by Robena Grant
Good. He was alive.
****
Jack opened his eyes and saw a paramedic kneeling beside him. On the other side of him was a burly ex-GI or ex-Marine with a buzzed head, and wearing a bloody apron. At least it wasn’t an angel. Or the guy in a red leotard, holding a pitchfork, and leering. He must be hallucinating. The paramedic stuck a stethoscope in his ears, and then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Jack’s arm.
“Lucky you were wearing protection,” he said, and tapped the Kevlar vest beneath Jack’s shirt.
Now it was coming back to him. “Janelle?” Jack blinked hard, and then tried to sit up.
“Head injury,” the guy in the apron said. “Stay on the ground.”
“Jumped me. Hit with the butt of his gun,” Jack murmured. He touched the side of his face and felt the sticky ooze of blood. “Fired. Rolled. Winded.” Raising his head up from the floor had set off more shooting stars in his visual field than any Fourth of July fireworks exhibit he’d ever seen. He closed his eyes tight, and then took a couple of deep breaths. He let his head drop back slowly. “The girl…in the back room.”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Debbie’s here, she’s giving a report to Deputy Stanton.”
Good, Deb’s safe. Jack knew he’d be fine in a few minutes. “Janelle,” he said. “Back room.” There was no use arguing with the paramedic who shoved him flat again. He could hear the wail of sirens, and his heartbeat raced. He wanted to be out there chasing down those bastards, and saving Janelle; it was hard to stay still.
“Water,” Jack said. He rubbed at his chest, his mouth was parched and he realized he must have blacked out earlier. And he wondered for how long.
“Jack?”
Debbie’s voice seemed far away. He struggled to sit, but the paramedic shoved him down again with one big hand. “Stay still. I’m starting an IV.”
Jack widened his eyes so he could focus better. Debbie sure looked worried, but then who wouldn’t? Her daughter had been taken hostage by two crazy people. He wanted to hold her and comfort her, but the big guy had restrained his hand, and now the paramedic started probing around his veins with a needle. “No. No time for that. I’ll be fine.” Jack tried to pull his hand away and sit up.
The guy knew his job well. He taped the needle in place, opened up the control on a plastic bag of IV fluid, and then wrapped a splint to his arm with an ace bandage and all in record time.
“Listen to him, Jack. You’ve been hurt,” Debbie said. “You’ve lost blood and—”
“Not much.” Hell, he’d suffered worse than this in his day. This was only a bump on the head. “We need to talk.”
“I know.” Debbie eased down beside him.
“You first.”
“If you let them get some fluids into you, they’ll let you go. Right?” She glanced from the paramedic to the guy in the apron, and they both nodded. Jack eyed them all with suspicion, because he’d seen the glance pass between the two guys.
“We have to find Janelle.”
“They’ve called in extra forces from Indio and Riverside,” apron guy said. “There’s a ton of cops on this. They’ll find her.”
“Who are you?”
“This is Joe,” Debbie said. “He owns the pizzeria. He called 911 when he heard the first gunshot.”
“The blood on the apron?”
“Tomato paste,” Joe said, and grinned.
Jack nodded. That made sense. He hadn’t thought he’d lost that much blood. Guy must be a hell of a sloppy pizza maker. “Thanks. Help me up will you? We owe you big time.”
“I’m glad you’re safe, but I’m going,” Debbie said. “Alone. You’re staying still.” She wasn’t really looking at him, or his eyes were out of focus. He tried to reach her with his good hand, but the paramedic started pumping up the blood pressure cuff.
“Listen, I’m sorry.”
“I know.” She stood up. Her voice sounded cold and her posture seemed rigid. “But that doesn’t help. I told you that Janelle was involved somehow, and you didn’t believe me. You thought I was being overprotective.” She glared at him just as he regained his focus, and he almost flinched at the pain in her eyes.
Her mouth had pinched tight, and he could see she’d been crying, but right now there were no tears, just grim determination. He wanted to reach out and grab her ankle. Hold her there. Tell her he loved her. Tell her not to go and possibly get herself killed. But how could he? Janelle was her daughter. He knew about the strength of a mother’s love. He blinked hard and stared up at her.
“I have to look for Janelle,” she said.
Jack felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. He’d failed. He’d fallen down on his promise to protect Janelle at all costs. He widened his eyes against the shooting head pain, and cleared his throat. “Leave it for the cops.”
“I did that,” she said. And her voice sounded strained. “It didn’t get me anywhere. I have a secret weapon. I’ll barter.”
“Debbie. Wait.”
“I have to get to the spa,” she said, and hurried out the door.
“Lie still,” Joe said, and he spooned a couple of teaspoons of crushed ice into Jack’s mouth. Then he stood up. “I’ll talk some sense into her.”
Joe ran after her, and Jack let the ice chips dissolve and slide over his tongue and down his throat. It was sheer heaven. He lay there for a few moments. He could feel the fluid dripping into his veins, and he looked up at the plastic bag. Electrolytes he supposed. How the hell much blood had he lost? He concentrated on breathing deeply. The nausea receded, and he figured maybe they’d slipped in an anti-emetic intravenously. The only thing he had to deal with was a pounding headache. They wouldn’t give him anything for pain; he knew all about concussion and the importance of the first twenty four hours.
“What the hell?” Jack yelled, at the sudden cold wet sting on his temple.
“Just cleaning the wound,” the paramedic said.
“Yeah, well a bit of advance notice might have helped,” Jack said.
The paramedic laughed. “Getting your fighting spirit back. Good sign.” Then he went on to finish cleaning the head wound. “No stitches necessary. I’ll put a couple of butterfly closures on one spot where there’s a gash, but the worst of it is bruising. You’ll do well to keep an ice pack on it. We’ll get you to the E.R. for a full checkup. You could have a bad concussion. You’ll have a headache for a bit.”
“No kidding.”
Jack closed his eyes again and sorted through what he knew. What had Debbie said? She’d barter? He remembered seeing the blue cushion underneath Ira’s arm. Even in the attack when Ira had taken that first shot at him, he’d seen him take a moment to put it on the small countertop near the coffee pot. What was the connection?
He pondered that question for a few minutes.
Debbie had bought the cushion four months ago, and Juan had gone to determine the coordinates only weeks ago, so the information couldn’t have been smuggled in that way. What the hell clue had he missed? If Ira wasn’t here to prevent the coordinates from getting into the government’s hands, then what else would Juan have been killed for?
Joe came back into the boutique, and Jack raised his head. The paramedic stood to one side, giving a report to someone by telephone. Jack realized he felt fine. With only a dull thud at his forehead now, he could live with that. “I’m getting out of here,” he said, and sat up on the floor. He started ripping at the ace bandage that held the splint. He reached for a handful of gauze squares, ripped the needle out of the vein, and held pressure onto the back of his wrist. The paramedic came over, scowling as dark as a thundercloud.
“Give me a hand up,” Jack said. Joe obviously knew the signs of a mad man, and one not to be messed with. He pulled him to standing, and then he shoved a chair into the back of Jack’s knees.
“Sit,” he said.
“Listen, I appreciate everything you’ve both done,” Jack said, while he sucked in a couple of deep breaths. “But a yo
ung woman’s life, maybe two women’s lives, depends on me getting out of here. And I mean now. I can help. I have vital information.”
“Yeah.” The paramedic nodded, closed off the IV tubing that was spurting water onto the floor. He slapped a band aid on the back of Jack’s hand. “You’ll have to sign a release saying you’re acting against medical advice.”
“There’s no time.” Jack cursed and stood up. “Sorry. I’ll sign it later. Trust me, okay?”
He rushed outside with Joe close on his heels. The afternoon sun was blinding, and he almost winced but he forced his legs forward. “Let’s go,” he said, aware that he had barely enough saliva to form words. What the hell had they given him? He stumbled, and Joe grabbed his elbow, and they made their way back to the spa. He had no idea what reception he’d get from Debbie, if any. “Leave me now. It might not be pretty in there. And, hey…thanks, Joe. I owe you big time.”
Joe clamped a hand on his shoulder for a second, and then he took off to the pizzeria. There were cop cars in the alley, and on the main street. Jack fingered the gun that he’d shoved into his pocket. He tried the spa door but it was locked. He banged on it with force.
Chapter Nineteen
Debbie pulled down the cushion cover from the top shelf of the storage cupboard. What could be in it? It was a flat piece of canvas in a clear plastic cover. All she understood was that she could use it to barter for her daughter’s safety. That is, if Ira called.
She examined the outer cover and detected nothing, and left the package on the receptionist’s countertop, next to the telephone, afraid to disturb anything that might be important to Ira. She had one moment of guilt about not taking Deputy Stanton into her confidence, but that guilt had lasted about a second.
Her guilt over Jack was something else.
She’d been horrid to him. And he’d been injured, been in pain, and yet she’d attacked him with accusations that were unfounded. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and she blinked hard. He had tried to help. He’d been injured trying to help. Guilt washed over her again, and then the sound of someone trying to break down the door had her heart pounding. It might be Ira.
She prayed for Jack’s help, thinking how stupid, dumb, and proud she’d been to walk out on him. And she ventured closer to the door trying to get at least a peek at whoever it was. And there was Jack. He stood in front of the glass door, looking worried and barely able to stand up. Relief flooded through her body. She blinked back tears, certain he’d berate her. She so didn’t deserve him. She opened the door, but said nothing.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Was everything okay in the spa?”
“Yes, as far as I could tell,” she said, giving a quick look around the foyer. “And considering everything was left unlocked, nothing was damaged or stolen. That’s good.”
“I’ll lock the doors,” Jack said. Seconds later, he pulled up a chair behind the counter and eased his body down. He reached up and held her hand gently in his. “Now tell me about this bartering idea.”
Debbie moistened her lips. Could she trust him? Should she make a run for it, grab the cushion cover and go out into the back alley and drive off? Not even give it to Jack? It was all she had, and Janelle’s life would depend on Ira getting that cover. If she told Jack, if she gave it to him, would he be willing to give it up for her daughter’s life?
His face was tired, bruised, and battered. The light that shone out from his big brown eyes was so full of tenderness, understanding, and maybe even love. She gulped hard and pushed that last thought aside, but in that moment she knew if anyone could help to make this right, it would be Jack.
“There was something to do with the dolphin room that I forgot about,” Debbie said quickly, before she could change her mind. She reached for the package on the counter. “About three weeks ago, the company in Cancun sent me this replacement cushion cover. You see it had been a custom piece.”
“Can I take a look at it?” Jack asked, and sat up straighter.
“Here,” she said, and shoved it into his hands. “I’d stored it in a cupboard, and then forgotten about it. There’s a note from the business manager.”
Debbie closed her eyes for a second. She had to trust Jack. She had to trust that he would do the right thing.
Jack put his gun on the countertop. “Come around here, and sit down,” he said. “Keep your eye on the door.”
He carefully inspected the letter, and then the cushion cover, and in between he watched for movement outside the door. He also scanned the entire spa every couple of seconds. He ran his hand inside of the cover, shook it, jiggled the zipper a few times then tossed it down. “Nothing,” he said, his voice was tinged with disgust. “Not a damn thing.” He picked up the note and re-read it. Juan had written it with an apology and bullet points:
One, I apologize for the oversight. Two, this is a spare for when the other wears out. Three, it is a gift.
He suddenly grabbed the cover again and opened the zipper, and turned the cover inside out. “It’s the same situation we had on our last case. He always wrote clues in the same way. It has to be inside.” Debbie heard his sharp intake of breath.
He stood very still. “It’s here.”
“What?”
“There. See,” he said, and he pointed to a row of numbers printed onto the canvas near the back stitching of the cushion cover. “The note said you could turn the cover inside out and it would prevent the canvas from fading while it was in storage.”
“A clue?” Debbie asked.
“A major one.” Jack’s voice filled with excitement.
Debbie’s heart hardened for a moment. Had he forgotten Janelle? He muttered a couple of words and nodded his head vigorously. Unsure what this was all about, Debbie stared back at him. The excitement on his face had him looking younger than he had in days.
His sudden grin, wide and beautiful, cut across his face. “Those numbers are the exact coordinates to the secret entry into Juan’s cousin’s drug compound.” Jack collapsed back in his chair. “Can you believe that?”
Debbie shook her head, happy for him, but still not quite understanding.
“Juan knew there was a tunnel, but it could never be documented,” Jack said. “Last month, he risked a visit to the compound. His objective was to learn the exact coordinates of the entrance into the tunnel, which he suspected was through a sealed off cave high in the Sierra Madres.”
“Don’t they have satellites, and heat detecting stuff, instruments that can detect all of those things?” Debbie asked.
He stared at her for a moment.
“I mean with all the GPS equipment and all the modern technology and everything, you’d think they could find it.”
“Oh, they knew the location of the compound. And they suspected there were labs there, but they didn’t know how they were getting the stuff out of it. Whenever Juan’s cousin or his men were stopped on the one main road in or out of the compound, they were as clean as whistles. The U.S. government has been after them for years but couldn’t pin anything on them.”
“Oh.”
“Those instruments that detect body heat can be rendered useless by a tunnel encased with a steel lining. We knew there had to be one. This is huge. The Mexican government was willing to work with us, but everyone had come up short. My bet is the tunnel leads to a river.”
“Ira will kill for this, won’t he?” Debbie whispered, and she felt her insides freeze. She shivered and held her arms clasped tight around her middle. Jack put his arm around her and pulled her close. He kissed the top of her head as he reached for his cell phone.
“Don’t give up yet. We’ll do everything possible to save Janelle, but there isn’t a minute to waste. I’ll call Stanton. I’ll put him on speaker phone.”
Debbie heard the phone ring, and the men quickly exchange information. She felt disconnected, like this was a Friday night made-for-TV-movie, but she remained in Jack’s protective embra
ce, her head on his chest, and listened to the steady beat of his heart. And somehow that steadiness calmed her.
“Get this information to the DEA,” Jack said to Dave.
Debbie raised her head. Oh my. Jack’s body was calm. His voice was calm. His directives were clear. How could she ever have doubted him?
“Maybe include your undercover guy, the guy who is down here.”
“Yeah,” Dave said.
****
Debbie felt Jack’s body tense. When he spoke again his voice was pure ice.
“Get clearance. It’s top secret. The FBI will want to notify the Mexican Government immediately. Don’t fuck this up just because you want to look good.”
Jack put his cell phone back in his pocket and pulled Debbie closer. Then her cell phone rang.
“Where is it?” The man’s voice was brusque, and he hadn’t bothered to disguise it. Debbie realized he was also the angry client who had called for a massage the same day she’d met Jack. So much had happened in such a short time, and that event seemed like weeks ago. Not days.
“I’m assuming this is Ira Blue speaking,” she said. “I know you’ve got Janelle.” She adjusted the handset to her ear, surprised her hand wasn’t shaking. He hadn’t bothered to distort his voice, and that worried her. And he’d called on her cell phone not the spa line. He must have gotten the number from Janelle.
“Yeah,” he said.
“I know you took the blue cushion from my bench. I saw you with it.” Debbie stopped for a second and took a deep breath. She cleared her throat. “If you can tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help.” There was a long pause and she strained to hear. There was no background noise. Where could he be? Was Janelle with him or not? Was she still alive? The blood roared through her veins, almost deafening her. She took a huge gulp of air and blew it out. “I’ll do anything, give you anything, if you’ll let Janelle go.”
“Your boyfriend’s dead, what makes you think your daughter’s still alive?”
Debbie froze for a second, not liking the snide comment, then with forced control she continued. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”