HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS

by Jamie Eubanks

John put his queen's bishop into play. He thought about tonight's dinner and how most of the table conversation had been between Jillian and Mel. The two of them seemed to have hit it off well.

  "She's quite a woman, isn't she?" John asked.

  Mel grinned. "I certainly wouldn’t kick her out of bed, if that’s what you mean."

  John smiled wryly. "You hurt her in any way, and I’ll know where to find you."

  "I knew it. You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you? Is it love, John? You know it’s been a long time since you lost your..."

  "Your move," John said, nodding towards the board. "Don’t read anything more into this. I barely know the woman."

  "That’s not an answer to my question."

  John leaned back in his chair, no longer interested in the chess match, for there were more important problems to dwell upon. "What I think and how I feel are absolutely irrelevant. Don’t you understand? She'll be leaving soon. I doubt I'll see her again."

  "And..?" Mel asked.

  "For me, when she leaves, it’s ‘end of story,’" John replied. "You, however, seem to have a lot in common with Jillian, more so than you and your ex-wife. You're the only other person Jillian can talk to about her situation. And that puts you in a very unique position, Mel. And Mel, I’m not blind. I saw the way you looked at her during dinner tonight."

  Mel’s hand slapped the table. "I’m confused. Do you or do you not have a thing for her?"

  "I'm counting on you to take good care of her and Valerie. You'll do that for me, won't you?"

  "Of course. But..."

  "Valerie's been through some rather tough times. She'll need a lot of love and understanding to get over her past. I know how you feel about children, but don't shut the child out. She's a very bright little girl. Do you know she learned to read in less than a week? She needs a father figure that'll set a proper example. I think you could be that father figure."

  Mel held up a hand. "Let me get this straight, because I certainly don’t want to do anything that could damage our friendship. You're in love with Jillian, but you’re stepping back and asking that I step forward. I don't get it."

  "I'm stuck here. You said so yourself. Just be good to her," John said. He gripped his cane and got to his feet, feeling sick, as if he'd just taken a blow to the stomach. He knew he'd lose Jillian sooner or later. And sometimes, sooner is best.

  As he headed into the hallway, Mel called out to him. John, however, didn't feel much like talking, so he ignored him and took two sets of bedding down from the linen closet. He bowed his head as he stood there, the guest room door behind him. Jillian needed Mel. She trusted Mel. And a secret such as hers could bind two people together for eternity. As for Mel, John believed Jillian was just the woman to straighten him out and lure him away from the computer long enough to enjoy the finer things in life.

  He turned around and went into the living room, one arm around the bedding. The only way to get through all this without any regrets was to convince himself that he’d made the only proper choice.

  "John!" Mel called from the kitchen. "Are we going to finish our game, or what?"

  "I'm ready to call it a night."

  "Fine," Mel said.

  John heard Mel's footfalls, and dropped one blanket and one pillow on the couch. "Are you still planning on leaving first thing in the morning?"

  "The earlier, the better."

  CHAPTER 31

  In a town the size of Sandstone, renting a car meant travelling all the way to the nearest town of size, Show Low. John regretted having to leave Jillian and Valerie alone, and when Mel hopped out of the Land Rover, John was hit with more regret. Even now, he felt certain that he could talk Mel out of it. Yet, much in the same way as he'd allowed Victoria and Ryan to fly off to their deaths, he was on the verge of allowing Mel to drive off to his. And death seemed inevitable, unless he did something now to stop it.

  John rolled down the window as Mel came around to the driver's side door. He cut off the engine. "Mel," he said, exhaling slowly. "Maybe this isn't..."

  "Don't say it, man. The decision has already been made. If you try to talk me out of it now, it's only going to piss me off."

  John nodded. "All right."

  "You're the only true friend I've ever had, John. I haven’t seen you for years, but that hasn’t changed things. You’re closer to me than my own brother. But I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me. I've always loved a good challenge. I suppose this is the challenge I've been waiting for all my life. There's no turning back. I want this. Don't you see? I want this badly. I'm a selfish bastard and don't you ever forget it." He grinned. "So fuck your guilt." He slapped his hand against the door, while scuffing the soles of his boots on the asphalt. "See you in about a week."

  Mel zipped up his jacket, and walked off, wearing the same ragged jeans he'd had on when he first arrived on John's doorstep. John turned the ignition key, staring off at the British flag stitched to the back of Mel's jacket, experiencing a surge of mixed emotions. His best friend was as good as dead. Regardless of what Mel had just said, John claimed full responsibility. He never should have sent that letter. Never. And yet, in his heart he understood it was the right decision.

  Without any warning, he became suddenly homesick, more so than he had ever been in his life. He yearned to be in a place where the people didn't talk so strangely, where the rolling countryside was green from an abundance of misty rain. Homesick not only for a place, but for a special time, when the answers to life's problems were easily found, because nothing was too complicated that it couldn't be resolved during a quiet walk along the beach. Homesick. And like Mel, John wondered if either of them would live long enough see England again.

  <<>>

  Mel’s intended destination was Los Angeles. He never made it. After ten hours of driving, stopping twice along the way to grab a quick bite to eat and fill up the tank of his rental car, he left Interstate 10 and cruised into Palm Springs by way of Gene Autry Trail. He made a right hand turn on Highway 111, a.k.a. Palm Canyon Drive. The temperature here usually kept a good thirty or forty degrees warmer than the upper desert region of Arizona. He’d shed his jacket about an hour ago and now lowered the electric window for some fresh air.

  He passed through the heart of this thriving oasis of manicured lawns and lush vegetation peppered with cacti – a peculiar yet interesting mixture of both tropical and desert climates. Tall palm trees lined the street. Stucco buildings with red clay tiled roofs, blended into the clean scenery. It seemed as if it had gone from winter to summer, all within a few short hours. As he drove through the quaint little city, he noticed mostly tourists walking the sidewalks, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, sun dresses, and only a few in long trousers, carrying bagged items. A group of long-legged women stood at the corner of Baristo and Palm Canyon, chatting up a storm while waiting for the street light to change. One of the women reminded him of Julie. She had the same shapely legs, well tanned and firm, and thick auburn hair that fell nearly to her waist. The woman looked stunning, as was Julie. But he hadn’t driven all this way just to admire the scenery. So, he passed clear to the far side of town just to scope the place out, then doubled back to look for a motel with a vacancy.

  An hour later, after taking a cool shower and shaving for the first time in several days, he stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his scrawny waist and began to set up his equipment. His first inquiries were to obtain a little background information on the medical research facility where Jillian’s brother had been employed. Mel sat down at the keyboard and accessed a database containing five-year-old newspaper articles from the Fairshire Gazette in Massachusetts. After an hour of tedious searching, he found no mention of a Dr. Neas, or of a research facility called Bio‑Tox. He almost gave up to chase down a different avenue, when he came upon a third page headline dated three and a half years ago:

  Authorities Seeking Prominent Immunologist For Questioning In Last Night’s Blaze

 
; FAIRSHIRE—One firefighter was killed, and three security guards were critically injured, in a series of gas explosions that rocked the Bio‑Tox building late last night. Identification of the firefighter was being withheld.

  “I thought an airplane had crashed,” said Lynn Clarke, an eyewitness whose car was bombarded by flaming debris. “It [the Bio‑Tox facility] just suddenly blew up, sending glass and brick all over the street and my car,” Clarke said. Clarke was not injured.

  According to Drew Phillips, a security guard at Bio‑Tox, Dr. Carl Neas, 67, of Fairshire, was seen exiting the building minutes before the first explosion shook the research facility. No motive has been established. Investigators were unable to locate Dr. Neas for questioning.

  The fire that swept through the Bio‑Tox building wasn’t the only fire to hit Fairshire that night. The second fire, the one in which Dr. James Braedon lost his life, occurred at one o’clock that morning, evidently after the paper had gone to the press, for it was covered briefly in the Fairshire Gazette on the following day – along with a lengthy article about a missing doctor by the name of Richard Manning who happened to be brother‑in‑law of the deceased and also an employee of Bio‑Tox. According to the paper, Neas, Manning, and Jillian Braedon were being sought by the authorities – not as suspects, but as possible witnesses.

  Mel was amazed. What should have been celebrated as a triumph over mortality had instead resulted in death. But what else could he expect of such a twisted world?

  It was eight o’clock in the evening, four o’clock in the morning in the U.K. But time has a way of losing its relevance when faced with adversity. Mel realized he needed help from someone with a few connections, someone who had kept up on the times. Because sooner or later, his snooping around would arouse Brewster’s suspicion, and it would all lead straight back to John. A third party was imperative. Someone he could trust to do the job right. And someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions. So, if Arthur Billings didn’t like having his phone ring at four o’clock in the morning, well, fuck him.

  <<>>

  John watched the sunrise from the library window. He knew if he had reason to worry about Mel, then he also had reason to worry about Jillian. Even in Los Angeles, Mel's activities could lead Brewster straight to John's door. It was a simple matter of tying Mel's inquiries to John. There would be no warning. If they caught Mel, John wouldn't know until Brewster barged in with armed men to search the house.

  He stared down at the pile of charred matches on the table, then struck another match and watched it burn. They had made a mistake, a big mistake. The first priority should have been to get Jillian and Valerie out of here and safely off the continent. She had already lived with the nightmares for more than a few years. Another week or two of wondering if they could be resolved wouldn't have hurt anything. Surely not.

  As the match burned close to his fingers, he shook it out and slammed his hand down on the table. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in such a foul mood.

  "Good morning," Jillian said from the doorway.

  John shot her a glance and mumbled, "Good morning."

  She wore a pair of his dark trousers and a white T-shirt. Barefoot, she walked soundlessly into the library and smiled sadly down at the pile of charred matches on the table. "Been up all night?"

  "Woke up around three. Couldn't go back to sleep."

  "You should have knocked on my door. I've been awake since two."

  "Any nightmares?" he asked, raising an inquisitive brow.

  She shook her head.

  "Will you be having any tonight?"

  "I don't know."

  He felt like smashing his fist against the table. If he couldn’t get a straight answer from the very person he was trying to protect…

  John met her gaze with a pair of stark eyes, nostrils flared. "When will you know?"

  "It all depends," she replied. "It's different every time. Sometimes, I know hours in advance. Other times, I don't know until just before I fall asleep."

  "How do you know?" he asked. He grabbed for his cane and got to his feet, tired of playing games. He wanted the truth and was determined to hear it. "Jillian, how?"

  "Just trust me, okay?"

  John shook his head in frustration, jaw clenched. "Trust you? Is that all you can say? Because of you, my best friend is out there, risking his life. At any moment, Brewster may come pounding on my door and kill us all. I've done everything within my means to accommodate both you and your daughter. All I'm asking in return is a simple question, which you refuse to answer. And damn it, woman, I want to know why! Trust you? How about you trust me and give me an answer!"

  She took a step back, lips parted, confused. He advanced a step. She retreated another step, and he seized her by the arm. "Answer me!" he ordered.

  "I can't!" she said and jerked her arm free.

  "You can't or you won't?"

  "I won't!" she snapped, eyes flashing with stubbornness.

  He threw his head back, and growled at the ceiling:

  "'If all the harm that women have done

  Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,

  Earth would not hold it,

  The sky could not enfold it,

  It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun.'"

  "Very cute,” she remarked. "So, you've read James Kenneth Stephen," she said, wearing a plastic smile. Sarcasm brought a rush of color to her cheeks. Her shoulders became straight, rigid. She could hear Bear bark in another room, but misinterpreted the dog's message of alarm. "Since you're evidently into quoting the dead, how's this:

  'But man, proud man,

  Drest in a little brief authority,

  Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,

  His glassy essence, like an angry ape,

  Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,

  As make the angles weep.'"

  "I see you like Shakespeare," he retorted, both intrigued and in disgust. Her words stung like a slap to the face. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had dared to insult him this way. Bear's barking rose with the tension, but not enough to silence the heated voices that echoed throughout the house. John ignored the dog’s warning and continued: "But was it not he who said:

  'Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

  Thou dost not bite so nigh

  As benefits forgot.'"

  "Call me an ingrate, if you wish," she snapped right back. "But in pointing that out, you point a finger at yourself as well. Where is your modesty? Or was it false? As Donne so aptly put it:

  'I have done one braver thing

  Than all the Worthies did,

  And yet a braver thence did spring,

  Which is to keep that hid.'"

  John felt as if he were fighting a Literary Battle of Wits. And although he was quite confident he would win, she proved herself a worthy opponent, one who had already won his respect, if not his heart. And yet he couldn't resist: "'Women are only children of a larger growth.'"

  "Dryden," she said, crossing both arms beneath her breasts. "You sure like to quote the dead."

  "Close, but wrong. It wasn't Dryden."

  She took a defiant stance, chin held high. "Then who?"

  The last of the anger left him as he glanced from one shelf of books to another in search of a clue. For the life of him, he couldn't recall whom he'd just quoted. Unwilling to admit defeat, he gave the first name that entered his mind: "Sir Thomas Browne."

  "Wrong. You’re guessing," Jillian said. Her nose crinkled up as she smiled with cool smugness. The smile turned into a grin, but it wasn't an ordinary grin. She was using it to taunt him. "You don't know who said it, do you, Mr. Literary Genius?"

  "Well, it certainly wasn't Dryden, Your Literary Highness."

  "Would you care to make a bet?"

  "You're wrong," he stated flatly.

  "You're wrong," she shot right back.

  "You're both wrong," came an amused voice from the doorway. "It was Lord Cheste
rfield."

  CHAPTER 32

  Jillian startled, then flushed with embarrassment as Mel stepped into the room with Bear at his heels. Mel dropped his jacket on the table, and then crossed his arms. "Valerie let me in. I didn't mean to interrupt. Please," he said with a nod, "continue."

  "Why are you back so soon?" John asked.

  Mel turned to Jillian. "The names you'd given me: Kevin Brewster, Paul Andrews, Timothy Barnes – they didn't check out."

  "What?"

  "I had an acquaintance of mine do a little snooping. Safer that way. Because, if I were implicated, you would be implicated. But don't worry. Arthur has no idea why I wanted the information."

  "Well?" John asked.

  "Those men who claim to be FBI, are not FBI, active or otherwise. Neither are they CIA, DSA, or any other known intelligence agency here in The States. Furthermore, aside from the interest of the Fairshire police department, the FBI is quite interested in meeting you. Not because of the special talent you have, but to question you regarding the fire that burned Bio‑Tox to the ground and the fire in which your husband was killed. Oh, there was a Paul Andrews working for the FBI about ten years ago. That man, however, is now fifty‑four years old, or would have been had he not died during surgery two years ago.

  "Since I thought you'd be eager to know, I took the first flight from Palm Springs into Phoenix. I flew into Winslow and rented another vehicle, all at John's expense." He grinned. "Hope you don't mind."

  "I don't get it," Jill said. "Then who are they?"

  "I have a theory on that," Mel replied. "If I'm right…" He paused long enough to rub his chin, which now looked as smooth as a baby's bottom. "Hell, we can discuss this later. What's for breakfast? I'm starved."

  <<>>

  Breakfast was the usual: Oatmeal without milk and hot tea served with Creamora and sugar. Throughout the entire meal, Jillian did her best to press Mel for his opinion as to who those men were. And Mel did his best to change the subject every time by inviting Valerie into a more meaningless conversation about cartoons.