrapped bottle against his chest, the wino slowly reached upward with his free hand. “You ain’t gonna take my new hat, are ya? A fella just give it to me.”

  Releasing his grip on his shirt, Trace patted the old man on the shoulder. “No, pal, I’m not going to take your hat. Mind telling me who gave it to you?”

  The drunk swiveled on wobbly legs and pointed to a stand of evergreens on the edge of the park. “Fella over there give it to me. And this bottle, too!” He held the paper-wrapped package aloft like a trophy.

  Trace scanned the edge of the woods, but no movement broke the stillness in the bushes. A sudden flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky, followed seconds later by a lazy rumble of far-off thunder. The storm was moving in.

  Forcing his attention back on the derelict, Trace pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet and waved it in front of the old man. “What did this guy want you to do? What did he look like?”

  The old man’s eyes glittered at the sight of the bill. “Looked like everybody else. Give me this hat, though. And a bottle, see?”

  The old man was quickly losing his focus. “You already showed me,” Trace said. “Why was this guy so nice to you? What did you have to do for him to be so nice?”

  The drunk shrugged, and nearly toppled over. Trace caught him and led him back to the bench. Once the man had settled in his seat, he uncapped the bottle and took a long draft. “Just told me to sit here with this here hat on until I’d finished my drinking. Never met a nicer fella.”

  Trace frowned. It didn’t make sense. But then, nothing about this case had made sense.

  He was still pondering the meaning of the old man’s story, when a piercing shriek sounded over the roaring traffic, immediately followed by the terrifying sound of screeching brakes.

  Mary! Dear God, he’d forgotten about Mary.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Although one scream tends to sound like any other, Trace knew deep in his soul that it was Mary’s frightened voice that had shattered the night.

  He was already darting through traffic, when another spear of lightning jabbed through the sky. For one brief, awful instant, the tableau on the sidewalk was lit up like a stage drama. A city bus was parked, cockeyed, near the curb where a small crowd had gathered beneath a light pole and was staring at something—or someone—on the ground.

  The quaking roar of thunder echoed the shudder of fear that rippled down his spine.

  Finally, he reached the opposite side of the street and ran toward the cluster of onlookers. Nearly a dozen people had gathered, including the uniformed bus driver. Several of his passengers were leaning out the window, silently watching the unfolding drama as though it were a television program.

  After shouldering his way through the crowd, feeling all the while as though he’d been sucker-punched in the gut, Trace stared in shaken disbelief at Mary’s prone figure huddled on the sidewalk.

  “Mary? Honey? Stand back, everybody! Give her some air.” He flailed the air with his arms, as he made his way through the throng to drop to his knees at Mary’s side.

  Her eyes were closed and she was pale, ghastly pale.

  Knowing he was breaking every first-aid rule in the book, Trace nevertheless was powerless to stop himself from gently gathering her in his arms, tucking her head against his pounding chest. “Oh, Mary, talk to me,” he murmured against the golden softness of her hair.

  To his disbelieving delight, her eyes fluttered open and a gentle smile curved the sweetness of her lips. “Why should I talk to you?” she asked in a weak voice. “You never listen, anyway.”

  A sudden stinging sensation, followed by a glistening in his eyes reminded Trace of the intensity of his relief. And broke him free from the horrific emotional maelstrom he’d been battling since he’d heard her cry and that horrifying squeal of brakes.

  Keeping his voice soft so as not to alarm her, Trace asked her where she hurt while his gentle fingers probed her body, searching for injury.

  “I don’t think anything’s broken,” she said, struggling to sit up.

  “You’d better stay still until we’re sure.”

  In the distance, the familiar wail of a siren whined. Someone, at least, had called an ambulance. “What happened?”

  She shook her head, then stopped abruptly with a groan.

  “I thought you said you were okay!” In his fear for her safety, his voice took on an accusatory tone.

  “Apparently, I banged my head when I fell, and except for my injured dignity, I’m fine.”

  The ambulance pulled up to the curb, quickly followed by a police cruiser. While the paramedics saw to Mary, the patrolman questioned Trace. Unfortunately, other than her name and address, he couldn’t tell them what had happened.

  The uniformed policeman turned around and addressed the nearest person in the crowd, who was still watching the proceedings with morbid fascination. “You.
What happened here?”

  The man’s eyes widened when he realized he’d captured the attention of the authorities. With an obvious hesitancy, the man inched forward. “You talkin’ to me?”

  “Yeah.” The cop took out a notebook. “What’s your name?”

  “James. James Stephens.”

  “Okay, James. Why don’t you tell me what went down here?”

  The man scrunched his shoulders in the universal gesture that meant he didn’t have a clue. “All I know is I heard this lady scream and that bus slammed on its brakes. Guess she almost fell in front of it.”

  The bus driver stepped forward and verified James’s story. He’d been on his regular route uptown. The bus he was driving was an express, so this corner wasn’t one of his scheduled stops. Intending to drive past, he saw a woman lurch forward from the sidewalk—right into his path. “I swear, Officer, I thought for sure she was trying to kill herself and was jumping in front of the bus. People do that, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Turning back to Trace, the policeman asked, “Know any reason why your lady friend might try to off herself?”

  “Absolutely not! This was either an accident or...or somebody tried to kill her.”

  The patrolman’s eyebrows shot upward. Carefully raising his hat with the tip of his thumb, he appraised Trace. “Seems you got to that conclusion pretty quick, son. Want to tell me about it?”

  Trace shook his head. If he revealed the various assaults on Mary the past few weeks, he had no doubt he’d end up at the station making a statement. They didn’t have time for that. If Mary’s head injury wasn’t serious and the paramedics released her, Trace intended to lock her in the hotel room while he went to make their appointment at the Lincoln Memorial.

  He could have one of his men come over and pinch-hit keeping an eye on her until Trace returned.

  Feeling the policeman’s watchful gaze, Trace said, “Nothing to tell except that this woman isn’t suicidal. If you knew her, you’d know what a ridiculous idea that is.”

  The patrolman mumbled noncommittally and snapped his notepad closed. “Let’s see what kind of condition she’s in.”