The Twelfth Of Never: A suspense mystery romantic thriller

by Lillian Francken

  Al shook his head, quickly ripping open the packet Joe handed him. He replaced the blue plastic with a sterile clear plastic tube and Delaney continued breathing. But all Gideon could do was sit back and listen while Delaney's vital signs were transmitted to the waiting ER. Delaney struggled to free himself from the groping hands trying to save his worthless life.

  Within twenty minutes of the shooting they reached the hospital. Orderlies gathered at the back door of the ambulance, picked up Delaney's stretcher, and rushed him through the ER doors.

  The cool damp wind blowing off the East River pierced Gideon's inner body. He stared down at his blood-stained hands. They still shook from the ordeal. Flashing lights were everywhere, sirens blared, and men barked orders in life-saving confusion. An ambulance pulled up with more casualties from a chaotic city.

  Gideon stepped back. He watched as two men pulled a stretcher out of the ambulance that had just whisked Wayne into the ER. Another gurney was lowered to the ground; a sheet protected onlookers from the motionless body underneath. Before anyone could wheel it away, Gideon halted their advance. He reached down, yanked back the sheet, and then pulled off the wig. Gideon stared into a face void of life. There was a glint of familiarity to the auburn hair and dark gray eyes that stared blankly at Gideon as if looking into his soul. Suddenly a cold piercing pain shot through Gideon. He quickly flipped the sheet back and as he did that, the memories that flashed, ended.

  "Take him," Gideon whispered.

  Gideon did not know what he expected, but something ate at his insides. Delaney was listed missing in action and up until two weeks ago Gideon had thought him dead. He wondered how many others in their unit had actually survived. It was the first time he really thought about that time in his life. But Gideon was sure about one thing: the real John Hamilton was dead. For some unknown reason, there was no doubt about that, and the fact that Delaney was using the young lieutenant's identity only confused him further.

  Gideon followed the orderlies through the swinging doors. He stopped and just watched as they wheeled the body to the waiting elevator. Gideon did not follow. There was no need. He turned and walked through the emergency room doors where Delaney was taken. Attendants in white coats stained with blood scurried about. But before Gideon knew what hit him, he was back in the hall again.

  "I've got to talk to him," Gideon argued furtively.

  Gideon glanced down at the nametag. Thelma Washington only came up to his chin, but she carried a good hundred pounds more than he and commanded more authority than most men he knew. There was no arguing. Her black eyes pierced through his attempt to pass. Thelma stepped forward while he just backed up. She blocked his advance as she put her hands on her hips.

  "No. You don't," she said. Thelma was definitely in control of the situation.

  Gideon did not need to be touched to know he was being pushed back through the swinging doors. It was only when they shut in his face that his faculties returned. Thelma stood on the other side, staring at Gideon through the circular glass window.

  "This is important," Gideon mumbled. But he realized his pleas fell on deaf ears. Everyone around him flashed badges. Gideon knew the stout black woman was not impressed with any of their credentials and did nothing to identify himself further.

  Gideon could hear Thelma through the closed doors as she pointed a finger at him. "You will wait with the rest."

  Gideon turned, kicking his foot at a metal chair. By the time it landed across the waiting room, two uniformed officers rushed through the door after him. Gideon flashed his badge. They backed off, leaving Gideon to face the wrath of the woman in white who came stomping through the swinging doors like a fullback ready for action.

  "You break anything and I'll send you the bill personally," Thelma snapped, as she followed Gideon to the overturned chair.

  Slowly Gideon reached down, picked up the chair, and set it against the wall. Then he turned to the hefty woman who ran the ER. She stood her ground, her hands folded, her hip cocked with a foot tapping the floor. Thelma Washington had a presence about her that demanded order.

  "Now if you want to stay here, I suggest you sit and be quiet."

  "This is official business," Gideon said again, this time with more sincerity. But it was no use arguing with the determined woman.

  "In this hospital, once they enter those doors," she turned, pointing at the doors leading to the ER room, "your authority ends. You get him after they put the pieces back together, and not before!"

  Thelma turned and was about to walk back to her station, but stopped and glanced back at Gideon, then shook her head. Too often, she had seen young men brought in all shot up. Once they were patched, they were hauled away to court for a prison term. Life was not getting easier. With only seven years left until retirement she did not know if she had it in her to continue. It was a hard life, watching the streets turn into jungles, with the bodies brought in only getting more mutilated than before.

  "Are there any other phones in this place?" Gideon asked, glancing at the three booths already in use. Everyone was watching him by then.

  Thelma pointed down the hall to the lobby. Gideon walked away; there was no use arguing. No one would be allowed to talk to Delaney, not with Thelma on duty. Colby was waiting for his call. The disaster in the park would not make him happy, but it was out of Gideon's control, had been from the start.

  Gideon walked down the hall. The aching in his temple made the room spin for a moment. He stopped until the sensation passed. The telltale scar from a bullet that almost ended everything for him over five years ago throbbed as it always did when he lacked sleep.

  Gideon pushed through the crowd of people gathering in the lobby and finally made his way to the row of booths near the entrance. He sat and rested his head on the wall, hoping the pain would subside. As he shut his eyes, he remembered a time long ago in a jungle he wanted to forget. There was the sound of shots echoing in his ears as he envisioned Delaney pulling the trigger on the young Vietnamese woman they were interrogating. Gideon had a hard time believing what Delaney said, yet he himself was once witness to Delaney’s treachery. The man had no conscience even back then. It bothered Gideon that Delaney turned to him for help after all this time.

  Gideon took out his wallet, flipping through the photos quickly until he was staring at the woman in the sketch. It was the only thing he had that could ease his pain. A picture of a woman he had never met, or had he? Gideon did not know or remember. But he was always drawn to her, like she was the answer to all the pain he felt. He waited for the throbbing to stop while his eyes watered.

  Then slowly he punched in the number for Langley. It was Colby's private line. Only a few select agents had that number, and Gideon was one of them. The two went back a long way, ever since Clandestine Operations in Vietnam. Colby was his Chief back then. Even now Gideon was on special assignment for Colby. Gideon knew Colby would not be happy with what he had to say, but he could not avoid the call.

  Gideon seriously doubted Wayne would go through with the speech planned for later in the week at the U.N. Security Council. But in the world of diplomacy, not even an assassin's bullet was cause for cancellation. It only put credibility to what was said.

  Finally, Colby was on the line. Gideon filled him in on the details of the fiasco that morning.

  "Who called in the locals?" Colby asked in a somber tone.

  "I did," Gideon replied.

  "They shouldn't be involved."

  "I had no choice."

  "We could get into trouble if the press gets hold of it."

  "Don't worry, no one will brag about this one."

  "How can you be so sure?" Colby asked.

  "Would you blow your horn if it almost got Wayne killed? I'm telling you, the Feds will do everything in their power to keep this under wraps."

  "What about the locals?" Colby asked.

  Gideon could tell Colby was irritated that they were involved, but there was no going back. If it ha
d not been for them, Wayne might not be alive.

  Finally Gideon answered. "I'll take care of them."

  "You better, and keep it quiet this time."

  "Is the offer the same?"

  "Yeah." There was a pause, and then Colby came back on the line. "Gideon, do you think it's worth what we're paying him?"

  "You're asking me? Remember, I was the one who told you not to trust the man."

  "Yeah, but everything he said is checking out."

  "What do we do with the Feds?" Gideon asked.

  "Let me worry about them. For now they will be too busy protecting Wayne to worry about our guy." Colby paused. "You're sure he wasn't the one who pulled the trigger?"

  "Positive."

  "Then there's nothing to worry about." Colby left the line for a moment. In the distance there was mumbling, then Colby was back. "Gideon, do you trust Delaney?"

  "After this morning, you have to ask? Besides, I thought you said things checked out."

  "Yeah, but I want to know what you think?"

  "It's getting so I don't even trust myself to know the time of day."

  "What?" Colby asked.

  "Nothing," Gideon quickly replied. He hesitated for a moment and when Colby did not say anything, he continued, "I'll keep you posted."

  Gideon hung up, and then shook his head. He was not so sure Delaney would trust him after what happened. Gideon did promise to protect him in the park. Some protection it turned out to be, almost getting Delaney killed in the process.

  Slowly Gideon ran his finger along the edge of the photo he held. He sighed. Gideon did not know what there was about the woman that gave him peace. Someday, he promised himself, he would find her. Then maybe he would remember how he came to carry the picture that had become his only salvation in a turbulent world of high-stakes murder.

  The ER waiting room was still the chaotic mess he left twenty minutes earlier, with one exception. Thelma was nowhere in sight. Gideon walked up to the doors that separated the ER from the rest of the world. An orderly was stripping the examining table where Delaney once lay.

  The hand on his shoulder startled Gideon. He turned and tried to free himself, but Thelma held him firm.

  "Where is he?" Gideon asked. Fear encompassed his being as he waited for Thelma to answer.

  "Who are you talking about?"

  "The gunshot victim." Gideon hung his head fearing Delaney did not make it and took with him the secrets he carried.

  "He's up in OR."

  "Did anyone go with him?"

  "If you mean the other flatfoots that were waiting outside, no. They were too interested in the Ambassador to worry about your man. But do not worry. No one is going to get near him in surgery."

  "What floor?"

  "Seventh."

  Gideon was in pain, he'd been up all night, not to mention the fact sleep had eluded him for weeks now. And the throbbing in his right temple was intolerable and getting worse.

  "It will be a few hours. Your prisoner is in safe hands." Thelma shrugged her shoulders as if what she said would make him feel better.

  "He's not my prisoner."

  "I thought..."

  "You thought wrong. I was protecting him."

  "Some protection."

  "Tell me about it," Gideon snapped.

  "Why don't you get some sleep?"

  Gideon turned to Thelma. "Are you running a Holiday Inn now?" He laughed, but the look on the woman's face told him she found no humor in what he said.

  "Maybe what you need is an attitude adjustment."

  "Sorry," Gideon said running his hand through his thick curls. "It's been a long morning," he said, then hesitated before finishing. "For that matter, a long life."

  "I'll call up there and let the nurses know you're coming. There's a room off the nurse's station they use for naps. I can let you know when he's out of surgery."

  "I'll get back to you if I need it," Gideon said, as he glanced down at Thelma while rubbing his chin. He had not even had time to shave. Gideon thought about Colby and wondered what he would say if he could see him now. But that was not what concerned him.

  Gideon turned and walked away. The throbbing was getting worse. If he did not rest soon the flashbacks would continue. A cold shiver crept up his spine as he walked to the elevator. He stood there for a moment. The doors opened. For some unknown reason, Gideon could not enter the small enclosure. All he could think about was the sweatbox and the heat of the hot humid jungle.

  Gideon let himself be shoved aside by the flow of people getting off, while others pushed him out of the way so they could get onto the elevator. Then, the doors slid shut, leaving Gideon to fight the demon inside. Gideon leaned up against the wall, gasping for air as beads of perspiration dripped down his forehead. He finally turned to the sign above the door down the hall. It would be a long climb up, but it was the only way. He just did not have it in him to fight the demons that were taking control.

  CHAPTER 3

  McDougal Alley was one of those quaint little streets no one ventured down because of its obscurity. Benjamin had Jenny by the hand, pulling her along until they reached the red brick carriage house tucked sedately in the middle of the alley. The light in the third floor window was a beacon in the early morning light. Jenny knew Trish would be waiting. She also knew another argument over Benjamin would ensue.

  Benjamin squeezed her hand tightly as they walked silently up the three flights. Neither one wanted to speculate on whom Trish was angrier with. Benjamin finally broke the long silence when they reached the landing and walked down the narrow hall.

  "I'll be working late at the studio, meet you back here at six!" He was not asking, he was telling, and he would not give her a chance to refuse.

  "You don't have to do this," Jenny argued.

  "It's not right, being alone. Besides, John would agree, a good Italian meal is what you need." He looked pleadingly at Jenny.

  She smiled. "It's been eons since I was at Papa Joe's."

  "I know, too long." Benjamin glanced down the hall at the door looming in front of them. "Do you think Trish would want to come too?"

  "I don't know? Why don't you ask her?" Jenny suspected for some time that Benjamin had underlying feelings for Trish that went far beyond his artistic needs.

  "She would sooner rip my heart out."

  "Maybe if you kept the sarcasm to yourself, and didn't come on so strong."

  "I just tell it like it is," Benjamin replied.

  "Yeah, right! You and your caveman mentality," Jenny mocked while shaking her head. "I swear Benjamin, you think girls enjoy a club over the head and a quick drag off to the cave. It does not work that way, not in this day and age."

  "She's the one who starts it."

  There was no use arguing. Jenny unlocked the door and let it swing open slowly. The apartment was the same as the day John had left. The hardwood floor sparkled with only braided rugs here and there, nothing more to take away from its natural beauty. The overstuffed early American furniture was from a time in her life she never wanted to forget. The colors were earth tones, a soothing mixture of golds and browns with accents of orange. An old milk can stood in the corner with a bouquet of cattails from a trip up north years earlier. The morning news blared throughout the small apartment. Trish stood in the kitchen with her arms crossed, tapping her foot.

  "If that jerk is out there, tell him thanks a lot," Trish yelled. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned as she turned to face the door.

  Jenny glanced back at Benjamin, but he was already tiptoeing down the hall. Before he entered his apartment, he turned to Jenny and sheepishly smiled while mouthing the words, "See you later."

  The longstanding feud over Benjamin's artistic interpretation of Trish's body was never-ending. Up until that point, no one had really cared who his models were. But the big show coming up at the Conrad Gallery and them wanting him to bring his models to mix with the clients had Trish in a tizzy. The idea of mingling with all those snooty peo
ple and having them look at her like some kind of freak was unnerving. After all, an eye in one's belly added nothing to her attractiveness as a model.

  Jenny turned to Trish. "He's gone already," she said, letting the door shut behind her.

  "I don't know how you can spend so much time with that pervert. Did you see his latest?"

  "No. Why?" Jenny asked.

  Trish shook her head. "I swear he uses me as a model just to torment me."

  "It isn't that, I'm sure."

  "Well, tell me, what's wrong with the stuff he was doing six years ago?" Trish asked while pointing to the living room wall.

  Jenny looked at Trish anxiously, and then turned slowly to the television as the commentator started talking about President Carter. Jenny hoped he would start addressing the issue of the missing in action in Vietnam, but instead his main concern was with Middle East peace talks. She shook her head: no sooner than one war was over, the country was looking to get mixed up in another. She walked over to the set and flipped the switch.

  Jenny turned to the pencil sketches on the far wall. They were wedding gifts from Benjamin, ones he had done when they were all at NYU. Benjamin had a talent that not many people in the art world acknowledged. The sketches of John were Jenny's favorite. They captured the gleam in his eyes. Jenny remembered the expression so well. The only time he'd lacked that gleam was at the gate of Kennedy International when she’d seen him off. All she'd seen that day was a solemn expression of doubt. It was a vision of him she remembered in dreams that still haunted her nights. It was the last time she saw him.

  Jenny did not think the sketch of herself was as good, but John had cherished it nonetheless. She remembered him saying he wanted to always remember her in the way that Benjamin captured her in the sketch. He had a friend take a picture of it for just that reason.

  Trish walked over to Jenny, who stood mesmerized by the sketch of John.

  Jenny reached up. She touched the glass as if by doing so, she was touching the man she loved. "They are good," she whispered.

  "Why can't he immortalize me like that?"