The next four pictures flashing in her mind were those of dead men: Jim, her husband, scooping the leaves from the pool with a long-handled net; Richard, her older brother, dressed up as a much too skinny Santa for a Christmas party; and two men whose names she did not know, but whose bodies had been clawed and mangled, whose eyes had been ripped from their sockets.
Suddenly, she felt herself running down a long corridor, lined with many doors. Walls, no longer perpendicular to the floor, oozed a sickening shade of red. Doors bulged and bubbled towards her as she raced through the hallway. She could sense something coming up from behind. Something she dared not look back to see. From far in the distance, came music. It was soft, relaxing, taking away from the threatening feeling. She stopped in her tracks and listened. A single instrument. A piano.
Then the corridor disappeared and was replaced with reality: a high vaulted ceiling and a four-poster bed. The haunting music, however, continued uninterrupted.
Her eyes connected with the eyes of the portrait that hung above the mantle, feeling as if the woman's strong presence resided within the richly painted canvas. Below it, in the fireplace, a flame crackled and popped, casting a flickering orange glow against the gray shadows of the room. At first, it seemed as if it were just another dream. Thick velvet panels were drawn against the night, leaving but a narrow parting where a slanting of pale moonlight cut into the large, stone walled room. Yes, it had to be a dream. But she wasn't asleep. When Jill lifted her head from the pillow for a better view, she had a throbbing headache to prove it.
Her recollection was clear – up until the time of the attack. And there had been an attack. She didn't need to examine her arms; it wasn't necessary to look beneath the quilt. The pain spoke loudly and kept her from leaving the bed.
"Valerie!" she cried, panicked, almost certain her voice had not carried over the music. "Valerie!"
<<>>
John played the Steinway and Valerie stood there in fascination, following his hands with her eyes. When she thought she had the hang of what he was doing, she edged a little closer, biting down on her bottom lip, and a little closer, until she stood with her chin just above the keys.
“Can I play a song, too?”
The music stopped and she knew what was expected of her. Valerie held up her hands to show they were clean.
“I don’t know, can you?”
The child nodded, eager to try.
<<>>
The music ceased. The house fell quiet. Jill frowned while looking at the large, arched door that sealed off the room. "Valerie! Someone! Anyone! Please!"
Within moments, the door swung open on silent hinges. And Valerie, practically swimming in the white T-shirt she wore, rushed to her mother's bedside, smiling. "You're all better!"
"Oh, honey, I was...so worried about you." Jill reached up as if her arms were made of rubberized lead, brushing the dark bangs from her daughter's eyes. "Honey...whose house is this?"
"Mine," came a voice from the doorway. He moved into the room at an awkward pace, striking a match to the candle by the bed. "Good to see you awake, Mrs. Braedon. Valerie and I were rather worried about you. How are you feeling? If the pain is bad, there’s medicine for that."
She didn't answer, but painfully scrutinized the man who leaned into his cane. His accent was more than slight, but very smooth. The way his words flowed into sentences was almost poetic. Despite the cane he leaned into, his posture was that of a man of distinction, shoulders straight, head cocked slightly to one side, brows raised. She couldn't swear to it that he played the game, but he had the composure of a chess player, calm on the surface, intense beneath. His expression revealed no hint of emotion. If he was worried, angry or simply amused by her intrusion, she couldn’t tell. Neither could she decide whether his cane made him less or more of a threat. His hair was a pale shade of blond, neither long nor short, but tapered back, surpassing the stiff collar of his shirt by an inch or so. His clothes – a crisp, white shirt and a pair of dark trousers with a thin leather belt – appeared to be tailor-made for his lean body. Most intriguing, however, were his eyes. She'd never seen any quite like them. They were blue, a strong shade of clear blue, with little flecks of dark blue giving remarkable alacrity.
"Mrs. Braedon, can you speak? How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been mauled...by a bear. Who are you?"
"John. John Mills."
"How did I...get here?"
He tightened his grip on the cane. It seemed as if the woman had never heard of him. Relief, in the form of a smile, swept over him. For once, it appeared he was about to be taken at face value. "I brought you here, last night."
"Where is here?"
"The desert, Mrs. Braedon. About twenty miles outside of Sandstone. May I get you anything? A glass of water? A cup of tea?"
"Water. Please."
After pouring a glass of water from the bathroom faucet, John tipped it to her lips. She drank a little less than half before guiding it away with an unsteady hand.
"Mommy, the bad people came today, but John made them go away."
"Bad people?" Jill repeated, eyes narrowing. She looked from her daughter to John, then back to her daughter, all without moving her head. "Honey," she said, taking on an anxious tone, "you didn't..."
"Relax, Mrs. Braedon. You've nothing to worry about for the time being, except getting well."
His reassurance had little, if any affect. She pressed her lips firmly together, drawing breath through flaring nostrils, and said, "What did they say to you?"
"Only one man came to the door. Kevin Brewster, as I recall. He had a picture of you, asking whether I'd seen you or your daughter."
"And then?" Jill asked, voice wavering.
"Then I told him I'd keep an eye out for you."
Valerie took hold of her mother's hand, squeezing tightly. "They won't find us, Mommy. Not this time."
Jill smiled weakly up at the little girl, then, with a roll of the head against the pillow, returned her attention to John. "You don't even know us."
"I know you're wanted for murder and probably for a lot worse. One of the things that make this country great, Mrs. Braedon, is that a man – or in your case, a woman – is considered innocent until proven guilty." And yet, she was guilty. Perhaps not of murder, but of something worse: the lifestyle she had given an innocent little girl.
"Thank you. You probably saved my life."
"Don't thank me," he said, no longer smiling. "Thank your daughter." He wanted to smile. Not only was she alive, but was also well enough to speak. Regardless, he wanted to be cold, angry. He wanted to explain to the woman – clearly as possible – that the only reason he hadn't cheerfully turned her over to Brewster, was for the sake of a five‑year‑old child. A child, he might add, whose life was being ruined by the irresponsible ventures of her own blessed mother. As far as John was concerned, any woman who'd expose a little girl to the fugitive lifestyle Valerie had described probably deserved whatever Brewster and his ilk had in mind for her. He wanted to point out that an orphanage would have been a better alternative to day after day of putting the child's life in jeopardy.
There were other things grating upon his ire: the lies that woman told her daughter. Valerie seemed to be of the opinion that it was she and her mother against a wicked, wicked world. While most parents assured their offspring that monsters do not exist, Mrs. Braedon stayed busy convincing hers that the bogeyman was very real, and that its job was to hunt down and destroy anyone who does a good deed.
He didn't want to sympathize with the woman. And he most certainly didn't want to like her. There had even been a time or two when he had considered how the child might actually benefit if her mother were never to regain consciousness. The woman's past actions were unacceptable by any standard.
Despite the onrush of anger of moments passed, he found himself sympathizing, anyway. Each time she flinched or winced in pain, his hand tightened on the cane. He worried that a stitch might break
and hoped that the pain medication would soon take effect. She was pale, weak.
Standing here, gazing down at the woman, he found it preferable to believe a five‑year‑old's fairy tale of monsters and eternal life, than to consider this woman capable of murder. Everything he saw contradicted the self‑absorbed image he'd perceived of her.
"I'd like to speak with your mother, Valerie. Why don't you wash your face and hands and use your new toothbrush. It's time for bed."
Valerie leaned forward and kissed her mother's forehead. "Goodnight, Mommy."
"Goodnight, honey."
John stood in silence until the child left the room, then said: "You've lost an awful lot of blood, Mrs. Braedon. You're fortunate to be alive."
"I want to thank you, Mr. Mills."
He nodded slightly, acknowledging, yet not wanting to accept her gratitude. "There are certain things you won't be able to do on your own during the next few days. If I were you, I wouldn't try getting out of bed without help. Some of your wounds went very deep."
The expression on her face was bleak, as if she were staring off into oblivion. She whispered, "It didn't kill me."
"Unless you need me for anything, I'm going to leave so you can rest. We'll talk in the morning."
"There is something –"
"Yes?"
"The ladies' room."
CHAPTER 7
He awoke long before the helicopter landed in the front yard. The breakfast dishes had been washed and put away. Firewood had been brought in from the garage. He'd completed four sets of leg lifts at the weight bench. Yesterday's clothes hung drying on a wooden rack near the living room fireplace. For the past twenty minutes or so, John and Valerie had sat at the kitchen table. He held up homemade flashcards of the alphabet. The child already knew the names of each letter; now, she learned the sounds they made. She had a little difficulty with the C, W, and all the vowels.
He started pairing up the letters, making the words NO and GO. The girl caught on. He added a T at the end of those words. Valerie said, "Note," and "Goat."
John pronounced the first word, "Not,"
Valerie pronounced the second word, "Got."
He offered her a smile of approval.
She paid him back double.
"You're doing well."
"Can I play the piano now?"
"Show me your hands."
She displayed first the palms, then the backs, fingers splayed.
"You may, but no banging the keys."
Valerie scooted out of her chair. As her sock clad feet touched the stone floor, Bear started barking. The dog dashed into the kitchen then went right back out, whining, barking, glancing around in all directions before returning to the kitchen.
The child’s chipmunk face went pale, while one small hand clung to the back of the chair. Her mouth fell open and her eyes curled upward as she looked to John for some kind of direction.
John hushed the dog, and then listened intently to the distant thumping of the helicopter. "Valerie," he said calmly, "take the flashcards to your mother's room. Don't come out until I say."
Valerie collected the flashcards without hesitation, then rushed off, just as John had instructed.
He grabbed his cane and headed into the foyer, where he stood before the open doorway while the helicopter finished its descent. He then stepped out on the porch, already chilled by the stiff winter breeze.
Brewster approached in a brisk stride, removing his sunglasses. He carried a briefcase, this time, and greeted John with a stiff but friendly: "Good morning, Mr. Mills."
"Special Agent Brewster," John said with a nod.
"Sorry to keep bothering you like this."
"Did you find the woman and child yet?"
"Not yet, Mr. Mills. I was wondering if I might ask a favor of you. Could I talk to you inside for a minute?"
"Certainly."
John showed Brewster to the living room. Bear circled around their feet, then the dog sat back on his haunches, keen eyes fixed on the intruder.
"What can I do for you?"
Brewster's gaze rested briefly upon the clothes rack by the fireplace. Both eyes then made an analytical sweep of the living room, lingering here and there, as if making a mental note of all he could see. "It's come to my attention that you and a few others out here have no means of communication." He opened the briefcase on the coffee table. "Since communication is important, I'd like to leave you this."
John stared at the object Brewster now held, but his thoughts were focused on the clothes rack behind him, where the child's mittens hung along with other items of clothing.
"It's a transponder," Brewster said. "Very basic. Turn it on and it sends a beacon. We get a fix on your location and we're here. By the way, if you find the woman, there is a reward."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"But only if she's alive."
"Yesterday, I was under the impression you wanted her dead or alive."
"That was yesterday, Mr. Mills. A lot can change overnight. Keep your doors locked. How good of a watch dog is that chow?"
"Excellent."
"If it starts barking, activate the transponder by flipping this switch. We can be here within twenty minutes, probably closer to five minutes. Don't worry about false alarms. We can deal with them. Don't try to approach Jillian Braedon. It's too risky. And for God's sake, don't let her inside."
<<>>
John opened the hall linen closet where he stood for a moment, listening to the distant thumping of the departing helicopter, turning the transponder slowly in hand. If things went from bad to worse, he now had a way out. Help was only twenty minutes away at most. It should have made him breathe easier. It did not. He felt like a man under house arrest: the woman and child, his cellmates.
Leaving the transponder out in the open where the child might find it could prove disastrous. With that in mind, he placed it between two blankets on the top shelf then closed the closet door.
<<>>
Three miles away, in what was once an abandoned shack, a soft hissing noise came over one of many speakers set up in the room, registering on a computer screen. It was followed by a muffled thud then all was quiet at the Mills' residence.
<<>>
After dragging the padded chair from the bathroom vanity into the guest room, John positioned it by the woman's bedside and took a seat. Some color had returned to her cheeks. A thin scratch on her face glistened beneath a coat of antibiotic ointment and was the only cut, aside from the one that ran the length of her neck, not covered by either the quilt or the blue silk pajamas she now wore.
"Mrs. Braedon..."
"My friends call me Jill."
He cleared his throat and began again. "Mrs. Braedon, why are you wanted by the FBI?"
"You get right to the point, don't you?"
He smiled. "When it's important – yes."
"If I told you the truth, you wouldn't believe me."
He nodded with amusement. "I'll try not to be skeptical of what you have to say, if you'll try not to be skeptical of me."
"Mr. Mills, I appreciate your hospitality. Valerie and I would be dead if it weren't for you; I know that. I owe you. I'd like to pay that debt. And I will...by not answering your questions.” She closed her eyes tightly, then pinned him with a steady gaze. "If you knew what I know, they'd want you dead, too."
Damn if he didn't like her. Here she was, a suspected murderess, and she had the most compelling blue eyes he'd ever seen. "They don't want you dead, Mrs. Braedon. They want you alive and are willing to pay for it."
The woman slowly turned her head on the pillow until she stared straight up at the wooden beam overhead. She lay so still for so long, had her eyes been closed, he would have believed she had fallen asleep.
John leaned forward in his chair. "Mrs. Braedon?"
She met his gaze directly. "I need a way into town."
"Even if the roads were passable, you couldn't make the trip. You’re in no shape to tr
avel, and there are people out there looking for you."
"You don't understand. I have to find out what's going on."
"That makes two of us."
"Do you have a computer?"
"A laptop. No Internet."
"Damn!"
"Mrs. Braedon, don't you think I have a right to know what's going on? The fact that you're here in my home makes me an accessory. If I'm going to be tried, convicted, and forced to serve time on your account, shouldn't I at least know why?"
"You wouldn't believe any of it."
"Try me."
Jillian Braedon asked for a glass of water. She drank a few sips then placed the glass on the nightstand. "My husband was a psychiatrist, Mr. Mills. He used to say that if you want someone to believe the unbelievable, and it’s important enough, then you’d better have proof."
She pulled the silk sleeve up, studying her left arm. "This is probably the least of my injuries this time," she said, pointing to an inch‑long gash just above the inside of her wrist. "It's not very bad, but it’s enough to demonstrate my point."
"Which is?"
She gently massaged the wound with her thumb as she spoke. "My brother was a neurologist. He believed that if the conscious mind could assume full working control of the brain, hospitals would become almost obsolete."
Jill let go of her wrist. She brushed away the flakes of dried blood with her fingertips. The cut was gone, leaving behind nothing but smooth skin.
She continued talking in a calm manner, as if nothing at all had happened. "The healing process could be speeded up at will; the aging process could be stopped, reversed even. The more it's used, the more important sleep becomes. Some people might argue and say sleep should become nonessential. But it's proven to be even more essential than before the process...and more dangerous. Energy doesn't appear out of thin air. It's physically draining."
He reached out slowly, lightly touching her arm, letting his fingers confirm what his eyes had just seen. "My God," he whispered.
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