Trust with Your Life

by ML Gamble

  With that, Mason Weil picked up his briefcase and placed it on the table. It had been searched. He was annoyed that the guard had smudged the gold plate engraved with his initials, MMW, but was satisfied that he had cleared his conscience of any conflicts of ethics questions that might arise. He smiled and handed Frederick Brooker a catalog of radio-controlled model airplanes his client had requested, then said, “Well then, let’s begin. The district attorney plans to make his case on the point that you lied in your initial statement to the police. You told them, when they recovered the murder weapon from your limo, that you killed Paul Buntz when he approached your car and threatened to kidnap your son.”

  “Yes.”

  “You pulled the trigger when you saw him reach into an orange gym bag. You thought he was armed.”

  “Yes. I’m still surprised he wasn’t.”

  Weil looked up, but then continued without comment. “The prosecutor will counter this claim with an eyewitness report that puts you and Paul Buntz in your car at midnight. A second witness, Mr. Steele, states he heard you call Paul Buntz’s name, and when he approached your car, you shot him and drove off when Mr. Buntz fell dead into the water.”

  “I’m quite tired of going over this material, Mr. Weil. I know the facts.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Brooker. But when these witnesses take the stand, you must be prepared.”

  “If the witnesses take the stand,” Frederick Brooker corrected. “If I was a betting man, I don’t think I’d bet the house on that happening anytime soon, Mason.”

  For a long moment, Mason Weil stared at his client. His conscience was kicking him in the ethical ribs again. But if he didn’t ask Brooker directly what he knew about the disappearance of Alec Steele, then he was off the hook.

  So be it. Weil droned on about other administrative court matters. While the attorney talked, Frederick Brooker thumbed through the pages of the catalog, barely listening, barely able to wait until he would be out of jail and back with his son.

  His son, Erik, was a good boy, always did what he was told. Too bad more of his employees weren’t more like him, he thought. Too bad Erik’s mother wasn’t more like him.

  This thought caused Brooker’s brow to crease, but he kept on reading, kept on half listening to his attorney, kept on dreaming of the time, very soon now, when his plan would come to fruition and this nightmare of isolation would finally end.

  Chapter Five

  Molly pulled the sandstone lamp from the night table onto Alec Steele’s head, but he managed to stay conscious despite the resounding crack to his skull.

  He responded by pinning Molly to the bedroom floor and clamping his bandaged hand across her nose and mouth, his touch much rougher than it had been hours ago in her foyer.

  She stopped struggling at the sight of the threat in his eyes, for it was one she didn’t feel like challenging.

  “Are you ready to listen to me now, Molly Jakes?”

  She nodded, opening her mouth to gulp air, tasting the moist, soapy flavor of his hand. He loosened his grip only slightly.

  “All right, then. I’m going to let you up. You’re going to get dressed. Then you’re going to drive me somewhere and let me off. You’ll be done with me for good then.”

  Molly blinked and nodded again. Alec rewarded this movement by removing his hand.

  “Why didn’t you just take my car and drive yourself this morning?” she demanded. “Why add kidnapping to your list of crimes?”

  “I thought you might have something to do with the men who—” Alec stopped himself short.

  “What men?” she probed.

  “Never mind. Look, I don’t have time to explain anything to you, Miss Jakes. And anyway, you’re better off not knowing. Now get up and get dressed—” his eyes glanced at her chest, then hastily away “—and we can get going.”

  “Get going how far? To the end of the street?”

  “Farther, if we leave soon.”

  For some reason, Molly felt compelled to reason with the agitated intruder, in the hopes, she had to admit to herself, that he would tell her what men he’d been referring to. She had started to get a very bad feeling that their meeting on the freeway hadn’t been so random. Which could only mean that since Frederick Brooker’s crime was the only thing they had in common, those dead men last night and Alec’s wound must have something to do with that.

  She lowered her voice, trying to sound reasonable. “But the cops are looking for my car. Even if I’m driving it, we’re going to get pulled over by the first CHIP who’s awake.”

  “I know that. Which is why we’re taking Rafe’s car.”

  These words didn’t make sense to Molly for a second, then they made horrifying sense. Rafe was due any minute; obviously Alec had heard her whole conversation. “You were going to stay put until Rafe showed up, but when I decided to check if my car was at my neighbor’s—”

  “You’re a smart girl. I planned to take one of your neighbors’ cars tonight, but when I heard you on the phone, I decided Rafe’s was a better plan. I knew you’d send your man away. That’s why I had to stop you. I need his car.”

  Molly’s chest was beginning to ache from his spread-eagle hold on her, and her robe had slipped open during their struggle. She wasn’t excruciatingly modest, but she damn sure wasn’t going to give him a bigger eyeful of her breasts, she promised herself. “Will you let me up now, please?”

  Alec released her and she sat up.

  They stared briefly at each other. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “You’re awfully polite for a man wanted for murder.”

  Alec paled at these words. “I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Then who were those men? Did you shoot one of them last night?” she challenged.

  Alec looked as though he might answer but clamped his lips together tightly and stood. “Get dressed.”

  “Did you kill someone?”

  “None of your bloody damn business.”

  That sounded like a confession to Molly, and a new surge of fright fanned out through her veins. Alec Steele disappeared through her bedroom doorway.

  Since there was no way out but to follow him, she did. Besides, her curiosity was as aroused as her anger. “It is my business. You’re jeopardizing my life. If you want any more help from me, I deserve to know what Lieutenant Cortez meant when he said you were dangerous. I think he thinks you murdered those men last night. Did you?”

  They were standing in Molly’s kitchen. She watched as Alec picked up the dented teakettle from the floor, rinsed and filled it. Slowly he turned on the flame under the front burner of the stove and set the kettle down.

  He ignored Molly and walked around the island and looked in the refrigerator, then set some milk down with a thunk in front of Molly. “I thought you didn’t have milk.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “So you were. And so is Cortez. I didn’t murder anyone.”

  “I see. The police are lying?”

  He leaned toward her. “Cops don’t ever lie in the States, doll?”

  “If you hate the United States so much, just what are you doing living here?” She folded her arms, suddenly as weary as she could ever remember being in her life.

  “I don’t live here. And for your information, I love you uptight, overachieving, never-know-when-to-be-happy Yanks. I’m only here to do my honest duty and testify in a trial to help the good old U.S. of A. Although it appears now that my testimony isn’t going to be worth a pile of dingo dirt.”

  “I know you were at Brooker’s office the night of the murder. Is that all you have to testify about? Or is there something else you saw that you’ve managed to avoid telling me?”

  Alec glanced away at her surprisingly correct guess and rubbed his ribs. He thought for a moment, then turned his gaze to meet Molly’s brown eyes. “I was a witness to Paul Buntz’s murder.”

  Molly felt as if someone had landed a punch in her midsection. The cops and the district attorney h
ad led Molly to believe that there were no eyewitnesses to the crime. Suddenly, she remembered a recent tabloid-television report that had hinted about a surprise witness who could hang Frederick Brooker with what he knew. She had dismissed it as unfounded.

  Was Alec Steele that witness?

  The case was a lurid one. Frederick Brooker, it had been revealed, had been blackmailed by ex-television sportscaster, Paul Buntz. It was rumored that Buntz had connections to organized crime, but as far as Molly knew, which was only what she read in the papers, no one had discovered the reason for the blackmail.

  Some speculation arose over a rash of burglaries of Brooker’s customers. Immediately after the crime, the media had been full of theories, but the coverage of the trial had been overshadowed by other grisly murders across the country, and Molly had not been able to find anything new about the case in the papers for several weeks.

  “I’ve never read your name in any of the news stories,” she said.

  “Yeah. Well, I’m the surprise witness, you might say.”

  “You actually saw him shoot the guy?”

  Alec’s eyes narrowed and he leaned against Molly’s kitchen counter. He still had one of the guns in his belt. Though he’d stopped pointing it at her, she still felt his prisoner.

  “Yes. Poor bastard.”

  “How did you come to be at the murder scene?”

  “It’s a long story. I knew Brooker. Was going to deliver his sailboat to San Diego. I won’t bore you with the details. But when I saw what happened, I got to the coppers as soon as I could. There was a bit of a stink, but they finally decided I was telling the truth and kept me under wraps back home in Melbourne while Brooker’s lawyers tried to buy their way out of murder one. I was sent a ticket and told to report here for the trial next week. But that’s looking real chancy right now.”

  “Why?”

  “You really don’t need to know any of this, Molly. The less I tell you, the less trouble you’ll have sleeping tonight.”

  Alec was about a foot away from Molly, and she felt more than heard a tremor of regret in his voice.

  “I’ll judge that for myself, Alec. I’m a witness myself, you know. And the cops haven’t told me anything except that my information about seeing Paul Buntz get into Brooker’s car at midnight is crucial to their case. How much more is there to know?”

  He seemed to weigh something, then shrugged his massive shoulders. “I meant it when I said I couldn’t trust the cops, Molly. Brooker’s money has turned one of them, I think. It may be dangerous for you to know this.”

  Her mouth went dry, but Molly wanted, needed to know. “Keep talking, Alec. I think I deserve to hear what’s going on.”

  “When I landed at LAX, four guys with badges met me, but they weren’t the real helpful sort, if they were cops at all. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t catch on till they’d cuffed me and driven me out to some shack to begin their dirty work.”

  The kettle began to boil, and Alec poured the water into two mugs. Molly’s brain felt filled with fog.

  “What dirty work?” she whispered.

  “Those boys tied me up and whacked me about a bit for the past few days.” He pointed to his ribs. “I got in a few licks, but four against one ain’t the best odds.”

  “Talk about John Wayne.”

  Alec grinned, but then his voice became more serious. “Anyway, they doped me up, too. Then the real fun began.” His whole body went still, as if he were reliving the moments. “If I’m not mistaken, they brainwashed me. Or tried to anyway.”

  “Brainwashed?” Molly blinked and thought of POWs, Chinese water drips and medieval stretching racks. “They tortured you?”

  “That’s enough, Molly.”

  She couldn’t let him stop now. “But why did they do that? Why not just kill you? Did they try to get you to forget what you know about the murder?”

  “I’m not sure what they were up to. There was a skinny little bloke with a hooded mask who was directing everything.” He bowed his head as if suddenly very tired. “I can’t remember much of it.”

  She thought that was probably a good thing. “Alec, what were they trying to brainwash you to do? Change your testimony? Were they Brooker’s men? Did they mention him?” To Molly’s ears, her own questions sounded like silly television cop-show scripts, but she had to ask these things.

  “That would make sense, wouldn’t it? Especially since I’m the only witness. But no, that’s not what I’m remembering from it. What I can recall is that I’m supposed to do something for someone. Be a hired gun for someone when they give the order.”

  “Hired gun?” she repeated. “You mean you’re...” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t put the absurdity of what she was thinking into words.

  “They want me to kill someone, love.”

  Molly took a gulp of tea and seared the inside of her mouth. She set the mug down. “But that’s so absurd. Who is it? Surely the person’s identity would explain what’s going on.”

  Alec stirred three sugars into his mug and rested on his arms as if his entire weight might collapse onto the counter. “I don’t know who it is. Every time I concentrate, that bit floats away. The blokes were taking me to do it last night, I think. We parked on the side of the freeway. I heard one of them say ‘his target should be here about three.’ But something went wrong. I heard another car pull up, and some shots. The car started moving, then we got into the crack-up on the freeway. I was drowsy during the ride, but I could swear I heard a woman’s voice screaming just before we crashed. At any rate, I was cuffed to the car door and managed to get loose when the Jeep we were in rolled. I ran off the highway and hid in the bushes, then saw you park your car. I have to tell you, when I recognized you from Brooker’s office, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “You mean you thought I was involved with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still think that?”

  “Should I?”

  The kitchen was very quiet. Molly moved her mug half an inch forward, sloshing some of the contents onto her hand. She felt ill. “I’m not, Alec. I was there by coincidence.”

  She knew, however, that this wasn’t quite true. The Brooker case had to be behind the phony call-out. Someone must have planned for her to be on that stretch of highway in the dead of night so that they could...they could what?

  Have Alec Steele kill her?

  That would be a ridiculous plan. They had no guarantee she would be there at the right time, that she would stop even if she was there. It would have been a totally ridiculous plan, wouldn’t it?

  Her conviction turned on itself. Actually, it would have been brilliant. Brooker could have then said Alec Steele was lying about what he saw. Molly felt her legs trembling, and she moved a step back from Alec, wishing she could run away.

  Because Alec Steele was programmed to kill.

  He’d been waiting near the freeway. Waiting near her home.

  Waiting to kill someone.

  Was it her? If it was, maybe he would do it now.

  Molly met Alec’s eyes and saw the anguish and fear she felt mirrored there.

  “Don’t be afraid of me, Molly. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Her chest tightened with nerves, but something rang so true in his voice, she found herself believing him. “My God, what are you going to do? We should call the district attorney. He’ll know—”

  “How do I know it’s not the D.A. who’s behind all this?” Alec interrupted. “No. I need to hole up awhile. I know a place I’ll be safe. But I may need some medical help. To get deprogrammed, or whatever the hell you call it. Maybe a psychiatrist is what I really need....”

  Everything Alec had recounted sounded outlandish and unrealistically dramatic, even though his delivery was calm and deliberate.

  Which made everything too believable. This fact made Molly feel like throwing up. Murder was something she had been exposed to daily, at least through the media. She thought, particularly after her
experience with the Brooker thing, that she was hardened to fear. She thought if she was cautious, didn’t walk down dark alleys or pick up hitchhikers, she would be okay. Gangs, freeway snipers, drug raids, psycho slashers, all of those front-page Times headlines she devoured calmly each morning with her cereal happened to other people.

  She always assumed—hoped, really—that the people who did those kinds of things would have a certain look about them. Some glint in their eyes, or tone to their voice, that would identify them as vicious.

  Alec Steele had no outward characteristics of a violent person. He appeared sane and had a charismatic personality when he wasn’t bashing a person around. He seemed very decent.

  But who knew what evil lurked inside his heart? That thought tempered her empathetic rush of emotion. Was this guy honestly going to let her go if she helped him get the handcuff off and drove him someplace safe?

  His voice brought Molly out of the clouds and back to reality. “You better get dressed, Molly.” He again had a gun in his hand, though he wasn’t pointing it at her. He seemed to sense that she wasn’t as resistant to helping him as before.

  Not that he trusted her very far, however. She turned and went back to the bedroom, eyeing the phone in the front alcove, knowing he was watching her every move. Molly hastily pulled on clothes, then applied minimal makeup and brushed out her tangles just as the front bell chimed again.

  Rafe. Molly walked out of the bedroom and nearly ran into Alec. He put his finger to his lips. He was still holding the gun, and the second was tucked into his waistband.

  She glared at him. Alec pulled her into the hallway. His voice was a ragged whisper. “Ask him in. Then tell him you need his help to move something in here.”

  “I’m not going to let you hurt one of my men.”

  “You never let up, do you?” He looked as if he wanted to bite her. “I’m not going to hurt your chum. I’m going to tie him up, and we’re going to take his car.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to do that. I’ll tell him to take my car, and I’ll use his truck. That way—”

  “That way you’ll be an accessory to murder. Don’t give me more help than I’m asking for, Molly. Just move.”