He smiled half a smile. Using her earlier words against her, he said, "Just trust me, okay?"
Her eyes glimmered as if she found his remark amusing. "My father once warned me about men who speak of blind trust."
"Ahh...But I'm not like all those other men," he quipped.
"How so?"
"I'm sincere." And the moment he spoke those two words, he did, in fact, appear quite sincere. He met her gaze, openly. Had it not been for the twitch at the corner of his mouth, he'd have carried the illusion off perfectly.
"And modest," she added with a smile.
"Quite."
Her smile broadened. "I'm serious about that. You've got to be the most modest man I've ever met. There are five platinum albums hanging on your bedroom wall – five! – and yet you act as though you're no different than anyone else. You haven't even mentioned it once."
"It's not as if I came up with a cure for cancer, or single‑handedly conquered the problem of world hunger. I write songs. A lot of people write songs. I'm just one of the lucky ones; that's all."
She shook her head in disbelief. "But they're beautiful songs."
"You'd have written beautiful songs too, had the world been placed in your back pocket at the age of seventeen."
"See," she said. "Right there. That's just what I mean. The words you use. You're poetic by nature."
He had a strong passion for words, which was why he read so much, and why, when the mood struck, words became poetry and poetry was put to song. Nevertheless, he wanted to deny it because it was at exactly that point where the on-stage personality and the real John became the same person. And if they became the same in that one instance, then they could also be the same in everything else. It was difficult to believe that the man who lingered backstage with a bad case of nervous jitters and a glass of fizzling Alka‑Seltzer, was the same carefree man who emerged on stage, in complete control before the masses. Very difficult indeed. Because the former was a private man who kept to himself, and the latter lived for the applause, for the cheering, for the women – young and old – who'd rush the stage in a crazed frenzy with only one thing in mind. And damn if he hadn't enjoyed the attention.
"If we do find Dr. Neas," he began, deliberately changing the subject, "if there is a way to reverse what's been done to you, you may have to make a very difficult decision. Getting rid of the nightmares may involve giving up something else. It's possible the only way to help you, is to make you like everyone else. No eternal life, no more being able to heal whatever ails you. You'd grow old."
Jillian was on the verge of explaining that she'd be giving up much more than that, when Bear went into another barking fit. She started with, "John, there's something I have to tell you," and ended with, "Oh God, it's them. They've come back."
"Damn," John whispered, getting to his feet. He listened carefully, at first hearing nothing but the dog's barking. "It can't be them. Surely they wouldn't come at such a late hour."
But then he heard it, a familiar sound that not only made him fear for the woman, but also brought back the painful memory of five years past:
The trip had started in St. Helens, about ten miles outside Liverpool. The intended destination was Whitehaven. John and Vickie planned to stay there one night – kind of a second honeymoon, or a third or fourth – he'd lost track. Then charter a ship to take them along the Solway Firth, and finally out across the Irish Sea to the Isle of Man, where they would meet up with Pete, the drummer, and Pete's new wife, for three days of relaxation.
Vickie was going to leave Ryan with her parents (now deceased; both parents went within a week of each other from what the doctor claimed to be natural causes; both died at the age of fifty‑six, too young for natural causes), who lived on the outskirts of St. Helens. She was uncomfortable with the idea of taking such a young child on a helicopter ride, uncomfortable with the idea of being away from the boy for six whole days. It was a tough decision for her to make, but it had been made.
Then, on the day they were scheduled to leave, Vickie's mother called the hotel, saying that she was coming down with a virus. Chances were, it was just another allergy attack. The woman had them all the time. Vickie, however, wasn't inclined to take chances, especially where her only son was concerned, because Ryan had already suffered a bout with bronchitis once that year. A ride in a helicopter seemed much safer than exposing the boy to the flu.
There was a heavy fog that morning, which wasn't uncommon. The forecast called for cloudy skies and a twenty percent chance for rain. Rain was another thing that wasn't uncommon. Regardless, Vickie worried. A debate occurred in the hotel room, that morning. The debate stretched on past noon. Vickie wanted to travel to Whitehaven by car. John insisted the weather was fine and that they go ahead with their scheduled plans, which had been scheduled eight months in advance, so he could spend time with his wife before the North American tour kicked off.
He would always remember the afternoon Vickie stood there by the helicopter, holding Ryan by the hand. The way she looked up at the dark, overcast sky, frowning. The fear in her green eyes that she usually reserved for times when Ryan ran a temperature or had trouble sleeping during the night. Her golden hair dancing in the cold wind of the rotor. She was afraid. The deafening roar of the helicopter made it all too real. She didn't want to climb aboard.
At that moment, had she said, "John, I can't. I just can't do this," he would have relented, or so he had since come to believe. They would have gone on to Whitehaven by car, spent a wonderful three days on the Isle of Man walking the rocky shores beneath a hazy sun, and returned with happy memories of time well spent. But a smile crossed her lips. It was an adventurous smile. And off she went to her death, both she and Ryan...
...Which was why John now had such a difficult time with decisions. Make the wrong choice, and it's all over. A man, who is choking to death on a piece of steak, is wishing he'd gone with the fish. The man, who has a fish bone lodged in his throat, dies wishing he had ordered the steak. Too many choices to make. And no way to determine the outcome. No way to go back and undo the damage, should the unthinkable occur.
There was a good chance the unthinkable could occur again. He could grasp no other reason for Brewster to land that bloody helicopter in the yard at such a late hour. According to the grandfather clock, it was nearly eleven‑thirty at night. Somehow, they had come to the conclusion that Jillian was here. They would make her talk then kill her.
While Jillian went to get Valerie, John went for his shotgun, knowing there wasn't a minute to spare.
He went straight into the master bedroom and headed for the closet when Jillian stepped into the room behind him and suddenly cried out.
John turned, feeling her panic even before understanding the nature of her fear. His first inclination was to look for a face at the window. In so doing, he almost overlooked the obvious: The empty bed. Little Valerie was missing.
CHAPTER 17
Brewster and Andrews approached the house through the deep drifts of snow, while Barnes remained behind in the helicopter. Barnes was pissed off, to put it mildly, that he'd been ordered to stay so the other two men could take all the glory if it turned out well. He was glad, however, that Brewster had taken him seriously. And wouldn't it beat all if the Braedon woman were in that house. Wouldn't it be nice to stick in their faces that he, Tim Barnes, low man on the totem pole, was responsible for the plan that caught the woman? As much as he hated Andrews, he owed the guy a favor. If not for Andrews, they wouldn't be out here right now. But the guy had sided with Barnes. Even Laurel, who was in for a whole lot of hurt once this was all over, had decided to go with it. Brewster, on the other hand, showed his reluctance. And Barnes knew why. Mister Head Honcho was leery of any idea that came from a mere peon.
Regardless of his hostilities, Barnes decided to let bygones be bygones, at least for the time being. Because, either the woman was in one of the six houses outlined by Brewster, or she had died in the blizzard.
This was the fifth house they had stopped at tonight. And each time they stopped, Barnes told himself that this was it. This was where they would finally catch up with her. The four earlier disappointments didn't dissuade him from his belief that they'd find her tonight. If anything, each one had only psyched him up more. He couldn't remember the last time his heart had beat so fiercely. Or the last time his mouth had been so totally dry. Of course, that may have been as recently as two weeks ago. But none of that mattered now. Tonight, they would know whether she was dead or alive. And Barnes wanted very much to find her alive. He wanted to see her in pain and take revenge for what she'd done to his two good friends and coworkers (whose faces he could not remember), whose deaths she'd caused. And then he'd take revenge for the past three and a half years of 'living hell' he'd been through (but couldn't quite remember), on her account. Yes. Tonight was a good night. And after the Braedon fiasco came to an end, he and the redhead had some unfinished business of their own. Barnes felt so elated, he was afraid he might piss his pants.
<<>>
The master bedroom was dark, but Jillian checked it nonetheless, looking through the closet, beneath the bed, having enough wits about her to understand the importance of not calling out for the child.
“She’s not here,” she said, rushing her way through the bedroom, one hand pressed to her knotted stomach. “The kitchen!”
“She said she sleepwalks,” John said, following Jillian into the hallway.
“Yes.”
“I’ll check the guest room.”
<<>>
Brewster knocked on the door then stood back, breath turning to frost at each exhalation. He thought it odd that Mills hadn't been standing there waiting as he'd done during the last two visits. The helicopter screamed loud enough to wake anyone from a sound sleep. And that damn chow barked incessantly. Mills was aware he had guests. Yet Mills stalled. One reason came to mind. Only one. Mills was inside trying to hide any incriminating evidence, making sure no little girl's shoes could be found in the living room, making sure no woman's clothing hung on that rack by the fireplace. Was he stuffing comic books under the cushions of the chairs? Pulling dark hairs from his comb in the bathroom and flushing them down the toilet? Was he checking the dirty glasses in the sink for lipstick smudges?
Mills struck him as a thorough kind of guy. It might have been the man's British accent that made him seem that way, but Brewster thought it was more than that. A man like Mills probably had all kinds of tricks up his sleeves, was good at hiding things. Otherwise, he'd have been busted for possession of marijuana, cocaine, or whatever drug the Rock 'n' Roll junkies were into these days.
<<>>
As Jillian raced for the kitchen, the worst-case scenario passed through her mind: they had Valerie; they had her little girl. The feeling became even stronger when she found the kitchen empty. It was a nightmare, worse than any monster, worse than anything she’d ever imagined, including the death of her own husband. A mother’s purpose was to protect her young. Valerie was missing. Her baby. Her little girl wasn’t in the bedroom. She wasn’t in the kitchen. They had her. And Jillian grew even surer of this when she met up with John in the dining room. One look at his sober face and she knew: He hadn’t found her.
“John,” she said, tears slipping down her face. Someone pounded loudly on the front door. Bear barked repeatedly. “What’ll we do?”
He grabbed her by the arm, leading her back into the kitchen, with the woman protesting all the way. “Jillian, listen to me. She’s got to be in here some place. She’s a very smart little girl. If she hears strange voices, she’ll stay hidden. I’m sure of it.”
“John, we’ve got to find her. We can’t let them inside. Not until we find her.”
“We?” he questioned. “You’re going to hide in room off the pantry.”
“Not without Valerie!” Jillian argued. Another loud series of bangs came from the front door.
John continued leading her through the kitchen. “We have no choice.”
“They have her, John. What if they have her?”
He released her arm as they entered the pantry, knowing that if Jillian were right, the only chance they stood of getting the child back was the shotgun, which he kept in the bedroom closet.
“She couldn’t have gotten outside without notice. She’s in the house. Someplace safe. And that’s where you need to be, someplace safe. If we stall any longer, they’re going to be suspicious...if they’re not suspicious already. You’ve got to hide. Now.”
“I know,” she replied, voice trembling, head shaking. “But I can’t. I can’t. John, I can’t...”
John pushed aside the stack of canned tuna, pressed the button, and the opening into the triangular room appeared. “You can. And you will.”
She stepped inside the small room. There was no time to argue. Even from where she stood, she could hear the relentless pounding on the front door. “Will you look one more time?” she pleaded, desperation leaving her eyes glassy, her heart aching. “Please?”
“I’ll look,” he promised, realizing there was no other answer he could give.
As soon as the small wall slid soundlessly in place, John started for the bedroom, peering into the guest room as he passed along the hallway. The child wasn’t there. He went into the master bedroom, checking the bathroom one last time before retrieving his weapon, knowing that if they already had Valerie, he would have no choice but to kill them.
<<>>
The outside light came on, illuminating a small patch of the porch and yard. He heard the deadbolt retract into the door. The doorknob turned. If Jillian Braedon were in there, Brewster would know within moments of seeing the face of John Mills. No man could hide that kind of guilt when faced with a search at such a late hour, especially with the stakes so high. And in the brief moment while the door swung inward, Brewster took the worst-case scenario into consideration. He might have to kill John Mills. Because, the only reason anyone would protect the woman from the FBI, was if she'd talked. Kevin Brewster had been given his orders only once. And although he couldn't recall the surrounding circumstances, although he wasn't sure if those orders had been given in person or had been sent in a message, he remembered word for word what those orders were: Terminate the Braedons and anyone else who has knowledge of this matter.
There were only two exceptions: a doctor by the name of Carl Neas, and another doctor by the name of Richard Manning. Neas, the man who'd performed the surgery to which Manning, brother of the patient, had assisted, was needed alive. Manning had taken his own life, quite neatly with a gun he'd grabbed from Barnes – that dumb bastard. And Neas, who had been taken into custody three times, was now either up in Heaven, or down in Hell – if either of those two places did, in fact, exist.
<<>>
John un-tucked his shirt tail from his trousers; ruffled his blond hair so that it fell over his brow; unfastened, then refastened his shirt, so that the buttons were no longer mated with the proper button holes; then turned the collar of his shirt wrong.
The shotgun rested on the kitchen table, both barrels loaded. If needed in a hurry, he could get to it. If not, it wouldn’t look overly suspicious to have a weapon within easy reach while a suspected murderess was supposedly on the prowl. When he opened the door and greeted his uninvited guests, he thought he had all bases covered, save the most important: the missing child.
Then, the interrogation began.
Brewster removed his hands from the pockets of his overcoat. "My friend Andrews and I were worried when you didn't come to the door."
John looked down at his miss-buttoned shirt as if mildly embarrassed. "I wasn't exactly dressed for company when you arrived. I thought it would be best to change into something more suitable."
Brewster asked, "Are you alone?"
"No. Bear's here."
"Are we interrupting anything?" Brewster asked.
John began buttoning his shirt properly. "Nothing that can't be put off until an
other time. I was just reading a book."
Andrews nodded, then asked. "Do you usually read so late at night?"
John stepped away from the door, inviting the two men into the foyer, neither of whom bothered to stomp the snow from their shoes.
CHAPTER 18
"I've been having a bit of insomnia lately, ever since you warned me about that crazed woman being on the loose in these parts," John said.
Andrews removed both hands from his coat pockets, and spoke again. "What book are you reading?"
John looked the two men over. He didn't like the feel of the conversation; what did it matter what book he read? He didn't like the fact that they both wore heavy coats, which probably concealed guns. He didn't like having them in his home. Most of all, he didn't like what these two men stood for. The government was supposed to protect its people, not chase them down and kill them. John thought about the shotgun in the kitchen and the whereabouts of Valerie; he wondered if Arizona carried The Death Penalty for murdering government officers. After a moment's pause, he replied: The Scarlet Letter. I'm halfway through it for the second time."
Brewster circled around him from the left, Andrews, from the right. John turned to face them, only they had continued forward. Brewster entered the living room, while Andrews decided to mosey around the dining room.
"If there's something I can do for you," John began, following Andrews, because Andrews headed in the direction to where the woman could be found, "don't hesitate to ask."
"Great," Brewster replied from the other room. "Then you won't mind us having a look around. We're checking all the homes in the area."
John felt as if he'd just been sucker-punched. A search. A search of his home, with Valerie being only God knew where. Regardless, he had no choice but to go along with whatever they requested. Anything less than complete cooperation on his part would alert them to the truth. And if Valerie were to stand a chance – any chance at all of staying a step or two ahead of these men – it was not only contingent upon the child keeping her wits, but upon John keeping his also.
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