by Sandra Brown
"I told you."
"But you're lying. Why did she change her mind?"
"Because of the AI!"
Her shout left a vacuum filled only by their harsh breathing. "What the hell's that?"
"Artificial insemination. Gillian had been artificially inseminated that day. Will you please let go of my shoulders?" He released her immediately. He ran his hand over his mouth, down his chin. "Yeah, I heard that. When we were all at the police station."
"That's a far cry from your Chief Longtree conspiracy theory, isn't it?"
"Why were she and Hennings going to an infertility clinic?" "Not Jem. It was strictly Gillian's decision to have a child. She was inseminated with donor sperm."
"She wanted a child, but not necessarily with Hennings?" "That's what she told me over lunch that day."
He stood up and began to pace, hoping that movement would enable him to better organize his thoughts. "I still don't get what that had to do with me."
She dragged her lower lip through her teeth as though weighing the advisability of pursuing this topic.
"What, Melina?"
"I'm guessing. And it's only a guess," she emphasized. "Understood?"
"Understood."
She took a deep breath. "Couples who resort to alternative methods of conception ..." He nodded, urging her to continue. "Experts recommend that they have intercourse the same day."
He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to go on. When she didn't, he filled in the blanks for himself. "Okay. I can see that. It would be psychologically healthy. For both partners, but particularly for the man."
"Right."
"So why didn't Gillian stay home that night and sleep with Hennings?"
"He's sterile. Vasectomy."
The significance of what she was telling him made him slightly weak in the knees. He lowered himself onto the ottoman.
Softening her tone, she said, "Gillian didn't escort you that night with the express intention of sleeping with you. She wouldn't use someone that way, especially not without his knowledge and consent. But when she got home that night, she told me how mutually attracted you were. At least it was her impression that the attraction was mutual."
He nodded.
"Maybe in the back of her mind—and I remind you that I'm only surmising and could be so very, very wrong. But maybe, deep in her subconscious, Gillian was thinking that you would make a desirable sperm donor." A second or two passed before she said, "Although if you used something… "
He looked up at her, but found it hard to hold her gaze. "Did you?" she asked.
"Of course."
"I see."
"She didn't tell you?"
"Not about that."
"I had condoms."
"Oh."
He looked away, and for a time neither said anything. Their embarrassed silence was deafening. He'd been talking about rubbers with the guys since junior high school, but he'd never discussed them with a woman, not out of bed anyway.
It came as a vast relief to him when Melina forged ahead. "Gillian had no ulterior motive for going with you, Chief," she assured him softly. "The procedure had been a very emotional experience for her. To release the pressure of that day, she went with you for the fun of it. That's why I thought of it in the first place and urged her to go. To take her mind off the insemination and the decision making that had led up to it. She went. She met you. The two of you were sexually attracted. You acted on it."
"That about sums it up."
"She wasn't part of a grand scheme. She wasn't acting on behalf of Longtree or anyone else."
"You're right." Sighing, he moved from the ottoman and resettled heavily into the chair. "I know you're right. I never got the impression that she was trying to trick me. I was groping." Absently he pulled his shirttail from his waistband and began to rub his stomach. "So where does that leave us?"
"Are you hungry?"
"What?" Then, realizing she had noticed his subconscious gesture, he said, "No, I'm not hungry. Just sore." He unbuttoned his shirt. An inspection of his torso revealed some dark splotches on his ribs and below.
When he raised his head, he caught her studying him with interest. "You're bruised."
"Not too bad."
"Gillian told me you were beautiful."
"What?"
"She said 'beautiful.' That's exactly the word she used." He could come up with absolutely no response to that. Nothing. He didn't know what to say.
Her eyes loitered in the vicinity of his belt buckle, which made him uncharacteristically self-conscious. It was discomfiting to know that Gillian had talked to her about being with him. He wished he knew what Gillian had told her, wished he knew how detailed their conversation had been. Surely sisters, even identical twins, drew the line somewhere when it came to exchanging confidences about their sex life.
Even though Melina had called his curiosity juvenile, he would pay to know how he'd rated with Gillian. Great? Bad? Or—the kiss of death when it came to rating sexual performance—nice?
After what seemed like forever, she lifted her gaze from his middle and looked him straight in the eye. He felt his face growing warm. Surely Gillian hadn't told her about that? He just couldn't see Gillian saying, "I went down on him."
His mind was tugged toward that erotic memory, the first of many they'd made that night. It was there on the outskirts of his mind, flirting with him, torturing him, arousing him in spite of himself.
But Melina had asked him something, and he knew he needed to respond appropriately.
"Lawson?" What had she said about the detective? "Earlier you made a tongue-in-cheek comment about his ineptitude."
"I meant it," he said, grateful for the distraction. "He's probably an okay guy and a reasonably good detective. I think he approached the case with good intentions. But he's busy. Overworked and underpaid. The sooner he can close a case, the better. He accepted the evidence at face value."
"Evidence that was a little too evident."
"My thinking exactly. For someone who'd just experienced total psychological meltdown and committed cold-blooded murder, Dale Gordon was awfully organized. It's like he had laid out all the evidence so that a complete imbecile would conclude that he was the murderer."
The ice in the baggie had warmed to a cool slush, but it provided a modicum of relief to his eye when he reapplied it. Then Melina hit him with a verbal uppercut.
"Well, maybe the FBI will shed some light on the mystery," He dropped the ice pack. "You called the FBI?"
"No. They called me. They'll be here at nine." She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "You're welcome to stay."
CHAPTER 20
"She lied to me."
Upon hearing those words being blurted through his speaker phone, Brother Gabriel frowned. On principle he disliked a call that came in the middle of the night unless he was expecting it. Ordinarily he slept like a baby, and late-night calls disturbed that peaceful slumber. They also portended bad news. Dale Gordon's recent call being a perfect example.
Gordon had called in near hysteria to report on Gillian Lloyd's assignation with the astronaut. What a long, sleepless night that had been. Everything had turned out all right in the end, and things had continued to go well through the subsequent police investigation.
So now what?
In an attempt to buffer the imminent bad news, Mr. Hancock had served him a cup of hot chocolate. He took a sip. It was just the way he liked it, scalding and laced with peppermint schnapps. As it spread its warmth through his midsection, he said, "I assume you're referring to Melina Lloyd."
"Yes," Jem Hennings replied. "She lied to me."
"What was the nature of her lie?"
"She was contacted by the FBI."
Brother Gabriel set down his cup of hot chocolate with a clatter, his mild aggravation escalating into alarm. "How do you know?"
"I was there and picked up a telephone extension. She thought I had hung up, but I listened in. It was a woman calling on behalf of
Special Agent Hank Tobias."
"Dallas office?"
"Washington."
The news got worse. "Devils," Brother Gabriel hissed. "True. I'm sure they'll spawn the Antichrist."
"Nonsense," Brother Gabriel snapped. "They're not that powerful. Or that clever."
They were pests, that's all. But pests whose lies could cause the faithful to waver. He didn't fear the government agency. He believed in his own capabilities and power of persuasion over theirs. Nonetheless, he had a healthy respect for the monkey wrench they could throw into the smooth operation of his ministry if they took a mind to.
He'd been pastoring his first church when the Jonestown mass suicide took place. The story had fascinated him. Jim Jones had been maligned in the media, condemned by governments, censured by the man-on-the-street. Even Pastor Alvin Conway had led his Sunday morning congregation in a prayer for the souls who had gone so far astray. But secretly, he had held the cult leader in high esteem for wielding that much influence and motivating that many people to do the unthinkable.
Since Jonestown, law enforcement agencies had focused sharply on religious leaders and the followers they amassed. The Branch Davidian disaster in Waco, Texas, had soured them even more. The FBI, the ATF, didn't want another David Koresh making their guys look bad on CNN for all the world to see. It was like these government agencies were holding a grudge against any spiritual leader who got a firm toehold in the minds and hearts of the people.
He had devoted followers planted in these various agencies.
They would alert him to any covert investigation of his ministry. But the best-case scenario was to avoid attracting curiosity or special interest altogether.
"Tobias has an appointment with Melina for nine o'clock tomorrow morning," Hennings told him.
"And she lied about it?"
"When I asked her who had called, she made up a story. She didn't want me to know about her meeting with Agent Tobias."
Brother Gabriel's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Why do you suppose that is?"
"That she lied, you mean? I don't know"
"Have you given her any reason to mistrust you?"
"I've treated her with nothing but loving kindness since Gillian's betrayal."
Jem Hennings had been relocated to Dallas the day after Gillian's first visit to the Waters Clinic. She'd gone only to consult about the viability of having a child by AI using donor sperm. Upon seeing her there, Dale Gordon had excitedly reported to the Temple that he'd found another ideal candidate for the Program.
Hennings had been dispatched straight to Dallas to begin his new assignment. He infiltrated her life first by making friends with one of her associates in the commercial real estate firm. Eventually he finagled an introduction to her. Hen-flings was very good at his job and had previous experience. It wasn't long before a dating relationship between him and Gillian was established.
He never broached the subject of children with her, but when she brought it up and asked him his views on single women conceiving through artificial insemination, Hennings encouraged her without being too obviously enthusiastic.
Of course, his parenting her child was never a consideration. A prerequisite of holding Hennings's position in the ministry was mandatory vasectomy. (Brother Gabriel hadn't yet figured out a way to eliminate sexual relations between the soldiers like Hennings and the handpicked candidates for the Program, but when he did, he would implement that rule as well.)
Gillian Lloyd was Hennings's third candidate to go through with the procedure. The other two had borne children. An excellent success rate. They'd had high hopes for Gillian. Then she had betrayed the Program by giving herself to the astronaut. At least it was to be assumed that she had, and in the Program, there was no place even for an assumption of that sort.
Losing her had been a tremendous letdown. But hope had been resurrected in her twin, Melina.
Hennings was still talking. "Tobias wants to ask Melina some questions about the Waters Clinic."
He didn't raise his voice, but with steely resolve, Brother Gabriel said, "This meeting must not take place. You realize that, of course."
"Of course."
"Can I trust you to handle it?"
"I can handle it."
"This isn't your specialty. I could send someone—"
"I can handle it," Hennings repeated adamantly. Then, in a softer voice, he added, "With all due respect."
Brother Gabriel grinned and took another satisfying sip of his chocolate. Nothing motivated quite as effectively as a little competition. Hennings would work doubly hard to guarantee that another soldier wasn't sent in to clean up his mess. "What about our other problem in Dallas?"
After a slight hesitation, Hennings replied, "Regrettably it remains a problem."
Brother Gabriel cut his eyes over to Mr. Hancock, who eloquently raised his eyebrows. "It was my understanding that that had been taken care of tonight."
"That was my understanding, too, sir," Hennings said. "An attempt was made. Some damage was inflicted."
"Damage wasn't what I had in mind."
"Nor I. I share your desire for elimination."
Was that jealousy he detected in Jem Hennings's voice? Apparently when it came to dealing with Christopher Hart, Hennings wasn't acting strictly on his orders. He was being driven by his own jealousy over the night Gillian had spent with the celebrity astronaut.
He decided to exploit that. "It makes me ill to think of the two of them together. I've seen the photographs of her. Such skin. A very sensual face. I hate to think of him caressing her. Moving inside her. You were the only one I had entitled to that particular pleasure."
"Yes, sir," Hennings said, his voice tight.
"A bachelor of Colonel Hart's fame must have been with many women. He would know how to give one pleasure." "I suppose."
Brother Gabriel smiled in secret over his brilliant ability to manipulate people. It was almost too easy. "In any case," he continued, "it's distressing to me that the man who defiled our Gillian has gone unpunished."
"Not for long, Brother Gabriel."
"Satan used him. You realize that, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Restore my faith in you, Jem."
Jem Hennings asked for a blessing, which Brother Gabriel bestowed. Upon disconnecting, he turned to Mr. Hancock, who easily detected his boss's dark mood. "Upsetting business. Most upsetting."
Brother Gabriel drained his cup of hot chocolate, then angrily pushed it away. "I want this situation in Dallas contained."
"I'm confident it will be."
"What about Gordon's replacement?"
"The clinic has had five applicants for the job. Two are ours."
"See to it that one of them gets the job. That is an active clinic. I want someone there.""Of course."
Absently, he toyed with a crystal paperweight on his desk, his mind returning to Melina Lloyd. Christopher Hart had cost him a valuable asset. He wasn't prepared to lose another, yet Hennings had said he'd already detected "vibes" between them.
Brother Gabriel began to worry that Jem Hennings wasn't up to the task of finessing Melina. Perhaps she was more perceptive than her twin had been. If that was the case, Hennings could not make one misstep.
"Can I get you anything else, Brother Gabriel?"
Mr. Hancock could always tell when he was feeling the enormous weight of his responsibilities. "What do you recommend, Mr. Hancock?"
"Leslie," Hancock stated without hesitation. Apparently he'd already given it some thought. "Lovely girl. Blond. She came to us last year from Iowa."
"Ah, yes." He formed a mental image of a tall, sturdy farm girl with freckles on her nose.
"We recently intercepted a letter she wrote to her parents," Mr. Hancock told him. "Unhappily, Leslie is homesick."
His temper erupted. "She lives the life of a princess inside a palace. How can she be homesick for Iowa?" Worse than anything he hated ingratitude.
"According to the letter, sh
e's feeling lonely, unappreciated, and unloved."
Brother Gabriel left the desk and stormed toward the bedroom.
"Summon Leslie, Mr. Hancock. I'm feeling a little lonely, unappreciated, and unloved myself tonight."
"Melina?"
She muttered inarticulately into her pillow.
Chief rocked her shoulder. "Come on. Haul ass. They're here."
She rolled over and blinked him into focus. "What? Who?"
"The FBI guys."
She threw back the covers, scrambled from the bed, and lunged toward the window all in one motion. She raised a louver and peered through the blinds. A navy blue sedan was parked at the curb. Two suited men—one black, one white— were alighting. They paused to look up and down the block as though getting a feel for the neighborhood, then started up the walkway.
Turning back into the room, she looked at the clock on the nightstand. She had set her alarm for eight-thirty. It was eight twenty-five. "They're early."
"I heard the car pull up. That's what woke me up."
Chief had accepted her offer to stay over. He had slept in the guest room, but it had apparently been a rough night. His bruised eye was swollen nearly shut, and the bandage she'd put on his cheekbone had a dark bloodstain in the center of it. He had pulled on his jeans, but he was barefoot and shirtless.
"Hurry and dress." He tossed her a pair of slacks and a T-shirt he had randomly pulled from the closet. "I don't think they should know I'm here."
Although she didn't appreciate his rummaging in the closet and ordering her around, he made sense. She couldn't greet the FBI wearing only her nightie. It was bad enough to be caught without makeup and before her first shot of caffeine.
Evidently Chief wasn't operating with a clear head, either. As though addled, he was staring in the vicinity of her knees. "Chief?" He raised his head, looking bum-fuzzled. "I need to dress," she said, indicating the clothes he'd unceremoniously thrown at her.
"Uh, yeah. I'll be in the guest room." Turning quickly, he slipped into the hallway.
"Chief?"
He poked his head back in. "What?"
"Why don't you want them to know that you're here?"
He pointed at his face. "This would call for an explanation. So far we don't have one. Hurry."