She had already changed into the dry shirt and stood over by the fireplace when John returned with the towel.
"Who are in them pictures up there?" she asked, balancing on the balls of her feet, pointing to the stone slab of a mantle.
"My wife and my son." He draped the towel over her head, rubbing briskly, hoping it would keep her from asking more questions.
No such luck.
"Where are they? How come they don't live with you?"
"They died."
"Who killed them?"
"No one. It was an accident."
She pushed the towel back from her face. Suddenly, she looked gravely serious. "Was that the accident you hurt your leg in?"
"Yes."
"But it don't hurt real bad. Not real bad?"
"No. If it were real bad, I'd be in a wheelchair."
Her face brightened as she flashed a big smile. When John lifted the towel, she dashed out of the room like a child with a fist full of money on her way to the candy store, tangled black hair flying behind her.
<<>>
John left the yeast to dissolve in some warm water then pulled the flour canister from the pantry shelf. While in there, he inventoried the onions, which hung from a length of twine just inside the doorway. There were three, all firm beneath the papery outer layers. One would be needed for tonight's spaghetti to give it that 'homemade' quality you can't find in a can. The rest would have to get him through until the Land Rover could make it into town. He picked the smallest onion, roughly the size of a tennis ball, and returned to the kitchen, setting it on the granite counter by the sink.
His mind had drifted to this morning's horror in the guest room, when Valerie disturbed the memory by walking into the kitchen with Bear at her heels. Thankful for her company, and the diversion that came with it, John found himself smiling.
She crinkled up her nose then wiggled her bare toes. Keeping socks on that girl was all but impossible. He didn't blame her, though. The snuggest socks he had in his drawer were nylon socks – that still fell down around her ankles – and she'd said they were 'itchy.' John agreed.
She stepped up behind him. "Whatcha doing?"
He turned, setting the bowl on the table. "Making bread."
"Can I help?"
"If you wash your hands."
When she returned from the bathroom displaying clean hands, John gave her a tablespoon then directed her to the sugar bowl. "Have you ever made bread, before?" He had learned over the past few days that it was better to ask if she'd done something before, rather than ask if she knew how. Better, because, he'd get a more accurate answer.
She shook her head lightly.
"Measure four spoonfuls of sugar into the large bowl there on the table. Then stir it slowly until it's all melted into the water."
John found two loaf pans in the storage bin beneath the oven. He rinsed them then placed them in the dish drainer. As he fetched a two‑cup measure from the cupboard and set it by the flour, he envisioned those orange eyes. It was a picture that would haunt him for the rest of his life – however long or short that may be.
He watched the child for a moment, listening to the clinking of the metal spoon against the glass bowl. It seemed strange, after so many years of cooking alone, to have someone else in the kitchen. Strange, but nice. She was on her knees on a padded chair. The T-shirt covered her jeans and all but the chubby pink toes of the little feet that poked out behind her. Her chipmunk face hovered above the bowl, wide eyes gazing at the mixture with great interest.
"When you're done, bring the bowl over here and pull up a chair."
He told her to hop up on the chair then tied an apron around her waist. Her job was to pour the flour into the bowl. His job was to mix it. Minutes later, he turned the dough out on a floured cutting board. Two sets of hands went to work kneading. By the time it was placed in a greased bowl to rise, Valerie had flour in her hair, on her face, on the T-shirt, her jeans; even her bare feet were dusted with it. Some even managed to get on the apron.
John looked the little girl over then removed her apron, draping it over the chair. "Now, we boil some water."
"How come?"
He smiled, ruffling her dusty black hair. "For your bath."
While they stood by the stove, waiting for the water to boil, Jill came into the kitchen, dressed in a terrycloth robe that fell below the knee. The calves of her legs were perfect, shapely, without even a scar. She too, was barefoot, despite the slippers he'd left by her bed. Evidently, going without shoes was a habit passed on from mother to daughter. Or perhaps it was the other way around. John spared the woman a smile.
She took one look at her messy daughter, head shaking. "What have you two been up to?"
"I'm making bread, Mommy."
"Sleep well?" John asked.
"Yes, thank you. And you?"
"It was short but sweet."
"How's your head feeling?" Jill asked. She came closer to get a better look at the welt on his forehead then reached out as if to sweep back his hair. Reconsidering her action, she withdrew her hand, and in the same sweet motion, swept a lock of dark hair behind her own ear...as if that had been her intention all along.
"Fine," he replied. "And your shoulder?"
"It'll be all right. I'm afraid I can't say the same for the pajama top I was wearing."
"Pajamas can easily be replaced," he said, flashing a smile. "I'm afraid I can't say the same for the people who wear them."
He used a potholder to take the first of three steaming kettles from the stovetop. And as he walked towards the hall, he realized he'd been leaning into his cane a little less than normal. He felt better than he had in a long time. He felt alive and knew whom he had to thank: the company he was now keeping. As crazy as it all seemed, as confusing, frustrating, and even frightening as it was, having Jillian and Valerie Braedon in his home was also refreshing. For the past few years, he'd wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Now, however, as Valerie walked at his side, he realized just how empty his home had been, how empty his life had been. He looked down at the little waif then turned his attention to the child's mother. The hell these two females had been through was just now beginning to sink in.
Ever since he awoke from his short but sweet nap, he'd been wondering how to broach the subject of enlisting the help of Mel Talbot. Of course, it would have to be the woman's call. Because, he had no guarantee that Mel – or anyone else for that matter – could be trusted.
John stopped before reaching the entrance of the hallway. "Valerie, I believe this bath water is for you. Ask your mother to pick you out a clean shirt from my dresser. Second drawer down. And," he added, addressing Jill, "feel free to browse through the closet while you're in there. I'm sure the trousers will be a bit on the large side, but you can always take up the slack with a belt. Dinner's in seven hours."
CHAPTER 14
Dinner was spaghetti with a meatless tomato sauce; cold water straight from the faucet; and home-baked bread, hot from the oven. It was John's first meal in the dining room, the first time the fine china had graced this particular table. And, despite not having the greens for a salad, or butter for the bread, the meal went well. The pasta was cooked to perfection. The sauce, although it came from a can, had large chunks of tender onion and could have passed for homemade. A selection of chamber music played softly in the background. The battery meter was in the green, but the room was illuminated by yellow candlelight.
Jillian had chosen a white, French cut shirt. Instead of tucking it into the black trousers she wore, she simply let the tail hang free. Around her neck was a thin, black tie that John had forgotten he owned. The gold tie clip, which she had found in his jewelry chest, matched the cufflinks. He had to admit she looked better in his clothes than he ever had. From a man's closet, she had put together a look that was totally feminine. She was also totally barefoot, which only added to her appeal. The woman was stunning.
Beside her, sat little Valerie, tomato sauce on her chin
and a stain or two on her shirt. Her shoulders were level with the top of the table. She seemed so petite for her age and that chipmunk face and voice of hers had already managed to capture his heart. Jillian had cut her daughter's spaghetti bite size, but the child still managed to slurp it. Every time she took a drink from her glass, John was sure she was going to spill it. For her little hands were slick with tomato sauce.
Looking at these two females, was like looking at a before and after picture. To the left, Jillian at the age of five, sweet and innocent and full of mischief. To the right, all grown up – still sweet, innocent, and he sensed full of mischief. They had the same straight black hair, the same porcelain white skin, and the same almond shaped eyes. Even some of their gestures were identical. The way they tipped their heads to take a bite of spaghetti; the way they used the bread to get the most of the tomato sauce; the way their noses crinkled up whenever they smiled. Valerie would break many a heart in the years ahead.
Jillian was breaking a heart now.
He guessed she was at least ten years his junior. The age difference, however, wasn't the problem. The problem was that she was beautiful, vibrant, personable, intelligent, and he had little to offer in return. She had immortality. He didn't even have two good legs. There are times, however, when a man has to try anyway. And John was giving that prospect a rather lengthy consideration.
When dinner ended, all three pitched in. The dishes were washed within minutes. The kitchen had returned to its usual immaculate condition. It was almost like having a family again. It felt good. It felt right. After Jillian went to tuck Valerie in for the night, John turned off the CD player and retired to the living room with a book he'd been reading. Although his eyes followed the print, his mind was preoccupied. After a minute or two passed, he marked his page and closed the book. His thoughts were restless, jumping from one topic to another.
The room he used for storage was actually another bedroom. He could clean it out in the morning, and when the road was clear, he could go into town and purchase a bed. The woman had nowhere else to go. She could stay here, she and the child, for as long as they wished.
Brewster would probably come back and pay another visit. But after a while – weeks, months, years? – the man would eventually give it up and find another more suitable prey to stalk.
As for the woman's living nightmare, well, there had to be a way to solve it. Mel Talbot wasn’t a surgeon. But he might be able to get the information needed to reverse the process...if such information did, in fact, exist. The next step would be to find a doctor. Perhaps Dr. Neas was still alive. Maybe, just maybe. And then again, maybe not.
The question on John's mind right now was: If it can't be reversed, can I live with it? Screams during the night. His house being torn apart. The little girl begging, crying for him to do something, when there was absolutely nothing that could be done. Night after night, waiting for his home to be invaded and the terror to start. Orange eyes boring straight into his soul. Sewing the woman's flesh together only to find her ripped apart the following day. Could he care enough for another human being to put himself through a lifetime of hell? Yes. Maybe. Yes. But there was more at risk than that.
Another kind of hell would follow, if he allowed himself to care too deeply.
He could picture himself decades from now, seventy or eighty years old: age spots on his wrinkled skin, hairline receding, dropping his dentures in a jar by the bed...and the woman just as young and beautiful as ever. The whole purpose behind falling in love is to find someone to share growing old with. It could not be that way with Jillian Braedon. The ten or so years difference in their ages, would become twenty years, twenty-five. Little by little, he'd lose her. Then one day, she'd look at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
But if she could become normal again...
John got up, threw a log on the fire then returned to the couch. He seemed remarkably calm for someone who waited for the whole world to come crumbling down upon him. He watched the flames consume the wood within the fireplace with great interest, the same way a man might lose himself in a good book.
When Jill walked into the room, he didn't even notice her, until she said, "Valerie fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow."
She sat down next to John, folding the shirttail beneath her, crossing her legs at the knee. He met her gaze. There was an exchange of polite smiles between two people who were sitting too closely to be at ease with one another.
Then John said, "I've been meaning to talk to you about something rather important."
"If you want us to leave, I'll understand."
John shook his head. "No. Nothing like that. You're welcome to stay. Seriously. For as long as you wish. What I want to talk about is a man who once was and probably still is the best friend I’ve ever had, someone who might be able to help."
He spent the next several minutes telling her what he knew about Mel Talbot. She asked a few questions, which he answered, evidently to her satisfaction.
"Mel's the kind of man who'd have nothing to gain by turning you in. He's well known. Perhaps not over here, but in the Kingdom and other parts of Europe. He isn't after fame or fortune, although he has both. He's anti‑establishment, likes worthy causes. A man whose ideals are those of the sixties. Best of all, he likes a challenge.
"You'd said Dr. Neas was working on a way to stop the nightmares. Maybe he's found a cure by now. If this Neas person has given that information to the FBI, Mel's the man who can find out. If Neas is still alive, Mel can find that out, too."
"We can give it a try," Jill replied, all smiles. But there was something in her voice, a reluctance suggesting the smile was for his benefit, that she'd been this route before and was afraid of the disappointment that was sure to follow. "It's better than doing nothing."
"I think we should start by tracking down Neas."
"How much will all this cost?"
"I have no idea."
She folded her hands over her knee. Nothing of her earlier smile remained. "Take a guess."
"Your guess is as good as mine. It all depends upon how far Mel has to go, how much work is involved, how much risk. If we're lucky, tracking down Neas will be enough."
"That could take thousands of dollars."
"To begin with, perhaps. But it will be well worth every cent if something good comes of this."
She shook her head lightly, lips pressed firmly together with frustration. "Maybe it would be best to leave things as they are."
"Afraid of having your hopes dashed?" he asked.
She tried to smile; the smile faltered. "There's a bank in Fairshire, Massachusetts, with over two hundred‑thousand dollars of my money. I can't touch it. Jim had two life insurance policies, worth half a million dollars each. I can't collect it. It's mine, but it isn't mine."
"I'll make you a loan."
"I'd never be able to pay it back."
He could sense her pulling away, which was the last thing he wanted to happen. Smiling, one brow raised, he said, "But you haven't even heard my terms, yet."
"It doesn't matter; I'm broke."
"Why don't we put this conversation off until after I've had a chance to talk to Mel. Who knows? Maybe he's up for the challenge for the sake of the challenge. As I've already said, Mel isn't interested in money. At least, not the Mel I knew a few years back."
He sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, trying to rationalize what he'd just offered. He had offered hope – nothing more – and now the regrets began to surface. There was a good possibility he wouldn't be able to locate Mel Talbot, much less have Mel Talbot locate Dr. Neas. There was even a chance that Mel was dead or serving time in prison for hacking or some other information technology crime. Certainly, there were other gifted people out there like Mel Talbot. Finding one, however, would be next to impossible. It wasn't as if he could turn to the Yellow Pages under the heading of 'Computer Espionage' and choose a name at random. If the information that would help Jillia
n could be found, there was no guarantee that whoever found it wouldn't take advantage of the situation.
Maybe the woman was right; it was best to leave things as they were. Otherwise, immortality could be sold to the highest bidder. And everything the woman had been fighting to hide would come out in the open. On the other hand, by not helping her, he would lose her. There were too many 'ifs' involved. Too much left to blind chance. He could be subjecting the entire world to utter chaos, all for the sake of a woman and her five‑year‑old child.
It would be several more days before he could get to a telephone, but it wouldn't matter if he had the rest of his life to think things through. There were no clear-cut answers. Only God should have the right to make such decisions. And it seemed as if God already had. He'd made man in His own image, with one exception: Men were born to die.
"You're worried," Jill said knowingly. "Worried that something will go wrong." The softness seemed to melt from her face. Her eyes were no longer gentle, but glimmering with cold intensity. Bitterness creased her lips. The change took place within the blink of an eye. Yet it was the smugness in her voice that hit him hardest, when she said: "Sometimes, I think it would be better to put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. I'm not sure that would do the trick, though. Maybe some explosives. Or a guillotine. Or maybe a dive off a tall building. I guess if I had any guts at all, I could always find a vat of acid and fall in. Rightfully, I should be dead right now, anyway. And I guess that makes me a cheat. Richard was the strong one. When he made a mistake, he always faced up to it. That's the kind of guy he was: selfless. I guess that's why he killed himself, to protect me…and I'm still alive. I'm a coward. If..."
"Stop it!"
"If I died, everyone's problems would be solved. You know it. I know it. They would use or kill Valerie to get to me. But once I'm dead, they'll leave her alone. Sure, they might do whatever was necessary so she'd forget everything. But then, they'd find her a nice home, with two caring parents. She deserves that, you know? She should go to school. She should be able to live without fear." She sniffled; bottom lip quivering, yet the hardness in her eyes remained. "I've failed her. Damn, how I've failed her. Do you want to know how she spent this last Christmas Eve? I'll tell you. In a parking lot of a 76 Truck Stop, looking for a car to steal. Great way to be raising a five-year-old child, isn’t it – stealing cars in the middle of the night. I found a van with the keys in the ignition and a snowmobile in the back. You want to know how many presents she had to open Christmas morning? None. If I don't do something to stop this, she'll never have a normal life."
HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS Page 9