Leaving his dirty bowl and empty teacup on the table, Mel rose to his feet. "John, care to go for a little walk, outside?"
"Now?"
"Now."
"Mel," Jillian said. "What about your theory?"
He tapped a finger against his temple and said, "I'm sure it'll still be here when we get back."
John dropped his linen napkin on the table, and stood with the aid of his cane. The two men headed for the door and met up with Bear in the foyer.
"What's this all about?" John asked.
"Outside," Mel said as he grabbed two jackets from the closet.
<<>>
The hard packed dirt upon which they walked was a reddish brown and littered with a variety of dead weeds. Only a few patches of snow remained from the Christmas blizzard, yet the breeze whipped crisp with frost against their exposed skin. Mel stuffed both hands into his jacket pockets as he strolled out into the yard. With the toe of his boot he kicked up a loose rock, and turned to face John.
"I don't believe that the men who are after Jillian are American citizens."
"Then who are they?"
"Don't know. Could be Russians. Fuck, they could be from another planet, for all I know. It all fits in. They destroyed Bio‑Tox and killed practically everyone with knowledge of this, thereby guaranteeing themselves sole possession of the secret."
"And?" John questioned.
"And that makes it rather difficult to find a safe place for your lady-friend to start her new life. It's my firm belief that those men are working under assumed names. Which means there's no way of finding out which country they're from, short of obtaining fingerprints and running them through a database. Even then, we could come up empty."
John shook his downcast head. And when he looked up, his face had gone pale with worry.
"John, what if they're our men? What if Jillian arrives in London, only to find out every member of British Intelligence has her picture engraved in his or her mind? Until we know who they are, there's no safe place to take her. Not one. I've been called 'insensitive' in the past. But even I can see how devastating this may be to Jillian. Which is why I wanted to talk to you in private."
"How is it a foreign government could get wind of this, while leaving the U.S. in the dark?"
Mel kicked the heel of his boot at the dirt. "You've just struck upon the one aspect that's bothering me most. Although it's not impossible, it is highly improbable. Had Brewster's organization been involved from the very beginning, and should this experimental drug and surgery be their baby, certainly they wouldn't have picked to do it on American soil. There was nothing in the Bio‑Tox records that made any mention of the experiment or those involved. So how did they find out about it? Shit man, it's as if they plucked their information from thin air."
"Thin air," John repeated, absently stabbing his cane at the ground.
"It's crazy. And there's something else: Neas is dead. The only man possibly capable of reversing the surgery is dead. It's hopeless. Damn it all to hell, John. It's hopeless."
"Mel."
"I've thought and thought this through to the best of my ability. You know I don't give up easily. But we're at a dead end, John. We've done all we could."
"Mel."
"We don't know who we can trust. We don't know where the woman will be safe. There's no way to reverse what's happening to Jillian. It's over, John. I'm sorry, but it's over."
"Mel!" he growled.
"What?"
John turned to face the wind. His blond hair danced in the light breeze. For several long moments, he said nothing. The thoughts that raced through his mind were absolutely incredible, almost too incredible to put into words. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead just stood there with his mouth agape, stunned into temporary silence by what could very well turn out to be The Explanation. And yet, it meant trouble. Terrible trouble. A tormenting anguish that could last a lifetime. Which, for Jillian Braedon, could mean eternity.
"I know that look," Mel said, cheeks flushed red from the winter air. "It means your brain is boiling. What is it?"
"She'll never be able to accept it," John muttered to himself. "It'll kill her." He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. "No. It can't be...but, God help us, I think it is."
"What can't be?" Mel asked.
"I know who those men are," John said. "And how they were able to find out about the experiment. What I'm about to say may sound crazy, yet it goes along with all the other craziness."
As John spoke, Mel didn't pick lint from his shirt; he didn't fiddle with any loose threads, play with the snaps on his jacket or kick his boot at the ground. He didn't glance around as if his mind was a thousand light‑years away. Instead, he listened attentively. It was one of the few times when Mel's interest actually showed on his face.
"If you're right," Mel finally said, "the only logical thing to do, is find out how many of them there are, and kill them all."
"What good will that do if others replace them?" John asked. "There may be no end to this as long as Jillian lives."
"You'll have to tell her, John. She has a right to know. She must be made aware of what's going on. It's the only way, John. The only way."
CHAPTER 33
Jill worked in the kitchen, drying the last of the breakfast dishes when John came quietly into the room. He watched her for a moment as she stood on her toes to place a stack of clean bowls on the top shelf. The trouser legs were rolled up just above her ankles. And he now understood why Jillian wouldn't wear the slippers he'd provided, or even socks. She had the loveliest bare feet he'd ever seen.
He stood there watching, both hands shoved deeply in his trouser pockets. "We have to talk," he said flatly.
She turned around on the balls of her feet, lips parted, eyes wide and anxious and glassy, like two perfectly matched blue marbles. "Something's wrong," she said knowingly. "Something's very wrong, isn't it?"
He didn't actually hear her words, but felt them. The raw tension in her voice cut into his heart. He ached to cross the ten feet of floor separating them, take her in his arms and promise that everything would be all right. But that was not what he had come in here to do. With a stiff nod of acknowledgment, he said, "Yes."
Jillian grabbed up the dishcloth and started wiping down the counter top for the second time this morning. Halfway through, she gave up, abandoning the dishcloth on the stove. She found a can of Comet and a sponge in the cabinet beneath the sink, and sprinkled it until the stainless steel sink was hidden beneath the pale green powder. With tense muscle power, she scrubbed as if her very existence depended upon its cleanliness. Her eyes were sore and watery from not blinking. Her teeth clenched in determination. He called her name, but she kept scrubbing, stopping long enough to turn on the faucet. And when his hand fell upon her shoulder, her tense muscles became even more rigid and she dropped the sponge, fingers splayed and trembling, as if she'd just discovered that the sponge she'd been holding was infested with bugs.
"Mel is in the living room, amusing Valerie," John said softly. "No doubt teaching her algebra or computer programming." He tried to smile, yet couldn't bring the smile to erase the seriousness in his troubled eyes as he watched Jillian rinse her hands.
"It's bad, isn't it?" she asked, gazing downward at the sink.
"Come on," he said, and took her gently by the hand so that his fingers slipped between hers. "We can talk in my room."
They didn't pass through the living room where Mel and Valerie discussed cartoons, but took the long way around the hall. The bedroom door stood open, until John closed it behind him.
"Have a seat," he said, nodding towards the bed.
Jillian folded her arms beneath her breasts, smearing wet Comet on the white shirt, not moving from where she stood until John placed a hand to the small of her back and guided her to the bed. They sat down together, John positioning both hands, one on top of the other, over his cane.
"I'd like to ask a few questions," he said. "First, howeve
r, I want you to know that, no matter how things turn out, I am now, and will always be, on your side. You've been through over five years of hell that began with a death sentence. You're not responsible for the surgery and drugs they gave you. And you're not responsible for what it caused. You, Jillian, were used, much in the same way a guinea pig is used. The people who did that to you are the ones who are responsible. The blame is theirs. I can’t and won’t blame them for wanting to save your life. But they are still responsible for everything it caused – both the good and the bad. Remember that."
While biting down on her bottom lip, Jillian drew both hands into her lap, fidgeting with her fingers. "What are the questions?"
"Do you remember back to when you first realized the FBI was after you?"
She gave a stiff nod. "How could I forget. It was the night Jim … died."
"You told me that you left the house around midnight, and took Valerie with you. But you never told me why."
"Valerie was fussy that night. She was cutting teeth, again. Sometimes when she couldn't fall asleep, I'd take her for a drive. It usually calmed her down within a few minutes. I already told you this, John. What's going on?"
"But you were gone for several hours. Why?"
"I‑I needed the time to think, to clear my head." Her bottom lip began to quiver. Both hands flexed then curled into fists, then flexed again. "I was scared. I‑I wanted to get away. I wanted to just drive away and never go back."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I knew...I‑I knew they'd be coming after me. It was only a matter of time before someone made the connection between my getting well, and Bio‑Tox."
John covered her hands with his own, squeezing gently as he watched the first of many tears spill down her cheek. "You had a dream that night, didn't you? You dreamt the FBI was after you. That’s why you were so antsy and couldn’t sleep anymore that night."
She withdrew one hand, covering her mouth with a loose fist. "Yes."
Calmly, softly, he said: "And just like the nightmares you have about that demon, the men from your dream became real. First they went to the Bio‑Tox building and destroyed it. Then they came to your house. Only you weren't there. You'd run. And you've been running ever since. Not from the FBI, but from the men in your nightmare."
She shook her head fiercely, dark hair falling over her face, dragging in a hissing breath through clenched teeth, tears falling freely. "No," she whispered. "No!" she cried, burying her face in both hands. "That means...God, No. No. It’s my fault. I killed them. My own brother. My own husband. Oh, my God. My God!"
He embraced her tightly. Her head tucked beneath his chin as she hitched uncontrollably in his arms and sobbed. It wasn't until this moment that he realized how deeply his feelings went for the woman. He would have given anything to take her pain away. Anything. Including his life. And so he held on, whispering comforting words while hating himself for the horror he had just made her face.
<<>>
Before Jillian retired for the evening, the three adults sat around the kitchen table and decided to go ahead with the rest of the plans. Mel would take Valerie to Phoenix in the morning. And as soon as the new ID's arrived in his mailbox, the two of them would leave for London. Jillian would follow in a few days. She would be able to find her new ID and passport in Mel's mailbox, to which he'd already given her the spare key.
Wearily, still quite sober from this morning's revelation, Jillian bid both men a goodnight, then left them to discuss whatever men usually discuss in the absence of women. Which was when Mel reiterated an earlier question: "You love her, don't you?"
John did his best to dodge the topic. He was in no mood to be hounded. In fact, he'd come quite close to telling Mel to shut up. Mel, however, remained quite persistent...in a preoccupied sort of way. It was a habit of his to deliberately allow the conversation to take a one‑eighty degree turn, only to bring it back around when it suited him.
"I think you should consider going home," Mel suggested.
"I am home."
"You don't belong here, John. This isn't your country. Wasting away in a barren desert isn't healthy. Neither is turning your back on a woman who obviously adores you."
John rested back in his chair, arms folded, staring at the stone wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room, bleakly, as if facing the dark chasm of oblivion. "I close my eyes and I see her face," he whispered, and swallowed hard. "Jillian's face. It used to be Victoria's face I saw. Life's strange, isn't it?"
"So, you do love her."
"As La Rochefouchauld once put it: 'There are many people who would never have been in love if they had never heard love spoken of.' Sorry to have to tell you this, Mel, but love is only a myth, induced by the power of suggestion. And as you surely did learn from your three-year marriage, that one suggestion clears the way for a whole lot of disappointment... Better to feel nothing."
"I can see I'm wasting my time trying to talk sense into the likes of you. Fuck it," Mel said with an annoyed sneer. He got up from the table, clearly agitated. Had John been anyone else, the conversation would have ended. But John was a friend. The best friend he'd ever had. And so he said: "A great man once wrote: 'Emotion, like the air, cannot be seen. And like the air, it fills the cup. Even more so when that cup is thought empty.'"
"A great man?" John questioned. "Sounds more like the inane ravings of an eighteen-year-old boy."
"Well, once he was great. Inane – yes. But still great. Or so half the people on the planet thought. Then one day, he decided to hide himself out in the middle of the fucking desert. There's a rumor going around that he's dead. Listening to you now, I do believe that rumor to be true. You're dead."
"Mel, that's enough."
"You know what your problem is, John?" he asked and grinned. "You're a chicken-shit asshole. You're warped in the head from living so long apart from society, and twist everything around to suit your warped and narrow mind. If you weren't a goddam cripple, I'd knock the shit out of you right now, just for the fun of it."
John slowly rose to his feet, jaw clenched.
"You know what else?" Mel continued. "You're a lily livered, white‑washed, fuck‑faced bastard."
"Mel," John growled.
"Oh, is he getting pissed off?" Mel taunted and grinned all the more.
"Is that what all this is about? Trying to piss me off?"
Mel walked around the table and cocked his head to one side. "You want to hit me, John? Go ahead," he said, pointing to his jaw. "Let me have it. For once in my life, I'd love to see you pissed off enough to actually hit someone. Come on, hit me, asshole!"
John pressed his lips firmly together, brows furrowed as if in deep consternation. He dropped his head slowly, inhaled deeply so that his nostrils flared, then he busted Mel in the face.
When Mel picked himself up off the floor, he rubbed his jaw, grinning. "There," he said with a slight nod. "Feel better?"
John shook the pain from his left hand. "Much," he replied, devoid of any readable emotion.
"Good," Mel stated. "That, my friend, is what life's all about. Feeling good. And if something pisses you off…" Mel made a fist and popped John square in the mouth. John's head snapped back, but thanks in part to his grip on the high-backed chair, he remained on his feet. He licked his lip, tasting blood as Mel finished his sentence. "…you fight back. Because only then, can you truly be happy."
Before the smile made it to John's face, his bloody lip had swollen to twice its original size. "Okay," he said, then gently wiped his puffy mouth. "You've made your point."
"Good. Now tell me: You love her, don't you?"
CHAPTER 34
The morning Valerie left with Mel was the second morning in a row Jillian cried. She put on a wonderful façade in front of the child. All smiles, bubbling over with false excitement, telling Valerie they would soon all be where the bad men could never find them, telling her that she'd soon be able to go to school and make many friends, friends who
she'd grow up with, friends who'd have slumber parties and play jump rope and jacks. Even when she went into the guest room with Valerie, you wouldn't have known by looking at her that she was nearly in tears.
Shortly before eight o'clock, John took the transmitter out from the linen closet and placed it on the mantle between the two brass cannons. His lower lip was still a bit swollen, making it slightly painful to speak.
"Mel, it's been a pleasure doing business with you. If the recording deal goes through, expect to find a bonus in the mail."
"The pleasure's been all mine," Mel said. "If you ever find yourself in London, give me a ring. We'll do lunch."
"You can count on it," John replied.
"If you find yourself needing more programs, or have any suggestions on how to further customize the programs you already have, you know who to call. Are you sure you don't want me to leave you the laptop? It might come in handy. A man can never have enough computers. I'll leave it if you want...at no extra cost."
"Doubtful I'll need it. Thanks anyway."
John picked up the transmitter and returned it to the linen closet. He then knocked on the guest room door, letting Jillian and Valerie know it was safe to come out.
Mel knelt on the stone floor by the smallest of the three crates he'd brought with him. He'd placed a pillow inside. When Valerie stepped into the crate and crouched down, Mel put the lid in place and used a hammer to sink the nails.
When John came into the living room, he was armed with a Smith & Wesson .357 with an inch and a half of barrel. He handed it to Mel, who in turn checked the cylinder and stuffed the revolver into the pocket of his bomber jacket.
"All set," Mel said, and smacked his lips.
Jillian knelt down beside the crate, laying a hand against the wood. "Honey, I'll see you within a week. Be a good girl."
"She'll be fine," Mel assured her. "We'll eat all kinds of junk food, stay up half the night watching the telly, and I won't make her brush her teeth or take baths. How's that?"
HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS Page 20