It was a brown slip‑on with a flat heel, old by no means. It had a scuffed sole, dusty with sand. But the rest of it seemed almost perfect. In fact, the lettering inside was clear. The shoe was a size six and had been made in the USA. Barnes walked a little ways with the shoe in hand, keeping his eyes to the ground. The sun settled below the peak of a distant mountain, turning the sky a mystic shade of orange. He walked alongside a narrow ravine, in and out of the mesa's shadow. Had his eyes not been glued to the ground, he might have stepped right on it: a woman's purse, brown, the same color as the shoe, and also fairly new.
He sifted through the contents and pulled out a leather wallet. What it revealed was an expired driver's license. Even without the name, he would have recognized the owner. The picture had long ago been burnt into what was otherwise a faulty memory. Goosebumps gathered on his arms. His head felt all prickly, as if his hair now stood on end.
He'd found Jillian Braedon's purse...and more.
The cut off to the Garcia's lay over a mile back, heading towards town. There was only one house up this particular road. The woman had to be there. One house. And it belonged to John Mills.
<<>>
With Valerie out of the house, hopefully safe and sound in the great city of Phoenix, it was just her and John, alone. The decision had been made. The threat of the house being bugged was gone. So, if the up and coming nightmare got out of hand – and it definitely would – Brewster wouldn't be listening in. She would also have a few days to recuperate before she herself had to make the long journey to London. And taking time out for the recuperation process would be vital...if she survived. But she didn't want to think about that right now. Because she would survive. It was a simple matter of knowing her limitations. Or believing she knew them.
Even after putting Kimberly Shelter on the road to recovery (the worst case she'd ever dealt with), there had been enough strength in reserve more than twenty‑four hours later to revive Valerie (who had passed out from exhaustion). Kimberly had been close to death. John was not. And, John's leg already showed improvement compared to when they’d first met just weeks ago. She'd seen to that herself, because she'd felt responsible for the pain he was in on two separate occasions: the night she'd spooked him and he'd fallen, and after his encounter with her living nightmare. Yet, those two incidents were mild in comparison to what Jillian now had in mind.
The timing was right. If she didn't owe John her life, she'd do it anyway. Because when someone you love is in pain, you do whatever it takes – whatever it takes – to put an end to that pain...even if that person doesn't love you in return. Yet, she suspected John did. And she was about to put that speculation to the test, not only for her sake, but for his as well.
"I heard Mel mention that you might be going to England," she said. "I hope you do. Otherwise, I'm going to miss you."
It was exactly what he'd been waiting to hear. And still, it had somehow taken him by complete surprise. "We’ve only known each other for a few weeks. I’m sure you’ll have forgotten all about me by this time next year."
"Does this mean you’re not going? Please reconsider. I cannot go without you." She hesitated briefly, searching his eyes for a sign that this was the right moment. "John, I think I’ve fallen in love with you."
"Jillian," he whispered and met her gaze. His hand went to the side of her face, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheek tenderly. They found themselves standing closer. The touch of her skin beneath his hand, the way in which she gazed into his eyes, caused an almost painful surge of desire. He wanted to pull her even closer, feel the warmth of her body pressed up against his own. For several long moments, he remained lost in her deep blue eyes, eyes that would forever remain just as young and beautiful as they were now. John withdrew his hand, clenching and unclenching it at his side. It would never work. He had the choice to either explore or end whatever possibilities might lie between them. The former brought with it a feeling he’d thought lost to him forever. But also a sense of what he would eventually lose if things between them became any more complicated. "A woman like you...You, Jillian, deserve so much more."
"More?" Jillian lowered her gaze, stepping back. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel so uncomfortable. You’re probably tired of women throwing themselves at you, and that wasn’t my intention." The moment the last few words left her lips, she realized it was a lie. She was throwing herself at him. "On second thought, perhaps that is my intention."
Damn, how he'd thought this through. He had to make her understand that he was the problem, not she. He was the one who'd grow old. He would become the burden.
"Jillian, listen to me. Every day, I grow a day older. Days have a nasty habit of turning into years. Honestly, Jillian, if the situation were reversed, would you even consider being with someone who would stay perfectly young, while you turned into a wrinkled, decrepit bag of bones? It wouldn't be fair to either of us. Think about it. I'd always be waiting for that day when you look at me with pity and see nothing but an old man. And I will grow older. But you, you'll always be young and beautiful."
"It doesn't have to be that way."
John walked slowly to the window, staring out at the darkening sky. A large slice of white moon hung low over the horizon. He’d gazed upon this same hard, cold piece of rock as a child; the same lifeless orb Jillian would gaze upon for centuries to come. He could not expect her to give up her youth to grow old with him. Nevertheless, the sentiment touched his heart.
"Jillian," he said, turning from the window. He put on a casual smile, despite the aching in his heart, and stuffed both hands in his trouser pockets. "I have a strong feeling that you're going to be just fine without me."
"If you care about me, please rethink this," she said barely above a whisper.
"Because I care, I cannot."
"I wish you were going with me. I am going to miss you."
"I’m going to miss you, Jillian."
"If only I had something to remember you by."
His face brightened, despite having been let off the hook that he’d just as soon ensnare him for eternity. "Choose anything in the house, and it's yours. Anything."
She raised a spirited brow. "Anything?"
"Anything."
"You."
He couldn't help but laugh. God, she was beautiful. "You know what I mean."
"How about something from your bedroom? A little knick‑knack. Something that, when you wake up each morning and see it missing, will make you think of me. And when I wake up each morning and see it by my bed, I'll think of you."
He followed her into the master bedroom, where she went directly to the glass case of pewter statuettes by the desk. After studying each little statue briefly in the dusky room, she went to the nightstand and looked down at the candlestick holders. When he came up behind her, she turned to face him.
"John," she said and paused. Her eyes closed for a brief moment as she inhaled deeply then exhaled through a tense shudder. "I'll be leaving in a few days"
He allowed his fingers to slip through her silky dark hair, and she stepped into his arms. She could feel his heart racing, his heavy exhalation as she breathed him in. He brought a hand to the side of her face, watching as she stared, lips parted, at his mouth.
A moment ago – although it wouldn't have been easy – he could have turned and walked away. But that moment had passed. He leaned his cane against the wall, in the narrow gap between the nightstand and the bed. Cupping her face between his hands, he kissed her softly on the mouth. He could see no further than this moment, now.
"No regrets," she whispered, trembling inside.
"No regrets."
He kissed her deeply, her body responding, melding to his own. He unbuttoned her shirt, slowly, as he caressed her throat with soft kisses. She reached up to unbutton his shirt. Their lips met again, more urgent this time, desire laying its claim to one another. Her shirt hit the floor.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. There wasn
't a hint of a scar on her exposed flesh. He stroked her throat up and down where the wound had once been, and then traced a finger along the curves of her full breasts. Although he didn't say as much, he had no doubts whatsoever that he would soon return to England. And if love couldn’t keep them together upon exhausting whatever good years he had to give, then the memories of the times they would soon share would have to be enough.
He unbuckled the thin belt from around her waist. The trousers slipped down around her ankles and she stepped out of them. She stood there, naked body outlined by moonlight, breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath. Her fingers went to his belt buckle, unfastening it diligently.
"I want you to know...I'm in love with you too," he whispered.
"I know."
Jillian reached behind and drew back the covers. When John finished undressing, they sat for a few moments, caressing one another. As they kissed, his fingers slipped through her hair and she eased back against the mattress beneath the weight of his body. His lips kissed the soft skin beneath her ear, moving to her throat, teasing her nipples, down to her smooth stomach.
Barnes threw the woman's purse on the table in front of Brewster. After a brief explanation, Brewster radioed for backup. The six of them would go in and they'd do so heavily armed. The break they'd been awaiting for three and a half years had presented itself. Two Jeeps. One helicopter. Six of the original eight agents. No longer did it bother Brewster that Mills was a celebrity. Celebrities die just as easily as anyone else. Besides, he had a score to settle. Not only with the woman, but also with Mills. That bastard had struck him hard enough in the balls to make him ache for a week. Killing Mills would be a pleasure.
CHAPTER 37
A soft moan escaped Jill's lips as her head sunk deeper into the pillow. He got to his knees between her parted thighs, his left knee taking most of his weight. She reached for him, guiding him to her. Raising her hips and pressing both trembling hands, one at each side of his chest as he entered her. Her hips rose to meet him again and again; his mouth came down upon hers; her hands slipped around his back, fingers sinking into hardened muscle as she drew him close, closer.
<<>>
Andrews piloted the chopper to the shack, completely uninformed as to Barnes’ discovery, yet highly speculative. Laurel sat beside him, puffing on a cigarette. He turned to her just as he brought the chopper down, and said, “Put that out! You keep smoking like that, and you’ll die ten years ahead of your time.”
“They found her,” Laurel said for perhaps the twentieth time since they’d left the house – a five-bedroom home they’d rented four miles this side of Sandstone. The woman absolutely glowed. “I know it. I can feel it.”
Andrews felt it too. Only his gut reaction was much different than Laurel’s. He didn’t care if she had a ten pack a day habit or didn’t smoke at all. Tonight, she would die. So would the other four. He should have killed them all months ago. But he had waited. Because, when you make a sacrifice to your god, you make sure your god is watching.
So tonight, he would kill all five of them, basking in the glory that awaited him. He would live. He would live because no one would harm the Braedon woman, and in response, she would grant him his life – life eternal. Yes, he alone would save her. She would not die. At least, that was how Andrews imagined it to be. And of course, Andrews was wrong.
<<>>
Jillian nestled her head to John's chest, listening for the moment when his breathing would become the calm steady breathing of a sleeping man. Slowly, she drew down the covers, exposing his legs. If not for the horrible scars his right leg would have appeared perfect. He had the muscle tone of an athlete.
She dreaded the pain, almost as much as she dreaded the creature she'd soon have to face. Pain, however, was the catalyst. In a hypnotic state, the suggestion of pain – auto‑suggestive or not – would ordinarily snap a person right out of the trance. After Jillian's surgery, however, it only brought greater depths to the trance. Pain opened up her mind, gave her the ability to fight the affliction. The worse the pain, the better the results. And pain she would feel.
Being careful not to rouse him from his sleep, Jillian inched down in the bed. She placed both hands, ever so gently, on his leg, one above the knee and one below the knee – where the worst scarring had occurred. She dropped her head back, relaxing her eye muscles until both eyelids drooped. And relaxing them even further, she allowed them to close. Her favorite testing suggestion was that she smell roses. And when the fragrance of rose petals deceived her olfactory nerves, she knew she approached the desired state of mind. Yet, she had to go deeper, much deeper. Again, the auto‑suggestive word was 'roses,' which she whispered aloud.
<<>>
When Brewster told Andrews: “Give us thirty minutes, then bring in the chopper,” Andrews bit down on his tongue to keep from panicking, and he bit down hard. This was not the way he’d planned it. But maybe it would work out okay. Certainly they wouldn’t kill the woman before they got some answers. Or, perhaps they would. It was a chance he couldn’t take.
“Kevin,” he said, grabbing the man by the arm. He led Brewster away from the others and over to a corner of the room. “I thought I was going to be in on this.”
Brewster yanked his arm free. “What’s wrong with you? You are in on it.”
“It’s Barnes,” Andrews said quietly. “Barnes is going to screw it all up. He’ll go in, shoot first, and ask questions later.”
“I heard that!” Barnes yelled from across the room. “Fuck you too, Andrews!”
“Listen to me, Kevin,” he said, ignoring Barnes. “We want the woman alive.”
“That’s why I’m going in with a tranquilizer. The Braedon woman will be sound asleep before she even knows what hit her. We should be in position within fifteen minutes and should have her within another fifteen minutes. If you don’t hear from me in thirty minutes, you’ll know everything’s gone according to plan. You’ll fly in with the chopper after Mills and the kid are dead, and you’ll fly out with the woman. Bring her straight to the house, got that?”
“If you want the woman to talk, the kid has to remain alive,” Andrews argued. “That kid is our only weapon, and maybe our only defense.”
Brewster nodded his agreement, and Andrews bit down on his tongue again. Not to keep from panicking, but to ward off a grin. He would have the woman all to himself. He was already solely responsible for saving the child, ensuring Jillian’s gratitude. Turning matters further in his favor, from his position in the air, he could pick off the other five, easy as can be. It looked better than he’d dared hope, with one exception: The woman wouldn’t be awake to witness the act that would prove his loyalty. Yet, in the end she would know. And that end would be a new beginning.
<<>>
The way Jim and Richard had explained it several years ago, was that Jillian, while in a hypnotic state, could actually receive the nerve impulses of another person simply by physically touching that person. In return, as with a two‑way radio, messages could be sent as easily as they were received. Right now, if she so chose, she could focus her thoughts and send a command that he wiggle his toes. And those toes would wiggle. Jillian knew, for she'd conducted such an experiment before. It was as if John's leg had become her leg. And the two areas where she felt the most discomfort were the knee and just below the ankle.
Since she didn't want to wake John, the message she now sent was for the leg to go numb. He would feel nothing, sense nothing. To test it, she concentrated while slipping one hand up and down his leg, and found that all feeling had gone.
The next step was to put up a mental block. Otherwise, the pain she would call upon would backfire, and he'd most certainly wake up screaming in agony. With that accomplished, the pain would do the rest. She wouldn't need to concentrate on the scars, the damaged nerves or the misaligned bone – as she had to do when repairing part of her own body.
The way the healing of others took place remained even a myste
ry to her. The amount of the healing seemed contingent upon the amount of pain she brought upon herself. Triggering the pain was like triggering a guided missile. And since only his right leg was linked to her mind, only his right leg would be healed. In other words, to erase the scars from his arm, stomach and chest, she'd need to link herself to those particular parts. However, she had no intentions of tampering with them.
There was another method, one she'd used on Jim, one that Dr. Neas had refused to take any part in. And that was to link her mind with Jim's mind. The result, startling as it had been, was not only an apparent cure to all that ailed him, but a reversal of the aging process, as well. She hadn't been able to erase the gray from his hair. Yet, Jim had looked ten years younger. His complexion had smoothed to that of a twenty‑five‑year‑old man. His youthful muscle tone had returned. And, he'd felt ten years younger. Although he'd been a cigarette smoker for over fifteen years, Jim's lung x-ray suggested that even the effects of tobacco could be reversed to some degree. She had wondered many times since, that had she been able to heighten her own pain even more, if the age reversal might have been taken a step further. Was it possible to turn a full grown man into a child?
She believed it was. And she also believed that to do so in one sitting would result in her immediate death. As she had once told John, energy doesn't come out of thin air. It was physically draining.
The auto‑suggestive word she used when calling upon the pain, was 'life.' She whispered that word aloud. Immediately, she felt a tightening of the muscles. Her head snapped back as if she'd been cracked in the face with a baseball bat. And indeed, the pain felt every bit as bad as if she had been struck that way. Teeth gritted against the pain, she repeated the word, again and again. Both eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites could be seen. Saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Lips snarled. Tears streamed down her reddened face. Muscles stood out on her neck, blue veins so pronounced, appearing ready to burst. All at once, she buckled forward, agonizing pain bolting through every muscle, every nerve fiber. And the shrill scream that had been locked behind clenched teeth was unloosed.
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