This was not a reaction he'd anticipated from a small child. So calm, as if the role of caretaker came perfectly natural to her. And in that same gentle tone, the child started singing to the woman:
"This ole man
He played one.
He played knick-knack on my thumb,
With a knick knack paddy whack,
Give a dog a bone.
This ole man came rol-ling home."
Even when he walked to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder, the child continued her singing. The entire scene was remarkable. Within moments, the woman fell into a peaceful sleep. Valerie then got to her feet and straightened the quilt, saying confidently: "She’s okay now."
John looked down at the woman, noticing a jagged scratch mark to the left of her nose, one that wasn't there earlier. He took a Kleenex from the dispenser on the night table and wetted it with hydrogen peroxide. While the child watched on, he carefully cleansed the wound then applied a thin coating of antibiotic ointment. "That should do."
The child regarded him with apologetic eyes, shifting from one bare foot to the other. "You're not mean. You’re not mean at all."
"Now that that's been established, it might be best if I were to ask you a few questions regarding your mother. First, I'd like to know her name. Not the one you call her, but what everyone else calls her."
"Jill."
"Your mother, Jill, is she on any regular medication?"
"I don't know what that means."
"Was she ill before all this happened?"
"A long, long time ago. But not any more."
"The reason I'm asking is that you seem to know exactly how to calm her down, as if you've been through it before. If she has a medical condition, epilepsy or what have you, it's important I find out now. If she takes pills or injections regularly, then it would be wise for me to go back to where I found her and look for her purse. So, I want you to think very hard. It's quite important. Have you ever seen your mother taking pills or injections?"
"I don't know."
"Does she frequently visit a doctor?"
"No."
"Has she had bad dreams when you've had to comfort her before?"
"Only after."
"After what?"
"I'm not apposed to tell."
John exhaled sharply and took a seat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward until he was eye level with the child. "Is this secret of yours more important than your mother's life?"
Valerie shook her head slowly, her eyes glistening with tears of frustration. "Mommy said never tell or the bad people will come."
He braced her by the shoulder, brow raised. "And just who are these bad people?"
"I don't know. I only know when I see them.”
"Then let’s start there. What do they look like?"
Valerie reached above her head and stood on her toes, stretching to reach higher. "They’re tall," she said. "And sometimes they wear two coats at the same time."
John nodded his understanding. The men wore suits and overcoats. It made sense.
"And they have radios like Space Ghost talks on, ‘cept bigger." She swiped a hand across her cheek, brushing away the tears. "They have guns, too. Mommy says if I ever tell…"
Behind him, the woman moaned in her sleep. He shot a glance in her direction then returned his attention to the teary-eyed child. "I want to help your mother. But I can't unless you help me first. Regardless of what you tell me, I have no intention of letting anyone hurt her. Whatever trouble your mother is in, it's none of my business. Understand? My only interest is in her health, in making her well."
His little speech wasn't doing any good. The child just stood there in silence. "You're strong willed. I'll give you that. Would you care for some lunch?"
<<>>
Shortly after lunch, the bad people came.
John sat in the armchair and found that the girl could not read. The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne was open on his lap. Valerie stared at the book she held, Treasure Island. When he turned a page, the child followed suit, matching him page for page. He placed the bookmark and closed his book; the child did the same.
“Do you find the book interesting?” he finally asked.
Before she had time to reply, Bear started barking. The dog went to the center of the living room, spun in circles, dark eyes directed upward as if noticing a bird or squirrel nesting upon one of the wooden beams overhead.
“What is it, boy?”
John stood, hearing a faint thumping of a helicopter rotor in the distance. He visibly tensed. The sound brought back grief and painful memories of death: His leg had been crushed and trapped in the wreckage of such a machine. His wife and five-year-old son were not so lucky. Vickie remained alive for about two minutes, unable to move, her neck broken.
Little Ryan, the boy who wanted to grow up and be a musician like his father, fought for his life for nearly an hour, not once crying, although in agony. And then the fight was over. In all, five people had died in the crash. Only one survived. The accident had occurred at four-thirty in the afternoon. By nightfall, after an eternity of staring into the faces of his dead wife and son, the rescue team arrived. Up until that moment, John had held on to his sanity fairly well. Then one son of a bitch had the gall to ask for an autograph while he was loading John’s stretcher onto the rescue helicopter – which was when John Mills realized an important truth: The world is filled with thoughtless bastards.
Now, the roar of the helicopter grew louder, muffling the sound of Bear’s barking.
“It’s all right, boy,” John said tensely. “It’ll be gone in a minute.”
Following the sound, he went to the nearest window overlooking the front yard. He raised a brow and turned to his dog. “I believe we have visitors.”
As soon as the craft landed, one man jumped out, falling up past his knees in snow, talking into a two-way radio. John turned again, this time talking to the child. “Overcoat. Black suit. Two-way radio...Sound familiar?”
Valerie nodded, frozen to where she stood.
“Why don’t you go into the guest room and sit quietly with your mother for a while.”
“Please. Please don’t...” Valerie cut off in mid-sentence when the knock came at the front door. Her eyes flashed with dread and worry then she turned on her heels, running silently down the hall.
CHAPTER 5
John opened the oak door with Bear directly behind him. He had a skeptical glint in his eyes. His blond hair danced lightly in the icy wind. His right hand remained firmly on his cane, knuckles showing white. The show had begun. And he wanted to do it right. A badly frightened little girl depended on him.
“You’re trespassing on private property. This had better be important.”
The man standing a few feet away on the porch removed his sunglasses, tucking them neatly into his inside jacket pocket. A polite smile crossed his thin lips. He had an average build, but tall – at least three inches taller than John.
Talking over the high-pitched whine of the helicopter, the smiling man said: “Mr. Mills?”
“Yes.”
“John Mills?”
“You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”
“I won’t take much of your time. You are John Mills? The John Mills?”
“If you’re here on behalf of a recording company, the answer is no. If you’re a journalist, I don’t do interviews. I seriously doubt a run of the mill salesperson would go through the trouble and expense of flying out here just to sell a vacuum cleaner.”
“My name is Brewster, Special Agent Kevin Brewster. FBI.” He reached into his breast pocket and then flashed his credentials.
“FBI?” John repeated. All pretense of being annoyed by the man’s intrusion had left him. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. But what had he expected? Mafia, maybe? A loan shark bent on revenge? A jilted lover hiding behind private investigators? The police?
It was like downing a glass of water, only to find
out it was actually vodka. And yes, it took his breath away.
“How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for a woman and her small daughter who’ve been missing in this area since yesterday afternoon.” He reached beneath the flap of his overcoat, and slipped a five by eight glossy print from a manila envelope. “I have reason to believe they’re still in this area. Have you seen this woman?”
John shook his head slowly, reluctantly, as he studied the photograph. He thought about the woman who lay unconscious in the guest room; about the helicopter that could get her to the hospital within minutes; about the little girl whose fear of this man was stronger than the fear of her own mother’s death. He tried to view it all objectively, logically, and decided this was the opportunity for which he’d been waiting.
“I can scarcely hear you. Please, do come in.”
John gave the man enough room to enter then closed the door against the noise and icy air. “As you were saying?”
“I’m looking for the woman in this photograph. We located the abandoned van she was driving about eight miles south‑southwest of here. Unfortunately, after last night’s snowfall we couldn’t pick up their trail, but we believe they may have been heading in this direction.”
“How long did you say they’ve been missing?” John asked.
“Since yesterday afternoon.”
John ran a hand back through his hair. Indecision had his stomach tied in knots. The simple solution was to turn the woman and child over to this man. And he would have, had it not been for the dread he had seen in the little girl’s eyes. It was the same look his son Ryan had whenever he thought a monster hid in the bedroom closet. The girl was terrified. Understandably so. The FBI wanted her mother. And John wanted some answers.
“I’ll certainly keep an eye out for them on the chance they survived the storm, which is highly unlikely if they were outside. Is there anything else I can do for you, Special Agent Brewster?”
“No. But there is something I can do for you. I can give you a little warning, a little piece of advice.” He turned the picture over in his hand, regarding the plain white backside as if something interesting had been written there. “If you do run across Jillian Braedon, be careful. She’s wanted for the murder of two of our men. Do you own a gun?”
“Yes.” John’s eyes narrowed sharply. It was one stun on top of another. “Surely, you’re not suggesting I’ll need to shoot the woman?”
“Just a precaution, given how remote this place is, Mr. Mills. But as I was saying, she’s wanted for murder, among other things that I am not at liberty to discuss. I don’t want you or anyone else taking chances, especially when the stakes are so high. You have a gun. Defending yourself is not a crime in this country.”
Having heard enough, John opened the front door for the man to leave. He couldn’t picture himself killing a woman, not any woman. And yet he knew he stood eye to eye with a cold-blooded bastard who could pull the trigger with ease. It was cause enough to believe the woman would not live long enough to see a hospital, should the trip be made alongside this man.
She was a stranger, a dangerous stranger who happened to be incapacitated in his guest room. Yet, he had saved her life, or so he hoped. After spending over two hours finding and dragging her back here, two and a half hours stitching the woman up, hour upon hour of sitting at her side feeding her water through a turkey baster, he wasn’t about to hand her over to a man who’d undoubtedly take revenge for the two men she had allegedly killed.
“Sad to say, especially with a child involved, but doubtful they survived the blizzard,” John said. “On the off chance they did, rest assured, I’ll keep a watch for them. Good day.”
John stood watching from the doorway as Brewster trudged through the snow to the helicopter. He wasn’t out to defy the United States Government. He didn’t doubt the validity of what he’d just heard. From what the girl had disclosed thus far, the two stories fit together neatly. However, although he hadn’t come right out and sworn allegiance to the girl, it had been implied. The weight of that responsibility held him back, responsibility for both mother and daughter.
He waited until the chopper rose high above the house then he closed the front door against the wind. Bear whined at his heel. John absently reached down to scratch the dog behind the ear. He had a feeling Brewster would return. If not tomorrow, perhaps the following day. Hopefully, by then, he would come to a decision as to what to do with his two houseguests.
<<>>
John had no doubts that the child had caught at least some of the conversation between himself and Brewster. Her behavior was indicative of an inner turmoil – something a child so young could not easily hide. For several hours afterwards, she moped around the house, keeping her head downcast as if in doubt of her own sense of reality. Her appetite was poor. She was peaked, restless.
And when given the choice between tea and water with her meal, she broke into tears and said: "My mommy didn't kill anybody!"
He hated to press it, but with the situation so dire he asked, "Do you have any idea as to why those men are looking for her?"
She drew in a shuddering breath, holding it for a moment, bottom lip quivering. "I...I'm not apposed to tell. I promised. It's wrong to tell!"
He pulled out a chair and sat down beside her, both brows raised inquisitively. "How old are you, Valerie? Four? Five?"
"Five."
John used her napkin to dab the tears from her face. "Then I think it's time for you to learn an important truth. Sometimes, life isn't about what's right and what's wrong. No. It's about what's best. When a promise is made in good faith, the only way it should be broken is in good faith, by doing what's best for all concerned. Your mother probably hasn't told you this yet, because it's difficult for a child your age to know what's best. But I believe you're old enough to understand that I mean you no harm. I'm on your side, whatever that side may be. I sent that man away. I told him nothing. Doesn’t that prove something to you?"
The child stared blankly.
"Valerie," he began again, realizing the need to pick his words more carefully. "I want to help you. I want to help your mother, too. But if I don’t know what’s going on, then how can I help?"
"They," she said, then paused, swallowing hard. "They want to kill Mommy. And they want to kill me, too."
"Valerie, listen to me. The man who came to the door works for the government. They don't go around killing innocent people. Why on earth would you believe they'd want to kill a little girl?"
"Because I know things. I know about the monster that keeps chasing my mommy. And I sorta know why the monster comes: Something bad has to happen every time you be good. If it wasn't that way, it would be too easy to be good. And God wouldn't be able to separate the sheets from the coats."
"Sheep from the goats," John corrected.
Valerie paused for a moment, pushing the peas around her plate with the fork, tears slipping from her eyes. "Mommy and me move a lot. Once, a long time ago, she cut her hair real short and painted it blonde, like yours. She made me say that my name was Jane. But they always find us. Always! They found Uncle Richard...and he's dead. When the house got on fire, they thought they'd killed me and Mommy. Daddy was the only one home. I don't remember him, ‘cept that his hair was brown and his shoes were real big and he used to drink hot coffee. It was a long, long time ago when I was little."
The child wasn't lying, at least not intentionally. He understood honest conviction when he heard it. And those tears. Her father was dead. Her uncle, dead. John momentarily lowered his gaze, finally understanding how someone so young could have developed such a morbid outlook. Her life had been one long nightmare. She was a little girl who had to grow up quicker than most, because she saw monsters and bad men around every corner.
"If the government is responsible for your father's and uncle's deaths, what reason did they have to do that? Think real hard. Because people don't kill without reason."
Valerie se
t down her fork and pushed her plate forward, folding her arms up on the table. The tears began to dry on her face. She sniffled, running a bent finger back and forth beneath her nose. "Do you know what would happen if everybody in the whole wide world was all healthy forever?"
"Tell me," he said to humor the child. Yet his mind was elsewhere, conjuring up a list of possible crimes the woman might have committed against the U.S. Government.
"Mommy says that after a while, there'd be too many people and not enough food to eat. Do you know what would happen if just some of the people in the world was all healthy forever?"
"They'd rule the world," John said with a nod. Still, his mind was elsewhere. It was difficult to fathom a crime worse than murder. Although, what he viewed as worse and what the FBI viewed as worse, could be two entirely different things. So what was it? Espionage? Was it possible for a five‑year‑old child and her mother to be a threat to National Security?
"That's what Mommy says too," Valerie said. "Those people would rule the world. And she says that would be very, very bad."
The girl seemed to have calmed down enough for him to ask about Brewster again. "Those men who are following you and your mother, why are they doing it?"
"I just told you."
John shook his head lightly, as if trying to rid his mind of fog. "Told me what?"
"They want to rule the world."
CHAPTER 6
Jillian Braedon opened her eyes briefly, not knowing where she was or who, then slipped back into a world of dream images. The mistakes of the past haunted her subconscious. They came to her, each one a still‑life scene of black and white, blending together in a chain of events. There was the doctor's office, where she'd received a death sentence nearly five years ago.
Next came the dinner scene, when Jillian disclosed to her husband the news of the doctor's frightening prognosis. There were a dozen different angles of the hospital room in which she was prepared to die. A quick flash of her brother's guest room, where the plans were finally implemented, giving first hope, and then life. She gazed at the charred remains of the townhouse in which she had lived.
HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS Page 3