"The man who flew off with your girlfriend."
John inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. He didn’t know the details regarding the crash or of the invasion into his home. He had blacked out. But Jillian had lived it. The blind terror she must have felt, virtually alone against all those men. He wanted to believe it was over quickly, that she’d felt no pain, and hadn’t the time to hold out for the hope that someone would come to her rescue. John’s heartbeat quickened, blood pounded through his head as he closed his eyes to fend off the tears. "Jillian."
Farmer bit down on one large, rubbery lip, brows furrowed. "Gotta ask you a rather strange question about that, Mr. Mills. We found something in the wreckage of the chopper. Can't seem to figure out what it was. Last night, you didn't by any chance see something well… something...something…" He shook his head, ruddy face turning a darker shade of red. "…something odd? An animal, maybe. Large. Looked kinda like a pig."
"No, sir," he replied. He hadn't seen it last night. Yet, he'd seen it before. Jillian's nightmare had evidently paid another visit. An untimely visit. Whoever the bastard was that had been piloting the helicopter, must have panicked when the monster appeared. It made sense, about as much sense as anything else did over the last three weeks. Knowing what had caused the helicopter crash, however, didn't make it any easier to digest. Had they come for her a day sooner or a day later, the nightmare wouldn't have happened. The helicopter wouldn't have crashed. And Jillian might still be alive. One day could have made all the difference in the world. One hour.
If it weren't so tragic, he'd consider it ironic: Jillian's nightmare had finally ended...and yet she wasn't alive to enjoy the new freedom.
John turned his cheek to the pillow, eyes stinging with tears. "I'm tired, Sheriff," he said solemnly. "Very tired."
"Sure you are. Got a few more questions for you. Guess they can wait another day or two." Farmer got to his feet, cowboy boots clicking against the tiled floor as he headed for the door. "Oh, one more thing. Spoke to your girlfriend, a few minutes ago. Were you aware she's wanted for questioning by the FBI?"
"Girlfriend?" John said. His heart raced quicker. He tried to wet his parched lips, but found no saliva. He pushed himself up on his left elbow, neck bent at an awkward angle, blood rushing to his face. "You spoke to her? Jillian? She’s alive?"
"Jill Braedon. Found her out in the waiting room early this morning with her kid and some barefoot English guy dressed in striped pajamas. Got a man keeping an eye on her right now. Suppose she’ll want to see you soon as visiting hours start. Less'n the FBI gets here first. Sure was a strange thing," Farmer said and shook his head. "The two people who brought her in seemed to a been under the impression she was dead. Had her in a body bag and everything. Talked to one of my men, who'd thought she was dead, too. Heard about things like that happening...way every once in a while. Never actually been involved, though. Just read about them in the paper. Nope...Kinda makes you wonder. Mighty strange." He placed both hands, one at either hip as he stared down at his snakeskin boots. When he looked across the room at John, Farmer's face had turned a pale shade of red again. "Mr. Mills...you don't, by any chance, have something you wanna tell me about all this?"
"No," John replied, nearly choking on his own voice.
Farmer shook his head again, lips pressed firmly together. "Thought that's what you'd say," he muttered, and then walked out of the room.
EPILOGUE
Because Jillian's only defense for fleeing the night of the fires was that she'd been running for her life – in effect, running for the past three and a half years from whomever had set the fires – the FBI concluded their questioning within a few hours. And since all the evidence had been destroyed in Fairshire's twin blaze, no motive could be established as to why Brewster and his men had wanted Jillian and her family dead. Neither did she offer any answers to that question. She'd been wise enough to use a string of assumed names during her three and a half year stint on the lam, which was probably why they didn’t connect her to the many miraculous healings that had taken place from one end of the country to the other. The FBI couldn't hold her. All they had to go on was circumstantial evidence which placed her in the vicinity during the crime. And gut-instinct, that suggested she wasn't telling the whole truth; neither of which would stand up in court. Their only recourse was to let the woman go. And keep a close watch of her activities.
Within six weeks, she and Valerie had obtained legal passports, and were on their way to Dover. Since John had dual citizenship and the wedding was to take place on the following Saturday, visas were not required.
The wedding ceremony was formal. Of the three hundred, fifty‑seven people who filled the cathedral, Jillian knew only three: Valerie, John, and Mel. By the end of the ceremony, she'd been introduced to countless others, including the infamous Uncle George. The red-carpeted aisle she crossed was lined with hundreds of roses. Her flowing gown, which had been custom designed, was a magnificent white, with a low‑cut bodice inlaid with pearlescent sequins. The train was carried by not one, but five of the cutest little children in formal attire. Jillian graced her way to the altar accompanied by a selection of chamber music composed by Johann Sebastion Bach.
It was there, facing the man she loved, lean and handsome and most proper in his black tuxedo, where they exchanged their vows and kissed for the first time as husband and wife. But not before a rather lengthy delay on John's part to answer one particular question with the appropriate 'I do.'
When the Reverend Harold J. Wentworth said to John, "...in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?" John gazed tenderly into Jillian's blue eyes. He hesitated to answer. Not because he wasn't sure; rather, because he was struck dumfounded by the meaning of that last phrase. Forever was a very long time.
Jillian flashed a nervous smile as the good reverend lightly cleared his throat. A hushed commotion swept through the cathedral as some of the guests shifted and leaned forward in the pews to get a better view. And John, who had never taken a commitment lightly, said: "I do."
<<>>
As it turned out, Jillian's nightmares didn't end with the helicopter crash. She'd found that out the night after John Mills made a miraculous recovery and was sent home with the complete use of his right arm and hand. But they found a solution – something simple enough for a five‑year‑old child to have discovered.
That night, seven weeks ago, when John woke up to Jillian's screams, a mistake had been made: the bedroom door had been left unlocked. The demon that had been thought dead loomed over the bed, while John tried to hold Jillian back. And when Valerie, singing at the top of her lungs, filled with complete faith, opened the bedroom door, the demon vanished as if it had never been there. A simple song had done the trick...
...Which is why, should you visit the Mills' estate in Dover, England, you'll always hear, day or night, the sweet sound of music filling the rooms.
About the Author
Jamie Eubanks resides in Southern California, where she studies Martial arts, runs a small business and is currently working on her next novel.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgement
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
EPILOGUE
About the Author
HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS Page 25