It started with a slight twitch at both corners of her mouth. And within a matter of seconds, Jillian broke. Tears streamed down her face. Her eyes turned a misty shade of blue. And yet, you'd have to be looking at her to know she cried, because she didn't make a sound other than a brief sniffle or two. "You take good care of my little girl."
"The best care," Mel replied sincerely. He lifted the crate, balancing it carefully so not to bruise or injure the precious cargo. By the time he reached the foyer, John had the front door open.
"See you in about a week," Mel said to Jillian. And shifting his attention to John, he said, "Wait about a month before you come. And you will come, or else…" In a terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation: "…I'll be back."
"We'll see," John replied, placing a crowbar on top of the crate. "Take care."
<<>>
When Mel pulled up to the roadblock in his rented Ford Bronco, the redheaded woman waved him out of the vehicle. He applied the emergency brake and shifted into neutral, leaving the engine to idle. Not wanting to let his reluctance show, he hopped out quickly, stuffing both hands in the pockets of his jacket. During his first encounter with these two agents, he had used up the expected chitchat. He'd asked how dangerous the woman they were looking for might be. Asked if they had any new leads. He even offered his services. All innocent prattle.
Now, with that line of idle bullshit exhausted, he resorted to other tactics to take his mind off the threat he was under. Mel tipped back his head and gazed up at a darkening overcast sky. "Looks like rain," he said, while Andrews looked through the rear window of the vehicle. "I was under the impression that it seldom rains here. Must have picked a bad time to visit."
"Where are you headed?" Andrews asked.
"Home. Hammersmith, that is."
The redhead walked to the driver's door, reached in, lowered the rear window, killed the motor, and removed the key from the ignition. She came around to the rear of the vehicle, on a pair of spiked heels definitely not intended for desert hiking.
It was almost like being able to see into Jillian's mind. For these people were Jillian's interpretation of FBI. A woman in a power dress and sheer nylons, and a man who would look more at home riding the range than he did in the three piece suit he wore. Mel stepped back as the woman inserted the key into the back door lock. He retreated even further when she opened the door and picked up the crow bar from the carpeted floor by the crate.
"Sorry to have to put you through so much inconvenience, Mr. Talbot," Andrews said, stuffing both hands deeply into his overcoat pockets.
It had reached less than forty degrees outside, and Mel found himself sweating. His forehead glistened. His palms felt moist. He tried to swallow, finding it difficult. He wondered how fast he could draw the gun that was already in his sweaty grip, if the report from the gun could be heard by anyone else, and how quickly Brewster would arrive once the first shot had been fired.
The redhead positioned the crow bar between the slats of wood. Then Andrews stepped up. "Allow me."
The redhead passed Andrews the crow bar.
Andrews said, "Check the glove box and the suitcase in the front. Don't forget to look under the seat. I'll take care of this."
As the redhead went around to the passenger door, Mel walked right up to Andrews, sweat stinging his eyes. His breath caught in his throat. He was going to kill them both. He saw no other way. Neither would he have any regrets. Because they weren't real. They weren't human. They were the imagination of Jillian Braedon. Demons in human form. A side effect of an experiment that never should have been. Freaks. The question on his mind was: Could he kill them? Was it possible for a bullet to destroy imaginary beings manifested in the flesh? There was only one way to find out. Only one way. What he needed was to have them both lined up for an easy shot.
Mel wasn't quick to the draw, but Mel knew a bit about guns. And Mel knew if the people impersonators lined up just right, a single bullet from the .357, provided the load was correct, could down them both, and reduce the chances of getting shot himself. That, however, wouldn't happen if Andrews opened the crate and alarmed the redhead as to the contents.
Hidden from the woman's view, he edged up to Andrews, stuck the muzzle of the revolver into Andrew's ribs, and whispered, "Move and you're dead."
"Laurel will have your head blown off before my dead body hits the ground," Andrews whispered. Yet, he didn't move. He valued his life. Empty as his life was, forgetful as he was, tired as he was of taking orders from Brewster, Paul Andrews feared death. He feared it because he understood that, once his lights went out, neither God, nor Devil would greet him. For in a strange kind of way, Jillian Braedon was his god, his creator. And her realm was here amongst the living, exactly where Andrews wanted to remain.
Which was why he said, "If Laurel doesn't hear the lid being pried off this crate, she'll be suspicious. Do you want that, Mr. Talbot?"
"Do it," Mel said. "But don't get too cocky. The person you're looking for is already out of the state."
While Andrews slid the crowbar beneath the lid of the crate, he said, "Do you believe in God, Mr. Talbot?"
"Not since I grew a brain."
"Well, if there is a God, and He suddenly died, don't you think all of creation might come undone?"
"Suitcase is clean," Laurel reported from the front of the vehicle.
"Check under the hood," Andrews ordered. He then returned his attention to Mel, who sweated nearly as much as he himself did. "How much do you know?" Andrews asked.
"More than I want to know. I know you're not one of us."
"Is that how you rationalize murdering me?"
Andrews pried off the lid and Mel leaned close enough so that Valerie could see the finger he laid across his lips. The blessed child didn't say a word. She just crouched down even further and buried her face.
"Mr. Talbot, I'm on your side. Why do you think I sent Laurel up front?"
"Fuck you," Mel retorted, jabbing the man with the muzzle.
"Think about it. You know where I came from," he said, using the crowbar to drive the nails back in place. "I came from nothing. And that's exactly where I'll go if anything happens to the woman. The only reason Brewster doesn't have her right now is because of me. Because I don't want to die. I'd kill Brewster before I'd let him get his hands on that woman. If you think about it, you'll know it's true. And you'll also know that if you kill me, Brewster will be down on you in a matter of minutes. You'll never get away. That little girl will die right along with you."
"Everything's fine up here," Laurel announced, slamming down the hood.
"Think about it. But don't take too long."
As Laurel started for the back of the Bronco, Mel hesitated only a moment before returning the revolver to his jacket pocket.
"Did you check him?" she asked Andrews.
"He's clean," Andrews replied.
"You're free to go," Laurel said, tucking a lock of red hair behind her ear. She stood by the vehicle while lighting up a cigarette. "And Mr. Talbot," she added, "we appreciate your cooperation. I hope this won't deter you from visiting our country in the future." With that, she flashed a white toothy smile. "We're only doing our job, which is to protect the people, here. You understand?"
Andrews closed the back door and dangled the key ring for Mel to take. "Have a pleasant trip, Mr. Talbot."
CHAPTER 35
In all his thirty‑five years, Mel Talbot had never found himself in such a precarious situation. The decision he now faced was one of life and death, one that could change the world forever. If he were lucky enough to kill both agents without getting shot himself, Brewster would know. Even if the report from the revolver went unheard, the earlier conversation he and John had staged was evidence enough that Mel had been here at the approximate time of the shooting. And even if it took two or three hours before Brewster realized two of his agents had been murdered, it would be enough time for Brewster to locate Mel before he could catch a f
light out of the country – especially since it might take two or three more days before Valerie's passport arrived in Mel’s mailbox.
Brewster would come after him. Both he and Valerie would be killed. By identifying Mel as an accomplice, it would lead Brewster directly to John, who would also be killed. The woman, Jillian Braedon, would be taken into the custody of her own imagination. Once they got their hands on her secret...well, it could be as devastating as an all out nuclear war.
On the other hand, trusting Andrews could also mean death. Andrews could put a bullet through Mel's head the moment he turned his back on the man. Then, Valerie would die. John would die. Mel brought his left hand to his stomach, feeling as if he might vomit.
"Mr. Talbot?" Laurel said, crushing out her cigarette with the toe of her shoe. "You're free to go."
"You don't look well," Andrews said.
"Stomach virus," Mel replied. "I think I'm going to be ill. Very ill."
"You should see a doctor. You shouldn't be driving in this condition. If Laurel doesn't mind being deserted for half an hour or so, I could drive you into town," Andrews offered. "Or just ride with you, if you prefer. I'll hitch a ride back. No problem, really."
It may not have been a permanent solution, yet Mel welcomed the reprieve with an eager nod. "Ride with me? Appreciate it."
<<>>
Andrews, known by his five coworkers as a quiet sort of guy, dispelled that assumption by talking up a storm during the twenty minutes it took to get to Sandstone. He gave Mel a brief run‑down of the facts, most of which Mel either knew or suspected. Neas was dead. Brewster wanted the same for Jillian, but only after he obtained the needed information. No government plots existed to acquire the secrets of immortality, simply because the government remained completely unaware of the experimental surgery. Everyone who’d been involved in that area of the research, except Jillian, had died. Which meant the only threat under which Jillian remained was the threat of Brewster’s men, minus one: Andrews. When Mel asked how many of Brewster’s “FBI agents” were out there looking for the woman, Andrews explained there were only six. And when Mel asked how they’d been able to track Jillian all around the country, Andrews said:
“The woman has a soft heart. It’s been getting her into trouble from day one.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Factual, yes. I’ll give you a recent example: The day before Christmas, one of Jillian’s neighbors, a little girl named Kimberly Shelter, was hit by a car. It was bad. Numerous broken bones, severe head trauma. The girl wasn’t expected to live. Mrs. Braedon changed all that with one visit to the hospital emergency room. Kimberly was home in time to open her presents, Christmas morning.”
Mel slammed on the brakes, simultaneously jerking the wheel. Tires screeched across asphalt, coming to a slanted rest on the dirt shoulder. Eyebrows raised and mouth gaped open, he faced Andrews, slinging his right arm up on the back of the seat. “Fuck,” he whispered in awe. “She didn’t tell me any of that. You’re not shitting me, are you, man?”
“If I had a mother, I’d swear on her grave.”
Mel shook his head, grinning wildly. “She never said a word about it. Not one. I don’t believe this. Of course, I believe this...That’s why Brewster kicked John’s cane out from under him. He believed Jillian to have cured John’s bad leg.”
“Exactly, and was Brewster ever surprised. So was I. I mean, the way Mr. Mills acted. Never has anyone told us how to conduct a search. Most people are intimidated when government officials knock on their doors. They panic. They agree to most anything, disguising their fears in patriotism. Either that, or they get downright ugly.” He shook his head, smiling with admiration. “Not Mr. Mills.”
Mel pulled back onto the highway, rear tires spinning up sand and pebbles, only to chirp when they caught dry asphalt. Glancing over his shoulder, he yelled: “Valerie, you all right?”
Her muffled voice came back: “Yeah. But my foot’s falling asleep.”
“So,” Mel said. “What’s the deal with checking under the bonnet? You fellows actually believe someone might smuggle a woman out in the engine?”
“Intimidation,” Andrews replied. “When a job is done thoroughly, it lets everyone know we mean business. Besides,” he said and smiled half a smile, “it breaks up the monotony.”
<<>>
Up until lunchtime, John remained extremely tense, agitated. Within an hour of Mel’s departure, John, wanting to leave no evidence behind for Brewster, had fed Valerie's cardboard dollhouse and paper dolls to the fire. Once completed, he attempted to sit down and finish The Scarlet Letter, but found himself pacing the floor, and sometimes gazing out one of the many windows overlooking the dirt road. The drive to Phoenix should take four hours. He wasn't about to breathe a sigh of relief until he knew Mel had reached the motel safely. And the only way to know such a thing was to wait it out. It was definitely a case of "no news is good news."
Jillian burnt off some, but not all, of her nervous energy by scrubbing the entire kitchen. She'd been amused to find no crumbs in the bottom tray of the toaster, yet she wiped the tray down anyway. It was the same way with all the cabinets. No dust. Even before she'd started, it was clean enough in here to eat off the floor. When the grandfather clock in the living room chimed twelve times, letting her know the four hours had ended, she headed for the living room, only to meet up with John in the dining room.
"Since the house is not surrounded by imitation FBI," John began, "Mel must have made it. I have a strong feeling it's all going to work out."
"Smuggling out a forty pound child is one thing," Jill said. "But a full grown woman won't fit inside a small crate."
"No need to fit you in a crate. You'll be riding up front with me."
"What?" she asked and immediately froze.
"I've spent the last few weeks trusting you, Jillian. Now, it's your turn to trust me. According to Mel, Brewster has a couple of men stationed at the end of San Pablo, checking all vehicles passing into town. I don't know how many men Brewster has, but we have the opportunity to lessen that number by two."
"I don't know, John. Sounds risky. Very risky."
He agreed. However, it was sounder to take on Brewster's men two by two, than having to face them all at once. Eventually, all Brewster's men had to be destroyed. As Mel had pointed out, getting Jillian out of the country wouldn't be enough. Even if they were unable to track her to the U.K., there would always be doubts, there would always be the threat hanging over her head that one day they'd find her – turning eternal life into an eternal hell of constant dread.
CHAPTER 36
Shortly before dusk, Tim Barnes made an important discovery, one that would lead them directly to Jillian Braedon. And the person he had to thank for it was Kevin Brewster, who had pissed him off royally.
Brewster, who had a constant craving for food, and a bigger appetite for making Barnes look like a fool, wanted something other than a cold baloney sandwich and lukewarm coffee for dinner. He sat in the only chair, leaving Barnes to either stand or sit on the dirt floor. Brewster removed the cellophane from one of the two sandwiches he'd packed, took one bite, and with a mouthful said, "Hey, Barnes, how would you like some take-out fried chicken from Eileen's Diner?"
"Sounds great," Barnes replied, his stomach grumbling in agreement.
"Good," Brewster said. "And while you're picking it up, get me some too."
Barnes cursed under his breath as he went to the door. When Brewster said, "Aren't you forgetting something?" Barnes turned around, expecting his boss to hand over some money.
Instead, Brewster threw him the keys to the Jeep. "And hurry back. I like my chicken hot. And white meat. That means breasts, not wings."
Barnes had no intentions of hurrying back. Neither did he specify white meat thirty or so minutes later when he stopped at Eileen's and placed the order. A part of him knew Brewster could make his life miserable if the man didn't get exactly what he wanted. But the biggest part of Barn
es didn't give a flying shit. So instead of heading straight back to that rundown shack, Barnes went for an extended ride through the desert.
Night approached. The air had turned bitter cold. Regardless, Barnes rode with the windows down, delighting in every bump that bounced him out of his seat, in every torturous curve, including those of Disaster Hill. He came down the hill with the speedometer resting on thirty‑five miles per hour, nearly overturning when the tires hit loose gravel in the wash below. He felt alive, exhilarated. And damn if that chicken didn't smell absolutely delicious. He drove on for perhaps another quarter mile before coming to a stop at the base of a rocky mesa. He felt no need to pull the Jeep off the road. It wasn't as if he'd be holding up traffic.
Barnes slapped his hands together, and then rubbed them briskly. Chicken, creamy mashed potatoes and coleslaw happened to be one of his favorite meals...only because he'd had Eileen's chicken dinner three days ago, and could still remember how it tasted.
He opened both Styrofoam take‑out plates, choosing the one with the largest portions for himself, even though they were both fairly equal. And leaving the top to the other plate open so Brewster's food would get good and cold, Barnes dug in. The meat pulled right off the drumstick in large, juicy bites. The crust was cooked to perfection, good and crispy, nice and spicy. With greasy fingers, he tore into the cellophane wrapper and removed a plastic Spork. He crammed his mouth full of mashed potato and stuffed a spoonful of coleslaw right in on top of it. While nearly choking from making a pig of himself, Barnes opened a half‑pint container of low-fat milk and washed it down.
After polishing off everything on his plate except the bones and cartilage, he tossed the mess out the window and wiped his greasy hands on the thighs of his pants. He looked out at the Styrofoam plate, at the milk carton he'd crushed before tossing out, and saw something else that didn't quite blend into the dusky desert scenery: a woman's shoe. Okay, so he'd seen a lot of garbage along the sides of these desert roads. Old tires with rusted rims; a refrigerator with the door missing; car parts; a discarded bicycle that looked to be a hundred years old. None of those things had seemed to matter, though. Sure, they didn't belong there, but somehow it seemed natural to see those old items discarded in such a manner. The shoe, however, bothered him. So he got out to take a better look.
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