"I already have," Brewster said. He helped himself to her fries after smothering them with salt. "From what I've gathered, this Talbot guy sells or writes programs – computer programs, apparently – for musicians."
"Well, isn't Mills a musician?" Laurel asked, eyes glowing with sarcasm.
"Yes." Brewster pulled the plastic coated menu from its holder, speaking as his eyes hungrily passed over the print. "But that doesn't mean Talbot is a computer programmer. I mean, why send all the way to London for a computer or programs, when you can get top of the line everything right here?" He dropped the menu on the table, helping himself to a few more fries, while adding, "Either Mills can afford to simply blow a lot of money buying overseas what he could have bought cheaper here, or he's trying to pull something over on us. Considering his timing, I think he’s up to something. And I don’t believe in coincidences."
While Brewster busied himself feeding his face, Laurel looked up at Andrews, who stood there with both hands in his pants pockets. Silently, she mouthed the word "Paranoia," and Andrews smiled.
"Okay," she said. "I left my tablet at the shack. Give me an hour or two so I can get back to my computer, and I'll give you a history on Melvin Talbot."
"You going to eat those fries?" Brewster asked.
"No, I'm going to have them bronzed for posterity." She pushed the plate across the table and slid out from the booth. Her eyes glimmered as they rested upon Andrews. "You're looking handsome today, Paul." She flashed a catty smile, turned on her spiked heels, and waltzed through the restaurant on a pair of long shapely legs.
Andrews stood pleasantly stunned. Although his memory was far from perfect, he couldn't recall a single instance when Laurel had complimented anyone. Neither could he remember the woman ever using his first name.
<<>>
While Laurel met with Brewster in Sandstone giving her report on Melvin Talbot – who turned out not to be a computer salesman, but a computer genius who wrote custom software, and step‑by‑step manuals for the computer illiterate – Valerie was over twenty miles away. The child sat in the guest room with her mother and John, finishing up on today's phonics lesson. She had graduated from flash cards, and had stammered her way through the opening paragraph of Treasure Island, with no help from either of the adults.
It was a sunny afternoon. And according to the radio announcer, the forecast for the next few days called for clear skies and temperatures ranging from the low thirties at night to the high forties during the day. Valerie closed the book on her lap and gazed out the window with a pensive smile. She didn't have to say what was on her mind, for it was written on her face. She wanted to go outside and play in the snow. She wanted to run, to build a snowman, to experience life as a normal five‑year‑old.
It was unlikely that would happen any time soon.
John left the room for a moment and returned with a writing tablet and an assortment of colored, felt tipped pens. "Have you ever played with paper dolls?" he asked the child.
"No."
He uncapped the black pen and positioned himself at the edge of the bed, so that Valerie sat between him and her mother. "Would you like to?"
Valerie nodded and John began to draw. Within a few minutes, he had a picture of a dark headed child on paper.
He flipped to a fresh sheet and before he finished the next picture, Valerie said, "That's Mommy!"
Minutes later, he flipped that sheet over and drew a man with blond hair. He placed the tablet on the bed, opened the nightstand drawer, and withdrew a pair of scissors, which he handed to Valerie.
"Am I apposed to cut them out?" she asked.
"You don't expect John to do all the work, do you?" her mother asked and smiled.
It took a while for Valerie to get the hang of using the scissors, but she seemed to enjoy the task. It didn't faze her at all that the mommy‑doll's head had a V cut into it, and that one hand was lopped off the man‑doll. She simply did the best she could. And when she finished, she collected the new paper dolls and went to the master bedroom to play.
"That was a very nice thing you just did," Jillian said. "Valerie's such a sweet little girl. She really is. I hate putting her through all this. Sometimes, I worry about the impact I'm making on her life. She’s had to grow up too quickly. All I want is for her to have a normal childhood."
John shook his head and moaned. "God forbid."
"Why do you say that?"
"Next time you get the chance, take a look at what you call 'the normal child.’ They have TV's in their rooms, with satellite piped in, video games, and top of the line computers, Internet. Half of them have their own cell phone by the time they're ten years old and for many of them, that means a smart phone with texting and Web browsing. They have dolls that not only talk, but also walk and tell stories. And they have absolutely no imagination. It eats up their creativity. They want hundred dollar tennis shoes that are outgrown in three months and jeans with designer labels. And for what? Most of those children don't even clean up their own rooms. They don’t know how. Parents, these days, are smothering their children with gifts. And more times than not, the child is miserable because of it. They have too much and appreciate nothing.
"Did you see the expression on your daughter's face while she cut out the paper dolls?"
"She seemed very happy."
"Yes. And a happy child grows up to be a happy adult. When I was growing up, spoiling a child meant ruining a child. If something was spoiled, it either went down the drain or was tossed into the rubbish. These days, however, parents pat themselves on the back because their children want for nothing. Wanting is good. If you want for nothing, then you have no goals. And if you have no goals, you have no life, no drive, and no ambitions. Chances are, if today's children don't inherit a lot of money from their parents, they'll grow up and live off the welfare system."
Jillian raised a challenging brow. "I see. And what was your childhood like, John Mills?"
He smiled. "You don't really want to hear this."
"Oh, but I do."
"Well, before my parents passed away, I was a pampered little monster. I had a maid to clean my room, a nanny to wipe my nose and take me to the park, a mother who rushed me to the doctor if I scraped a knee, and a father who handed me money every time the wind blew. Then, I went to live with my Uncle George. The man was quite a character." John smiled, grinned with remembrance. "He always said, 'Why tell the truth, when a lie is ever so much more interesting.' And he lived by those words – believe me. Uncle George lost a leg from the knee down, during the war. The first time he told me that story, a grenade was responsible. And every time he told it thereafter, the story changed. Once, he even said a shark took his leg when he fell overboard during a storm at sea.
"When I went to live with him, it was I who had to wait on him. Nine years old and he had me scrubbing floors, cooking, doing the laundry. The house we lived in had rats, if you can believe it. All the money from my parents' estate had been held in a trust. And while it gained interest in the bank, I either went barefoot or wore shoes two sizes too small, and stood on the corner selling the paper every morning before school with my toes all squished.
"I loved my parents dearly. But if it hadn't been for Uncle George, I would never have learned to appreciate anything. He changed my life for the better, and I hated every minute of it. It's funny," John said, staring off. "At the time, I hated living with that old man. It was horrifying to lose my parents at such a young age. And an added measure of horror when Uncle George tugged me by the ear, stared down at my face, and told me I’d be going home to live with him. Dreadful. I remember it so clearly – how I thought to myself, ‘I’m most surely in hell.’ But now, looking back, some of my fondest memories are of the times he and I spent together."
"You have a way of making poverty sound appealing."
John took her by the hand. "Valerie is going to grow up just fine. She has too much of her mother in her to grow up any other way."
&nbs
p; "Do you really think the man you sent the letter to will be able to help?"
"Mel Talbot? At the very least, he could get you and your daughter the documents that can allow you to leave the country. New names, passports, visas, whatever it takes. Doubtful Brewster will alert the CIA if he has no reason to believe you’ve left the country."
"Europe," she whispered. Her expression went bleak. She withdrew her hand. "I‑I don't know. It's not like I'd be leaving any family behind, but...but Europe? I'd be completely lost over there. I mean…the customs are so different. The people are so different. I've been there before, several times – briefly – as a child. Even with Brewster on my back, at least here in the good ole U.S. of A. I know what to expect. To start over in a foreign country, knowing absolutely no one...well, I..." She shrugged lightly and began to fidget with her fingers. "I suppose I don’t have much of a choice. Valerie will go to school. Make some friends. Europe," she said and forced a smile. "Life's just one big adventure after another."
"Speaking of adventures...Do you know if you'll be having one of those nightmares, tonight?"
Jillian bit down on her bottom lip, eyes making a sweep of the room. Until she felt sure that the house wasn't bugged, she couldn't afford to provoke the nightmare. Yet, she wanted to. She wanted to do it for John, because he had already done so much for her and Valerie. And she had a suspicion the nightmare wouldn't be as powerful as it had been in the past, because her outlook had changed. She now had hope and hope was a powerful weapon. Still, Jillian wondered what he'd say if the decision were left up to him. And for a brief moment, she considered telling him everything. Either way, however, she was sure to face disappointment. If he were to say yes, provoke the nightmare, then she would know that he didn't really care for her. And if he said no, she'd be bound by that decision.
"Jillian?"
She met his gaze, overwhelmed by the concern she saw in his clear blue eyes, taken aback by the voice in her head, a child's voice, Valerie, pleading in desperation: Mommy, don't. Please don't. You've got to promise not to make the monster mad ever again.
If he only knew...
CHAPTER 25
Laurel and Brewster met for coffee at Eileen's Diner at one o'clock that afternoon. It didn't bother her that she was already an hour late for her shift at that desert shack, for it meant one less hour she would have to spend with Barnes. She lacked any concern over the information she'd dug up on Melvin Talbot, despite the man’s reputation.
About the only thing bothering Laurel this afternoon was that Andrews didn't show up with Brewster. That boyish smile he had given her when she lipped her opinion about Brewster was nothing short of a turn‑on. The two of them had made a connection. And Laurel seldom connected with anyone. She found most people to be either too stupid or too boring for her taste. Andrews possessed a quietness – yes. But she had a feeling that a storm brewed behind those serene brown eyes of his.
"So," she said and sighed. "Do we mail the letter, or what?"
"Let me give it a little thought. I'll let you know."
"Before I go, I'd like to talk to you about having Barnes reassigned to someone else. He's really getting on my nerves."
"Barnes gets on everyone's nerves. If you want him reassigned, you'll have to come up with something better than that."
"How about harassment."
"Really?" Brewster said and grinned.
"Yesterday, I was telling him that someone ought to overlay that dirt floor. I told him it was a good thing that it's winter, or we'd have bugs crawling all over the place. And you want to know what he asked me?"
Brewster rolled his eyes. "What?"
"He asked if I knew how to get a pound of meat out of a fly."
"Well, how do you get a pound of meat out of a fly?"
She eyed him coldly while tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear. "You unzip it."
Brewster dropped back his head and laughed, hand slapping the table hard enough for the spoon to clatter against the saucer.
Her face flushed with anger as she clicked her long, polished fingernails on the tabletop. "That may sound amusing to you, but I call it sexual harassment."
"Okay. Okay. Simmer down. I'll have a talk with Barnes and see if that won't straighten him out."
"I'd rather you assigned him to someone else."
"Do you think you could get along with Carney?"
"Actually," she said, flashing a coy smile, "I was thinking of someone else: Andrews."
A waitress came by to refill their coffee, but Brewster waved her off. "I'll think about it. Seriously."
As Laurel walked off with the letter to Talbot in hand, she heard Brewster chuckling behind her. "Unzip it," he said, and laughed some more. God, she hated that man! Brewster and Barnes deserved each other.
<<>>
Valerie amused herself with the paper dolls right up until bedtime. The following morning, after reading the first full page of Treasure Island, she asked John to draw some more paper dolls. That evening, he'd gone into the storage room and made a doll house from one of the cardboard boxes that had been used to store some of his belongings, cutting out doors and windows, using up his blue marker to shade in the house. Valerie loved it. The following day, December thirty‑first, John and Jillian met the New Year with a glass of Remy Martin each. John sipped his slowly, while Jillian surprised him by sitting at the piano and playing Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu. He built a fire in the guest room fireplace. For the first time, she opened up and talked about her childhood.
She too, had started out as a pampered child. Unlike John, however, she remained a pampered child until she was old enough to be classified as a pampered adult. Some children thought themselves lucky to have a tree house in the back yard. Jillian's doting father had hired contractors to build his two children a playhouse when she was only two. Theirs had a cement foundation, two bedrooms, a spacious living room, a functional kitchen complete with stove and refrigerator, and wall-to-wall carpet – even in the bathroom.
Of course, they had a swimming pool. And of course, every summer vacation was spent abroad. For the most part, both Jillian and her brother had been straight 'A' students. And those 'A's' on their report cards hadn't gone without reward. Which was why she and her brother had horses, and why she and her brother each received a new car upon graduation. She had wanted to be a doctor, until, at the age of fourteen, her father took her to the science museum in Boston. One look at the lung half eaten with cancer she'd seen beneath the glass in the museum, and she realized she hadn't the stomach to become a physician. Instead, she decided to become a teacher. She'd finished four years of college when she'd learned of her pregnancy.
"I didn't want my daughter to be raised by babysitters," she said. "The first time I held her in my arms, I knew I wouldn't be going back to school for a very long time."
Two days after Valerie had read the first page of Treasure Island, John brought her into the library. There was one shelf filled with nothing but children's books, most of which had been purchased shortly before Ryan's birth. Valerie searched through the titles and pulled Black Beauty from the shelf. John allowed her to take it to her room, for she already knew to always use a bookmark, and always read with clean hands.
For the past few nights in a row, Jillian waited until after Valerie was tucked in bed before telling John she would have no nightmares. And for the past few nights in a row, John had gone to the guest room door and watched her as she slept, wanting to be there in case a nightmare materialized. She did have nightmares, several of them.
Sometimes she'd sit up, sheathed in cold sweat, gasping for breath. Other times, she'd moan softly. Yesterday morning, she awoke with a small scratch on the palm of her hand. None of those nightmares, however, materialized into the room. At least, not that John was aware of.
He knew it was only a matter of time before the creature returned. And, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone would die as a result of the next encounter. He was correct on both counts.<
br />
CHAPTER 26
John realized his mistake in calculating the time it would take for Mel to get here from London. By figuring in the weekend and last Monday (New Years holiday), he now estimated it would be at least Thursday before Mel received the letter, and possibly not until the following Monday. The four or five days he'd previously estimated had turned into ten days. And on Monday evening, January eighth, when Mel still hadn't arrived, John knew he had no alternative but to drive into town and place an overseas call.
John went to his makeshift bed that night, wondering if Brewster and his men were somewhere close. Ten days had passed since he'd had any contact with Brewster or his men. Instead of being relieved by their absence, it worried him all the more. Most of the snow had melted; the road was now suitable for a four‑wheel drive vehicle, which meant Brewster and his men now had access to the property without the helicopter giving them away. For all he knew, they now camped about a quarter of a mile away, behind the nearest mesa, waiting...
That wasn't the only situation bothering him. Every evening when Jillian informed him that she would not be having a nightmare, he'd ask her how she knew. Not once had she given a satisfactory answer. She'd say: "I just do," or, "Just trust me." Tonight, when he'd pressed her for a clearer explanation, she clamed up. He wanted to trust her. And, in fact, did. It was the idea that she kept such an important secret that bothered him most. Because, that secret could turn out to be the key to ending the nightmares. It only seemed logical that if she knew in advance, then she might also be aware of what caused them. Did she have some kind of warning, a premonition? John usually knew a day or two before it rained. His leg acted up, ached terribly. He wondered if Jillian experienced a similar warning, or if it were something deeper than that. And if she was aware of what caused them, couldn't it also be taken a step further? Couldn't it also mean she might be able to prevent them from happening? The fact that she'd had no nightmares since learning the house could be bugged supported that theory. And yet, it was difficult to fathom. Because, that would suggest the woman had control over it.
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