When Hawkins finally left, I tried to make sense of things. Meetings that never took place, weapons I didn’t have, revolutions I was somehow getting in the way of. None of it made sense. And there was only one person in this world who could make sense of things to me when nothing else added up—I needed to get to Gwen.
Chapter 32
Gwen hadn’t been inside Nellie’s in fifteen years, but the Upper West Side sports bar looked and smelled the same.
Allison made a mad dash for her and wrapped her in a hug. “Oh my God, Gwen! Are you okay?”
“Just happy to still be breathing.”
“Even if you have to breathe in the smell of testosterone mixed with Buffalo wings?” She took a dramatic whiff of Nellie’s. “You must be feeling pretty nostalgic today to bring me here?”
Since Gwen and Allison had worked here during college, Gwen knew that it would be crowded, even in the afternoon, to watch the college basketball tournament. So it would be a good place to talk without anyone listening in on their conversation.
Allison had snatched the table in the back corner, up against the wall, just as Gwen requested. When they worked here, it was the nightly table of a professional baseball player who used to set up shop and scope the place, picking out the girl he planned to take home that night. And his batting average was much better in Nellie’s than it was on the field, or so Gwen was told.
When they took a seat, Allison gave her a long look. “It’s amazing—even when you look like crap, you look great.”
“Thanks—I hear puffy eyes with dark circles are totally in this year.”
Allison then took the place in. “Looks exactly the same. But I must say I’m a little surprised there’s no plaque on the wall to honor us. Best. Waitresses. Ever!”
“If it makes you feel any better, I hear your name is still prominently displayed on the men’s room wall.”
Allison smiled. “Glad to see your sense of humor is still working.” But the light moment was fleeting, and she turned serious. “How’s JP?”
“He took a pretty nasty hit to the head. Has a concussion—the doctor wants to keep him in the hospital for a few days for observation. I’m sure that will go over well.”
“He deserved worse.”
“Excuse me?”
“C’mon, Gwen—taking his girlfriend out with his ex, to their ‘special’ restaurant?”
Gwen shrugged. “I have to give him some credit—most men wouldn’t be brazen enough to even attempt that. But I do think there was some method to his madness.”
A waitress briefly interrupted their conversation to take their drink order. When she moved on to the next table, Allison said, “Okay, I need details. The news said you were cornered in one of those construction thingies by muggers, who were posing as policemen. But I read a report this morning that the FBI believes it was related to Huddled Masses, and that they shot Lauren Bowden as retaliation for foiling their television hijacking the other night.”
“Maybe you can ask my FBI bodyguard,” Gwen said, nodding in the direction of a stiff-looking man in a suit. He was sitting at the bar, pretending he was engrossed in a basketball game.
“They assigned you a bodyguard? They must really think you’re in danger.”
“Can you keep it down? He’s not really my bodyguard, but he is an FBI agent, and he’s following me.”
“If the FBI is involved, then it must be connected to Huddled Masses.”
“You can’t believe everything you read on the Internet, Allison.”
“So you’re saying it wasn’t Huddled Masses?”
“No—it was them. But you still shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet.”
“Oh. My God! Spill it, Gwendolyn. Why are these crazy people after you?”
“I really shouldn’t say anything else. If they think I’m passing information to you, then you could be in danger.”
“So we can never have lunch ever again, because someone might think we’re passing notes in class? That’s ridiculous. And besides, you know I would never give up the secrets—I have everyone’s deepest and darkest stored in the vault. How do you think I got such a good turnout for the reunion?”
Gwen gave in—she really did need to tell someone. She stepped her through the story, from JP receiving the call from Nora’s lawyer until their trip to the hospital. But it just led to more questions from Allison.
“What I don’t get is how you’re so sure it was Huddled Masses. You said they never identified themselves as such, and in all the other cases, they were hardly shy about promoting their brand.”
“Because I recognized the two guys as the ones from West Palm—the pirates.”
“And what about this meeting between JP and Nora Reign?”
“Her lawyer called him—said he was the only one she’d talk to. They had worked together in the past, and he was one of the few people she trusted.”
“And from what I’ve been reading they used to trust each other a lot.”
Gwen winced. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to JP’s past relationships being splashed across the news.
“And what about these secret meetings you mentioned—the ones they supposedly had in Rockfield? Meeting some psycho-ex behind your back is way worse than the dinner with Lauren Bowden, and that was pretty bad.”
“I don’t think there was any meeting—the look on JP’s face said he had no idea what they were talking about, and he’s a horrible liar. Besides, if he had the information they wanted, I’d like to think he’d come clean when they threatened to shoot me.”
“They were going to shoot you!?”
“They actually did shoot at me.”
Allison gasped, but tried to cover it with humor, “I always knew you were Wonder Woman. You used your indestructible bracelets to ward off the bullets, right?”
“Not exactly—Lauren jumped in front of me, and she took the bullet. Good thing she had all that protection.”
“I knew those weren’t real.”
Gwen smiled. “Those might have helped to cushion the blow, but it was the bulletproof vest that saved her life.” The smile fell off her face. “Whatever the reason, she got to live another day, which I didn’t think I would be doing when he pointed the gun at me the second time.”
Chapter 33
As Gwen continued to describe the events from the night before, the reality started to sink in, and a pit began to form in her stomach.
“The strange thing is, the first time he aimed I was sure he wouldn’t shoot me. Almost as if he was waiting for Lauren to step in front. I’m convinced she was the target all along. But when he pointed it at me again, I thought I was a goner.”
“Oh my God, Gwen … I would have totally peed in my pants.”
“It happened so fast there wasn’t really any time to be scared. There was nothing we could do. Although, JP did try to bite the shooter’s leg.”
“And they say chivalry is dead.”
“He didn’t exactly stop him, but caused enough of a distraction to throw things off kilter. So much so that the shooter pistol-whipped him unconscious. And that’s when the shots started firing.”
“So he did shoot at you the second time.”
“No, it wasn’t the Huddled Masses guys. I have no idea where it was coming from. I dove to the ground, and covered myself the best I could. When the shooting stopped the fake cops were gone—I assumed they’d been scared off.”
“I can’t believe this all happened on 42nd Street on St. Patrick’s night. Was it the real police?”
She shook her head. “They were as confused as I was when they arrived. It seemed as if we had a guardian angel on our side.”
Allison looked out at Gwen’s “bodyguard.” “Did the FBI have a theory when you told them this?”
“If they did, they didn’t share it with me. But to be fair, I didn’t share much with them, either.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell them everything you knew? You’re supposed to be o
n the same team.”
“We dealt with the agent in charge, Hawkins, during the Officer Jones case. We learned firsthand that he’d use us as bait if it meant getting his man, and we all know what happens to bait. He was already willing to trade my life once, when Carter and I were held hostage in that beach house.”
Allison looked befuddled. “What are you talking about—hostages? And who is Carter?”
Gwen had forgotten that part never made the final draft of the Officer Jones story. She didn’t want to get into it—discussing one near-death situation per day was her limit—and luckily Allison’s phone rang, so she wouldn’t have to.
She looked at it with exasperation. “It’s Tully—my carpet cleaner client—I gotta take this.”
The call featured a lot of technical terminology that Gwen didn’t understand—close dates, pub dates, DQCs and TQCs—so she took a moment to look around the bar and reminisce about her days working here. She wondered if she realized at the time how truly carefree those days were, and if she properly savored them. Probably not, nobody realizes how good they have it at the time.
She felt Allison tapping her on the arm, as she continued to talk into the phone, “Hey, David, since I’ve done all this work for you, do you think you could do me a favor?”
She smiled at Gwen like she was up to something.
“We held a reunion committee meeting at my friend’s house the other day in Connecticut, and someone spilled a glass of red wine on her carpet. So I was thinking that it would be really cool if I could get one of your guys to come out and surprise clean it for her.”
Allison waited a moment, struggling to hear over the bar crowd, before saying, “That would be fantastic, David … and will really get me off the hook. Listen, I’m out at a lunch meeting right now, but let me give you a call when I get back to the office.”
After the phone conversation ended, Allison let out an extended breath. “He thinks I’m on call 24/7, like I’m his doctor. He’s all freaked out about the Pittsburgh directory for his test market. But since it hits the street in April, I can’t tell him anything until then. It’s not like the publisher is calling me up to give updates on the printing.”
Gwen smiled. “I have no idea what any of that means, but I do understand free carpet cleaning … so thank you.”
Allison seemed still stuck on David Tully. “He’s so weird. He calls me anywhere and everywhere, but whenever I try to set up a meeting with him, he refuses. Maybe I should bring you along, and head down to Valley Forge unannounced.”
“And you think my presence will get him to meet with you?”
“Not at all, but that way my boss will think I’m going the extra mile for his best client, and you and I can go to the King of Prussia Mall.”
“I do love the King of Prussia Mall,” Gwen said. “But it’s not as easy to drop everything and take off on a road-trip these days,” she said, looking directly at her FBI babysitter.
“Tell me about it,” Allison replied, checking her watch. Gwen noticed that her demeanor had completely changed since the call—so much of her and Marty’s economics hinged on this Tully guy. “I must be getting back to the office—are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine—I got the FBI watching over me, how could I not be?” Gwen said with a smile.
“What do you do now?”
“I’m going to head back to the hospital and check on JP. And when he’s released we’ll go back to Rockfield and live our lives. I don’t know what else we could do at this point.”
“What if they come after you?”
“I figure if Rich Tolland has been able to keep the paparazzi away since JP returned, then these Huddled Masses guys should be no sweat.”
Allison didn’t see the humor. “With all due respect to Rich, who does a great job, this is a little beyond his resources. Maybe you should reconsider, and work with the feds.”
“JP is doing that as we speak. And besides, he’s the one they think is standing in the way of their revolution, not me.”
“Yeah, but they know that you’re his weak spot.”
Gwen thought of the comment the gunman had made about things never working out well for JP’s girlfriends.
When they got up to leave, the FBI agent followed. Gwen figured he would have to follow them all the way back to Rockfield. Because if Huddled Masses came after them again, their best chance would be to fight them on their home turf.
Chapter 34
My alone time didn’t last very long, as I soon received a visit from Dr. Clarkin. He stressed the seriousness of concussions, and I could tell from his tone that many of his patients don’t take them seriously enough.
But he was preaching to the choir, as I was well versed in their severity. I once did an investigative report on soldiers who were being sent back to the front lines of war while suffering from concussion-like symptoms, which had devastating effects.
That didn’t mean I would completely follow doctor’s orders—it just meant that I was aware of the consequences. His plan was for me to stay overnight for observation, and then receive a CT Scan in the morning. In the interim, he suggested rest.
I had a healthy dislike for hospitals, even before my lengthy stay in Landstuhl last summer. And when you add in that I was in the cross-hairs of a group that could get to anyone at any time, I felt the urge to get out of here ASAP. But I knew arguing with Dr. Clarkin wouldn’t speed up the process, so I took his advice … for now … and drifted off to sleep.
I was woken by my nurse taking my temperature. She then strapped a blood pressure cuff around my right bicep. I’m not sure the harm of waiting until I was awake, but they had a job to do and I respected that. Or at least I’d learned from Landstuhl that my yelling and screaming never accomplished much of anything.
This was a different nurse. And if Nurse Graziano was the Italian grandmother, then this new nurse looked more like a late night cable movie—Hot Nurses Part Gazillion. Her white uniform looked about two sizes too small, showing off her many curves. Her dark hair was tied up, highlighting the exotic beauty of her features.
“Sorry to wake you,” she said in a soft voice, with a slight hint of an accent I couldn’t place. She noted my temperature on the chart, and then pumped the blood pressure cuff.
“Am I going to live?” I asked, forcing a smile.
“As long as you don’t make any more trips across the room, you might. It’s a very dangerous journey for a man in your situation.”
“Because I might faint and hit my head?”
“No, because if I have to clean up your blood, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”
I chuckled lightly, causing a pot-banging sound in my head, but it didn’t seem as if she was kidding.
“Was your journey worth the spill of blood? We must always ask ourselves if the sacrifice is worth the bloodshed?”
I tensed. I don’t remember any nurse ever speaking like that—and I’d spent six weeks in a military hospital. “I just needed to use the bathroom.”
“Are you sure you weren’t looking for this?”
She held up my key chain that contained the automatic car starter. She swung it slowly like a hypnotist to tantalize me.
It was what I was looking for. “How did you …”
“I thought it was odd that you had an object like this in your personal items, especially when you and your girlfriend took the train into the city. And that Jeep you drive is too old to have an automatic starter like this.”
My instincts were to sit up to attention, but my head vetoed it. “Who are you?”
She walked up to me and placed her strong hand over my mouth. “You don’t want to wake up the bed bugs.”
I looked into her steely eyes, and shock waves went through me.
“Jovana?” I said, but it sounded like nothing but muffled gibberish with her hand firmly over my mouth.
“We need to move. I’m going to slowly remove my hand, and I need you to remain quiet. Understand?”
The last time I followed her I was delivered to a terrorist leader like a pig to slaughter, but anything was better than being a sitting duck in this hospital room.
She handed me the clipboard on which she’d allegedly been charting my vitals. It did contain notes, but nothing about blood pressure or body temperature. Across the top was a reminder not to talk, which I would do my best with, but couldn’t guarantee. And further instructions included putting on my suit from the previous day. Without time for modesty, I changed right in front of her. She handed me a bathrobe to put on over the suit. She then pointed me to a wheelchair that was ready for takeoff.
“What about the security guards outside my door? They entered when I fell,” I asked quietly, breaking the first rule.
“I took care of them,” she said. Then reading my horrified look, she added, “I mean I sent them away. I only kill serial murderers and terrorists, but if you keep opening your mouth, I’m going to make an exception for you.”
With that settled, she pushed me out into the hallway. There were no guards, just as she said, but with the amount of law enforcement officials in the hall, I doubted they would be needed. It was like the place was in lock-down.
“Is this for me?”
“You certainly live up to your reputation of being completely full of yourself, Warner. Nora Reign went into a diabetic coma in prison last night—supposedly didn’t take her insulin, and never informed the prison that she was diabetic.”
I didn’t remember Nora ever mentioning anything about being diabetic, but it was pretty clear that I didn’t know her as well as I’d thought. But her words from the interview hung over me—I’ll be lucky to see my arraignment.
“She told me that they’d kill her,” I said softly, as Jovana pushed me along the hallway.
“She isn’t dead. She was transferred here, and they walled off the entire top floor for her, and she’s being guarded by presidential-level security. Only in America do murderers get the best medical care.”
The heavy police presence increased the possibility that we’d be stopped and questioned, but Nora’s arrival had caused enough higher-priority and confusion to allow us to travel freely. We arrived at an elevator that was being guarded by an NYPD cop. Jovana provided him her nurse ID, and he let us proceed.
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 13