As he passed into the dining room, he realized the mistake he’d made. By following Andrews, he gave them reason to be suspicious. He gave them reason to believe that Andrews was much warmer to finding the woman than Brewster. So, he went into the living room, heart in his throat and what he hoped to be a causal smile on his face.
"Actually," John began, "I do mind."
"Oh?" Brewster said, turning around. The front flaps of his overcoat were pushed back as he placed both hands on his hips. Still, John could see no weapon. That did not, however, mean the man wasn't carrying one. The man's jacket could easily conceal a weapon. And John suspected this to be the case.
"The average man doesn't like having his privacy invaded," John said bluntly. "Especially so late at night. I'm no different, Special Agent Brewster." To that, Brewster frowned. And John continued. "I'm not saying I'm without understanding of your position, which is why I'm not ordering you out of my home. There's a criminal on the loose. If you feel you must search every house in the vicinity, then you must have your reasons.
"However, since you haven't produced one, I'm assuming you have no search warrant. And, as you can see, since I am willing to cooperate, it's only fair that I set the ground rules of the search."
Brewster ran a hand down the length of his face, visibly perturbed. The man sighed heavily. "Which are?"
"Call your friend in here. I'll explain."
When Andrews came into the room, John offered both men a seat. John remained on his feet, leaning into his cane. His standing, while the other two men sat before him, gave him a psychological edge. It let them know exactly who was in authority here while he laid the ground rules.
"You have your interests to protect, gentlemen, and I have mine. You have no reason to trust me, because I am a stranger, and I feel the same way about the two of you. Your being here suggests that you aren't entirely sure of my integrity. Again, it goes both ways. And since I have many valuable antiques in my home, many small enough to fit into a coat pocket without my notice, I'm sure you'll understand why I must insist I be with you at all times during the search. It's nothing personal, just as I'm sure your desire to search the premises is not an intentional slam against my integrity. If you agree, you may look around. If not, then you'll have to leave and come back another time after a judge has issued a warrant."
John waited as the two men exchanged silent glances. It occurred to him that this was perhaps the best performance of his life. And certainly, it was the most important one. Standing here, before two men who were surely armed, insisting that they do things his way as if it were a perfectly acceptable thing to do, sweat trickling down the side of his face, knowing either of these two men could draw a gun at any moment...
At this moment, Valerie was his main concern. He didn't care about the antiques. There were candlestick holders that dated back to the sixteenth century. A more modern version would suit his needs just as well. There were pewter statuettes in a glass case in his bedroom, which had been handed down through six generations of Mills'. No, they couldn't be replaced. They were, however, just things. It would be disappointing to find one missing. Nevertheless, it would not send him into a depression; he'd had things turn up missing before. There was a small painted vase he'd picked up in a pawnshop during a brief stay in Wales. He believed it to be very valuable, but as yet, it had not been appraised. There were little trinkets all throughout the house. Some, worth tens of thousands of dollars. Others, he'd picked up at department stores. All his wife's jewelry was in a box in the room he used for storage. Aside from the monetary value of the diamonds, gold and emeralds – which had complimented her green eyes – he placed a great sentimental value on them as well. Regardless, that was not the basis of his insistence. Valerie's safety was his main concern. He had, however, a secondary issue.
He hadn't read many spy novels – westerns was another genre he usually tried to avoid with the exception of works written by Louis L'Amour and Zane Grey – yet he wasn't totally in the dark as to the many different gadgets used in surveillance. So John wanted to keep both men in sight at all times. He didn't want to give them the opportunity to bug his home. The effects would be disastrous. As it was now, he couldn't be entirely sure if the living room was safe. The same went for the dining room, and perhaps the kitchen...if Andrews had been in there.
"Sounds fair," Brewster finally replied. He got to his feet, hand held out as if to indicate John should lead the way, then said: "Let's get started."
The best place to start was also the last place John wanted to go. In the long run, he felt it wiser to get it over with, than to live with the dread a moment longer than necessary. Brewster walked at John's side as they passed through the living room.
As they turned into the dining room, John placed his cane. He started to take a step forward, when Brewster kicked the cane out from under him. John went down, and he went down hard, barely managing to shift his weight at the last second to land on his left side.
Fear and outrage sent the blood rushing to his face as he looked up into Brewster's dark eyes. The kick had been deliberate. No denying that. From his semi‑sitting position on the floor, he groped for the cane that Brewster now straddled. Before taking a moment to consider the consequences, he brought the cane up quickly between Brewster's legs, dropping the man to his knees. John wielded the cane as one might a spear and turned on Andrews, who appeared to be suffering a mild case of shock.
Andrews held both hands up in plain sight, slack‑jawed, eyes shifting from Brewster – who was now red‑faced, gripping his balls in both hands – to John.
CHAPTER 19
"I'm armed," Andrews said. But he made no move for a gun. Neither did he sound as if he had any intentions of doing so. His remark was that of a young boy claiming to know karate while surrounded by a dozen vicious bullies who meant business. No, John didn't think the man bluffed about having a weapon. He simply believed Andrews preferred talk to violence.
It was now when the possible consequences began to sink in. The anger began to melt as the fear mounted. Getting up from the floor could be construed as a threatening move. He had assaulted an employee of the United States Government. Just cause or no, complications were sure to follow. And that wasn't the worst of it. John had no doubt that Brewster had intentionally taken him down and that they knew Jillian remained hidden somewhere in this house.
Had the shotgun been in his possession, he'd have used it, hoping that the two dead men hadn’t left any associates behind in the helicopter. As it was, however, even though his cane had dropped one man and remained in his possession, John was defenseless.
<<>>
"Fuck!" Brewster groaned for perhaps the twentieth time in five minutes. Twice, he'd said he was going to vomit. Both times, he'd been wrong. He got to his feet slowly, hunched over, one hand on his thigh, the other braced against the wall, knees bent and spread apart. His face had gone from a deep shade of red to a pale shade of ashen white. Sweat glistened above his brow. His teeth were clenched; yet his face hung loosely, making him look more like a cartoon character than the human being he pretended to be. From a hunched over position, he repeated what seemed to be his favorite word of the evening: "Fuck."
"Never underestimate a man with a cane," Andrews said as if humor could be found in the situation. And indeed, Andrews had a smile on his face.
With that having been said, John breathed a bit easier. He placed his cane, intending to use it to get to his feet, when Andrews extended a hand. John took the man up on the offer then brushed the wrinkles from his trousers once he regained a solid footing. Bear appeared at his side, curled tail wagging. John reached down, scratching the dog behind one ear. He didn't know whether to be relieved or upset that the dog had waited until now to put in an appearance. Had Bear been in here when Brewster attacked, the scene may have turned much uglier.
Brewster gave no explanation for his attack; neither did the man offer an apology. Brewster straightened out the best he could, sh
ook his downcast head from side to side, then said through gritted teeth: "I guess that makes us even. Come on. Let's get this over with before I pass out."
"You all right?" Andrews asked.
"Do I look..." Brewster said then stopped. His dark eyes narrowed for a moment when he realized Andrews had directed the question to John.
"I'll be fine," John said.
Since the dining room offered no place to hide – you could see clearly under the cherry wood table, and the china hutch had glass doors – they passed straight through into the kitchen, where John flipped on the overhead lights. He watched, with great relief, how Andrews looked around as if it were all new to him, the way the man's eyes widened when he saw the shotgun on the kitchen table. It was safe to assume Andrews had not been in here earlier. But the question of Valerie's whereabouts – Valerie's safety – still plagued him, eating away at him like an accelerated cancer.
"Gun loaded?" Andrews asked.
"Yes."
Brewster went to the table, cracked the barrel, and removed both shells, dropping them into the pocket of his overcoat. "Not anymore."
Both men went around the room, opening top and bottom cabinets, carefully peering inside as if something horrible might jump out. John watched it all from the center of the room and would have been amused by the way they went about their job, had it not been for the surrounding circumstances. For all he knew, the child was hiding in one of those cabinets.
Aside from the one instance when Brewster had taken the shells, neither of the two men reached into their pockets. If they planted bugs, they used invisible ones.
Brewster inspected the sink. He found no dirty glasses to check for lipstick smudges. No butter knife or dish he could take to dust for fingerprints. No sign that the woman was here. Not even a dark hair on the counter.
John knew the pantry would be next. What he hadn't taken into consideration, however, was that Bear would wander in there. He started to call the dog, then thought better of it. Best not to arouse suspicion. Better to pretend everything was fine, than to draw attention to the dog. John felt his throat tighten; realizing Bear now stood only a few feet away from where the woman hid.
Then Bear began to whimper.
At first, it went unnoticed by everyone but John, whose heart had gone from beating double time, to triple. He cleared his throat, loudly. He accidentally on purpose bumped his cane against one wooden chair, loudly. And when that failed to bring Bear out of the pantry, John began to whistle Fur Elise while drumming his fingers on the table as if annoyed. Andrews pulled open the door of the broom closet and made a brief inspection. John's heart continued to race, even when he realized Valerie was not in there. Brewster ran a hand along the granite counter top, examining his fingertips, as if looking for a trace of dust he could identify as belonging to the woman. The closet door was then closed. Brewster and Andrews walked to the center of the room, where John stood with one hand, clammy and cold, resting on the table.
Bear's whimpering stopped and the dog issued one quick bark.
"Does your dog usually bark for no reason?" Brewster asked. Without waiting for a response, he started towards the pantry. Andrews followed.
As for John, he went slowly to the butcher block between the sink and the stove. The knife rack loomed before him. His heart pumped fiercely, dumping adrenaline through his system. He knew exactly what he was doing. He had no idea what he was doing. He withdrew a mincing knife. His eyes transfixed on its glinting, nine‑inch, stainless steel blade. As his sweaty hand grasped the handle, he knew full well that once the deed was done he would be bound to it for the rest of his life – a life that might end within the next few minutes.
They were in his home. Searching at his invitation. While one person hid in a small, dark room. And the other, a five-year-old child, had to fend for herself. It was madness. Nothing like this was ever supposed to happen. His hand began to tremble; yet his fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the knife with complete resolve. There was more at stake than the life of a woman and her child. So much more, he dared not fail.
CHAPTER 20
As John turned to face the pantry, it occurred to him that killing those two men to protect Jillian was what he'd been born to do. And if more were in the helicopter, he would kill them too. Or better yet, hold one at gunpoint to pilot them away from here. He had no idea where they would go if he succeeded. But one thing he did know: after the killings, he'd be wanted by the U.S Government.
<<>>
Jillian sat cross‑legged on the carpeted floor. The room remained dark, cool. She thought about how small the room appeared when she’d first stepped inside. Now, in utter darkness, it seemed infinite. She could see no walls, not even a vague outline of her own trembling hand when she held it up before her eyes. As if to make up for the handicap, her hearing had intensified. Her heart beat loudly, the rapid thud, thud, thud so pronounced, she was sure it could be heard from any room in the house.
The muscles in both legs had already begun to cramp. One foot had been taken over by pins and needles from remaining in a prolonged awkward position. Yet she dared not move. She wished that, instead of sitting, she could stretch out on the floor. It was possible she might be trapped in here for hours. And Valerie. Her baby…
Light could not penetrate the walls. Sound, however, had a way of filtering through. Voices could be heard, but not clearly enough to understand or even grasp the topic of conversation. A pair of hard-sole shoes could be heard walking across the stone floor in the kitchen. And something else, a light clicking sound that drew nearer. Jill searched her mind for the interpretation of that sound. And now, it was only a few feet away. In the darkness, it seemed as if she could reach right out and touch it; it was that close, yet still unidentifiable…
…Until Bear began to whimper. If sheer will power could have sent the dog away, Bear would have been halfway around the world right now. GO! Her mind screamed. She closed her eyes as every muscle in her body tightened. And then Bear did the unthinkable: the dog barked.
Unaware of what she was doing, Jillian began to teeter back and forth restlessly, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other hand pressed to her own forehead. She could hear them coming, their shoes slapping against the floor. Even if she could make the monster mad, there was not enough time to summon it to her defense. They knew she was here; the dog had given her away. The moment she’d feared for the last three and a half years had arrived. If they found her, they’d find Valerie, too…if they hadn’t already. A tear slipped down her cheek. Another soon followed. Jillian closed her eyes, lips quivering, and silently bid the missing child goodbye.
<<>>
Brewster flipped on the light, allowing his eyes to make a sweep of the pantry before entering the narrow room. Andrews walked in behind him.
"Jeez," Brewster said through a sigh. "Is there any doubt as to Mills' favorite food? Grapefruit juice and tomato soup. I've seen less food in a bomb shelter. He's got enough tea here to last a lifetime. The English," he said and shook his head. "Strange sense of humor and even stranger appetites."
Brewster looked down at the dog that now stretched out on the floor, muzzle resting comfortably on his front paws, nose barely an inch from the end wall. "I wouldn't have a dog if I were deaf, dumb and blind. Lazy animals. All they want to do is eat and sleep. And better to sleep where the food is." He nudged the chow's hindquarter with the toe of his shoe. Bear's head lifted slightly as if annoyed, then dropped back down. "Come on, Andrews, let's get out of here. My stomach feels queasy enough without looking at all this food."
Andrews emerged first, stopping short when he saw the knife glinting in John's hand. A distance of perhaps ten feet stood between them. The stainless steel blade reflected the overhead light, like a mirror capturing the sun. For the second time tonight, Andrews issued a warning. "I'm armed." Unlike the first time, Andrews reached beneath his coat and now held a .38 caliber revolver in his hand.
John stared at the gun, lo
oked down at the knife, and realizing the implications, he dropped it on the table. He held his free hand out at his side, palm out, backing steadily away from the table until the heel of his shoe struck the oven.
There had to be a sensible explanation – a good lie – out of this. John, however, had difficulty thinking of one right now, as he stared into the muzzle of a gun.
<<>>
Valerie awoke to the sound of Bear’s barking, not quite sure what room she occupied. She huddled in a corner, back to a wall, sitting on something bumpy. She scooted her back along the wall as she edged over, then reached down to pick up the object she’d been sitting upon: a shoe.
The last two times Bear had barked happened when the bad people came. She thought about Bear as she got to her feet and stepped out of the closet – finding herself in the room where her mommy was supposed to sleep. But Mommy wasn’t in here now. The dog had barked only a few short moments ago. She listened, not for Bear, but for the sound of the helicopter. Instead, she heard muffled voices.
Valerie went to the door, reached under the large T-shirt she wore to scratch her belly, then rubbed the sore spot on her backside, which had been caused by sitting on that shoe.
“Mommy..? John...?” she said quietly, poking her head out into the hallway. She listened again. A voice. Not clear. A man’s voice. Valerie moved into the hallway, eyes squinting in the light coming from the other end.
He’d been caught red‑handed with a knife, a very large knife. Aside from killing, what was a knife like that used for? “Had I been aware that slicing bread was a capital offense, I’d have waited until after you’d left.”
“Bread?” Andrews repeated, as if it were a foreign word. He took a few steps into the kitchen. Brewster did likewise.
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