John leaned a little closer, raising a questioning brow. "Are you through feeling sorry for yourself?" His tone was harsh and evidently stung. For she drew in a ragged breath and held it as if she'd just been slapped in the face. "Do you think you're the only person in this world with problems?" he continued. His cold smile was equal to the smugness she had just poured upon him. His face was flushed with anger. "If you want to take the coward's way out, I don't want to hear about it. I have no respect for anyone who would try to take her own life. Especially a woman who has a child. So, if you want to kill yourself, you'll get no sympathy from me. None whatsoever."
Her jaw dropped, quivering. She couldn't have looked more confused, more embarrassed and upset had she found herself standing naked in a public men's room.
"But if you want to fight this," he said, his voice taking on a gentle quality, "if you need a shoulder to lean on, mine is always available. It's all up to you."
"I...I don't want to die," she said, tears falling down her face. "It's just that...just that..."
He took the woman in his arms and held on tightly as her tears dampened his shirt. Her hands slipped around to his back. She was trembling. She tried to speak, but her voice remained caught behind the hard aching in her throat. When she pulled away, she did so slowly, head downcast as if ashamed of her behavior. She drew both hands into her lap, shoulders sagging.
He covered her hands with his own. "Jillian." He spoke her name softly, gently squeezing her hands. For several long moments, the only sound was that of the ticking grandfather clock and the flames crackling in the fireplace. "I won't tell you everything's going to be all right. About the only reassurance I can offer is that you're not alone in this. Not anymore. If there's an answer, we'll find it. If not, then no one can accuse us of not giving it one hell of a good try."
"You...you shouldn't get involved in this, John. If something goes wrong..."
"Too late," he said with a gentle smile. "I'm already involved. And if there's a way to stop the nightmares, we'll find it."
"About my nightmares. I won't be having one tonight. I just thought you should know, so you can rest easy."
"You're not planning on staying up all night?"
"No."
"Then how can you be sure?"
She glanced around the room with blue eyes that were faded with tears. She already loved this house and the quiet kept within its stone walls. It was the closest thing she'd had to a real home in a very long time. And she cared deeply for the man who made her feel safe here – deeply enough to hide the truth for a little while longer. The nightmares were intensified by a conscious decision. It was not possible to stop them altogether. Yet, she did have an element of control over them.
No, she wouldn't have any nightmares tonight, at least none that could project into reality. Because, Jill had done nothing to rile the monster. Eventually, however, she would. If not tomorrow, then perhaps the next day. Conscious decision or not, there were times when it was unavoidable – like the night John had found her all slashed to ribbons; it was either make the monster mad, or allow an innocent child to die. Sooner or later, he would figure it out for himself. He had a right to know, but now wasn't the time. To tell him now would hinder the decision she had already made.
"How can you be sure?" he asked again.
"Just trust me, okay?"
CHAPTER 15
Originally, they numbered eight. The Braedon woman had caused the death of two. Now, there were six of them. Five men, all tall, all with dark hair and dark eyes. One woman, a redhead who went by the name of Laurel. They worked in eight-hour shifts, two at a time, monitoring the goings‑on at eleven desert homes in the vicinity, via eleven receivers – each tuned to a different frequency. Although Kevin Brewster sported a wedding band, none of them had ever been married. They had other things in common, as well: no mothers; no fathers; no sisters or brothers. They shared three basic needs: to eat, to sleep, and to kill Jillian Braedon.
A gas generator supplied electricity to the one room house. Unevenly distributed heat came from an old potbelly stove, left here by the previous occupant. The floor was made of hard packed dirt and lent a musty odor to the room now that the stove heater worked steadily. The walls were made of old wood that smelled of dry rot. Opaque sheets of plastic stapled to the otherwise vacant casings served as windows. The roof was a pitiful sight of galvanized sheeting, littered with small holes as if a barrage of bullets had hit it. During the day, sun filtered through the tiny holes, seeding the floor with light. During the night, it was just one more way for the cold air to find its way inside.
It was not really a home at all, just a shack with an outhouse out back that reeked of ammonia, among other things. And yes, the outhouse reeked, too.
Laurel sat in the only chair, legs crossed, feet propped on the table. She had a cigarette burning. But instead of sitting forward to reach the ashtray, she tapped the ashes on the dirt floor. She was tired, hungry, and her butt was sore from sitting in the chair. She grew impatient. Brewster and Andrews were scheduled to be here more than twenty minutes ago. Laurel was not one who liked to be kept waiting. She moved one size seven foot just enough to tap Barnes in the ass, then said, "Why don't you give them a call. I've had enough of this shit for one day."
Barnes, who had been pouring lukewarm coffee from a thermos, took his Styrofoam cup to the other side of the room and sat down on the floor. He didn't say anything to the redheaded bitch. If it were that important for her to find out what was taking Brewster and Andrews so long, she could get off her skinny ass and make the call herself.
Barnes hated women. He liked to look at women, pretty women. And Laurel, that redheaded bitch, was certainly pretty. He liked touching women. He liked hurting them, too. And as soon as this Braedon bullshit was over, Laurel was in for a whole lot of hurt.
"Hey, Barnes. Did you...” She stopped in mid sentence, ears picking up the familiar thump of a distant helicopter. Her feet dropped to the floor as her hand swept the table in search of a pen. The job they expected her to perform was a simple one, so simple that it was positively boring. She listened to the receiver and jotted down the time of day each receiver picked up voices, doing so on the corresponding tablet of paper. She didn't need to write down what was said, because the computer handled that. She really didn’t need to write anything. Brewster liked to hand out as much busy work as possible. Even when there was not a single good reason. Boring.
Just the same, when Brewster and Andrews walked through the door, Laurel wanted to look busy. Not because she liked either of the two men. Not because she had any respect for them. It was only a matter of appearance.
Barnes greeted the relief team at the door, weary from having spent eight full hours listening to Laurel bitch and complain. It was always the same old song and dance with that woman. She trusted no one, hated everyone, and made her grievances known only to the poor sucker who was trapped into working on her shift. And the poor sucker always happened to be Barnes. He knew he ranked low on the totem pole, but he didn't know why. No one – not even Brewster – had a satisfactory answer for that. Brewster pretended to know, but he appeared just as much in the dark about the affair as the other five. The whole thing stunk like a bowl of rotten potatoes.
Who am I? He’d asked on at least a hundred occasions.
Brewster's reply was always the same: You're FBI.
I know that. But Who Am I?
It nagged him throughout the day, plagued him in haunting dreams at night. It was difficult to believe the fucking FBI could program a person to forget and to keep on forgetting more and more things. Events that had taken place as recently as two weeks ago were already lost to him. Yet, the facts remained firmly in his mind. He knew, for instance, that they'd been looking for the Braedon woman for the past three and a half years. How he knew such a thing, remained a mystery.
A man, thirty years old, remembers his ABC's – of course, he does. He cannot, however, remember who taught him. He
knows he went to kindergarten, but cannot recall the teacher's name. Neither can he remember anything about the classroom, or the children with whom he had played. It's all been wiped away. And yet, the knowledge acquired during those years remains intact.
Yes, it was natural to forget something that happened twenty‑five years ago. But two weeks ago? He knew two of the men he'd worked with were dead. The cause: Jillian Braedon. He could not, however, try as he may, remember their faces or anything else about those two men. They were dead; the woman was responsible – simple facts. Brewster had explained that it was done in such a way so they could focus more clearly on their jobs. That, and for security purposes. Take away a man's past, and he can't blab classified information to the public. Bullshit! Barnes wanted a better explanation than that. And he had the feeling the answer would only be found once the business with Jillian Braedon had been resolved.
Brewster slipped his sunglasses into the breast pocket of his silk lined jacket as he walked to the table where Laurel sat. "Anything?" he asked.
"No," she replied. "The Foremans and the Garcias have had their TV's on all day. I mean all day. I think, even being voice-activated, their batteries are going to go dead soon. Some kid at the Greck's house has been screaming off and on. The parents were talking about using the transponder to see if you might take them and their kid to the doctor. Oh, and the Kearneys are contemplating divorce. And then we've got several hours recorded of 'fuck yous' from the Detmer's house. Last but not least, Mr. and Mrs. Bain are thinking about growing a crop of marijuana in the spring to supplement their Social Security."
"Nothing from the other five?" Brewster asked.
"Not that amounts to anything."
Brewster stood over the area map on the table. He took a pen from his pocket, drawing a circle in red ink, and tapping the pen in the center. "We've located the snowmobile that belongs to the owner of the stolen van. It was right about here, about two miles from where we are now," he said, again tapping the pen on the map. "I think it's safe to rule out the Foremans, Koviches, Gutierrezes, and the Kearneys. And I doubt she and the child could have made it to the Detmer's before the blizzard blew in. We'll narrow our focus to the six remaining. If we could ascertain whether she and the child had continued in the direction they were travelling, it would narrow it down even more. We'd be left with the Garcias and John Mills."
Barnes walked over to the table, and studied the map with great interest. "We could save a lot of time and frustration by going into those houses and looking around."
"Can't without a warrant," Laurel reminded him. "To get a warrant, you'll need probable cause. Would you like to stand before a judge, Barnes, and explain what we've been doing for the past three and a half years?"
Barnes shook his head. "Fuck the warrant. We're FBI. Those people are so far out in the desert, we could blow them all away and months would pass before anyone found the bodies. Besides, we're running low on funds, as usual. You said so yourself, Brewster, just yesterday. We kill them, take any cash and valuables we find, and in the process get the Braedon woman. Sounds like an answer to all our problems."
Brewster dropped a hand on Barnes' shoulder. "You're forgetting something. One of those who you're talking about blowing away is a celebrity. We could deep-six the rest and it would be forgotten in a month. People are murdered every day. But when it comes to a celebrity, especially one as well known as Mills, there's apt to be one hell of a stink raised."
"I still think we should conduct a house by house search," Barnes said. The tips of his ears were burning red. He hated being low man on the totem pole. Hated it with a passion. Too many of his good ideas could go to waste because of it. He wasn't about to let it happen. Not when they were so close to finding the Braedon bitch. Not when he was so close to finding out why he couldn't remember who he really was. "Look, if anyone refuses to have their home searched, it'll point to their guilt. Then, we'll know. We'll know, damn it. It's better than sitting around here twiddling our thumbs."
"He's right," Andrews said, dipping both hands into his pants pockets. Andrews was a man of few words, which was why when he did speak, Brewster listened. "We have to get to them before they have the opportunity to transport the woman into town. Otherwise, we'll lose her...again." He smiled lightly, confident they wouldn't find the woman. After all, she’d done a fairly good job of eluding them for the past three and a half years.
CHAPTER 16
John had to take a lengthy moment to consider his answer. He was exhausted, it was late, but the woman appeared more than mildly curious. It seemed important for her to know the truth, as if his response might somehow have an impact on her life. He'd realized that the question would be asked sooner or later. And now that it faced him, his mind seemed numb; the palms of his hands had turned moist. He knew the feeling well. Its name was apprehension.
Jillian had thanked him for his help, and now she wanted to know why. Why would he help her? He had reasons – several of them. Putting them into words, however, would be difficult. Because, as he’d learned a long time ago, the truth is usually a disappointment.
There was more to it than that, much more. Being in the music business was very much like being an actor. He would put on a show, never letting anyone know or get close to the real John Mills. The man seen on stage was little more than a fictitious character, an illusion he'd created to whet the appetites of potential record buyers. The real John Mills – a man who enjoyed doing sketches, listening to classical music, and quiet evenings alone with a good book – would have been a big disappointment to the thousands of screaming fans. Subsequently, he kept his private life to himself. Otherwise, comparisons would be made. Questions would be asked. Expectations would be dashed. Record sales would plummet.
Now, however, he had no screaming fans, no record or CD sales on the line. It was just he and the woman. Yet the apprehension remained. He worried what she might think once she learned the truth, that he was not the hero she believed, rather an ordinary, average guy with his own share of faults. The least of which was a bum leg.
First, he hadn't been able to turn his back on a badly frightened little girl. Of course, that all happened before he realized what he’d gotten himself into. So it had started out with something simple. His action wasn't heroic, only humane. He could take no credit for not turning away a freezing five‑year‑old child.
Second, he found himself in a position of responsibility. He had saved someone's life and didn't want Brewster to undo those laborious efforts. He wasn't some Good Samaritan out trying to win points with God. Not at all. What he felt for the human race was nothing short of contempt. He had dropped out of society because people, in general, are greedy sonsabitches who care only for themselves. If they would ask for an autograph from a critically injured man whose wife and son were laying dead less than ten feet away in the rubble of a helicopter crash, then nothing was beneath them. Regardless, John had to live with John. He was no Good Samaritan. He just had one hellava conscience to contend with, and he didn't want it eating at him for the rest of his life. Nothing heroic there.
Reasons three and four were not acts of heroism, either. He wanted to help the woman and her child because, in a strange kind of way, he was making up for the loss of his own family. A psychiatrist would have a good time analyzing that. And Jillian, having been the wife of one, probably understood the workings of the human mind better than most. More than likely, she'd be insulted. For it wasn't she who John had gone after during a blizzard and stitched up; rather, his deceased wife. And within a short time of saving Jillian – or the ghost of his wife – he had become aware of the potential danger should a small group of people own the secrets of eternal life. Again, selfishness. He didn't want to shoulder the blame for screwing up an already screwed up world.
Reason five, was only semi‑selfish. Jillian Braedon and her daughter had become the most important people in his life. He couldn't read more than a few moments without pausing to think of the woman. He c
ouldn't walk the hallway at night without stopping by her room, resting a hand upon the door, and recalling her smile, her laughter, and her soft and feminine voice. Although he had already come to the conclusion that there was no future in it for him, he felt compelled to do anything within his means to ensure the safety of both mother and daughter. He'd never met anyone quite like Jillian. All preternatural abilities aside, she was still fascinating. He liked classical music. She liked classical music. She had complimented him on the details of his home. He'd failed to tell her so, but he had drawn up the blueprints himself. There was something about her that seemed positively medieval in nature: porcelain white skin contrasted by her jet black hair; subtle gestures that were also quite bold; glimmering blue eyes that spoke of a mystical intelligence. She belonged in this house, perhaps more than John himself did. It would have been a match made in Heaven, had the surrounding circumstances not come straight from the bowels of Hell.
Why would he help this woman? Simple, yet not so simple for him to put into words and come out a winner in her eyes. John Mills was powerless to do anything but. As frightening as it was to have so little control, just sitting here at her side – being the recipient of her warm and gentle smile – made it all worth his while.
"You're not going to tell me why, are you?" she prodded.
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