Dangerous Secrets (25 page)

Chapter 26

My head dropped for what seemed like the
thousandth time, waking me with a start. Turning my face to the clear sky, I
stared at the stars. Hadn′t I been warmer sometime during that endless
night? My head lolled and I took in the shadowy trees across the clearing. The
rain had stopped and a brilliant moon illuminated the gloom.

Closing my eyes, I rolled onto my side, drew my
knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them and tried to warm myself.

Something rustled nearby.

My eyes snapped open as I rolled onto my
stomach, terror pumping adrenaline through me.

Adam saw me. He wiggled free from the last of
the rope and made a spectacular dive for the rifle.

I lunged at him, grabbed the barrel with one
hand, pushing it away from my face and toward the trees.

Eyes feral, Adam shoved me backward, his anger
feeding him incredible strength. Fingers still locked around steel, I yanked
him with me, sending us rolling, end over end down the slope.

A gunshot shattered the night.

I let go, still tumbling backward and smashed
into something hard and unyielding. White light exploded behind my eyes,
blinding me as I bounced off and fell facedown in damp earth.

My lungs didn’t seem to work as celestial
noises, like I′d heard when Adam pushed me down the stairs, rang through
my ears. A voice or a sound like nothing on earth echoed through my ears—and
this time it wasn′t Kay Andolina.

I must be
dead.

But I wasn′t.

Was I crazy, or had I simply blacked out?

Time wobbled.

I coughed, then took a few deep, sweet breaths
and lay still.

Eons later, I stared at the still-dark sky,
aware of strained muscles I hadn′t known existed. I waited, wondering if
I′d ever muster the strength to roll onto my side.

Adam lay crumpled by one of the ski
lift′s concrete supports. We′d both hit it—my shoulder, by the ache
in it—his head, by the blood staining his pale face. I watched him for long
minutes while assessing a whole new set of aches and pains. My right hand
didn′t want to close. Broken? Nerve damage? I worked at flexing it until
finally I could almost make a fist.

I′d live.

No longer winded, I made it to my knees,
dragged myself yards up the soggy hill until I found the rifle, and then
painfully inched my way back down the wet grass toward Adam.

He hadn′t moved. Was he dead? Quite
frankly, I didn′t give a shit. I hefted the gun′s cold steel
barrel. It would′ve been so easy to reload, gut shoot him and leave him
as carrion. Instead, I reached for Adam′s throat, felt for a pulse. It
was weak, but there.

I′d lost the flashlight, but there was
moonlight enough to see my watch: 4:18. The sun would rise in about two hours
or so. The long grassy slope lay before me. I might be able to hunker down the
hill on my ass, maybe even work up a decent sweat doing so. I didn′t
have
to wait for rescue, I could go find
help myself.

But I knew I wouldn′t. I was too damned
tired.

I considered my options. I could just leave
Adam crumpled against the concrete support, but his breathing sounded strained.
Wasn′t there some kind of law about withholding aid? I almost laughed.
What a crazy idea that I could go to jail for letting him die—after all
he′d done to me....

Using the last of my energy, I hauled him away
from the pillar and out into the open. He still had a pulse—he was still
breathing. The rope was somewhere above us on the slope—I had no way to secure
him. Instead, I sat on his ass. Only this time I held the gun cradled on my
lap, ready and willing to use it if he roused.

I wondered what Richard would say. He′d
felt guilty not waiting for help and moving an injured Maggie from my wrecked
car. But I wasn′t a doctor, and instead was blissfully ignorant of
further damage I might′ve caused the kid. Killer, I reminded myself.
Richard would′ve moved him with great care, to avoid the risk of further
injury or death. He would′ve figured out some way to keep him warm and
alive....

I shrugged.
C′est
la vie.

The adrenaline rush that had warmed me wore
off. I couldn′t even shiver—which was not a good sign.

Spilling the ammo into my palm, I counted the
remaining bullets: twelve. Okay. One last-ditch effort. I fired three times—a
distress signal—the recoil knocking me back to the ground.

The echo of the blasts died away and I waited
in the still darkness.

Nothing.

Maybe there was nobody out there to hear it.

I swallowed my disappointment. I′d try
again—maybe in half an hour. It gave me a goal, because without that I had
nothing to occupy my mind.

I was so damned cold, I couldn′t feel any
emotions at all—there was just nothing left inside of me.

Worse, I didn′t even care.

It took a long time for the sky to brighten
over the hills to the east, staining it a milky orange. Its beauty eluded me as
I stared at the shadow-drenched silhouette. The rifle lay across my lap, my
index finger resting lightly on the trigger, the ground around me littered with
shell casings.

And I waited.

I was good at waiting. I′d been
waiting...forever?

‶
Jeffrey
Resnick. Can you hear me? It′s Sergeant Beach.″

The voice registered, but the words
weren′t making much sense.

‶
Resnick!
Put the gun down.″

Where had the sound come from?

Something clicked inside my head. A bullhorn.

Okay!
Rescue at hand.

I looked around me, couldn′t even tell if
Adam still breathed. Well, if he was dead, that was okay too. Everything was
just fine with me.

‶
Resnick,
put the gun down!″ the voice commanded again.

Put the gun down.

Put the
gun down—where?

It was a perplexing problem.

‶
Put.
The. Gun. Down.″

Down? On the ground?

I set the rifle on the grass beside
Adam′s prone body, folded my arms across my chest and waited. From out of
the trees came a swarm of uniformed police and fireman. I squinted up at Sgt.
Beach who had stopped in front of me.

‶
It′s
okay now,″ he said.
‶
You can give
up your prisoner.”

Strong arms lifted me off Adam and placed me on
a blanket. Stuporous, I sat there, while warm hands worked on me.

‶
He′s
alive. Head injury. Hypothermia for sure,″ a fireman said of Adam.

Someone peeled off my wet jacket and shirt,
wrapping a dry blanket around my shoulders. Someone else cut off my mud-caked
jeans. Then I lay on the ground and watched the sun creep higher over the Green
Mountains while a firefighter splinted my sore foot.

A buzz of voices asked questions with no
meaning. I longed to sink into oblivion. Then a single voice penetrated the fog
around my brain.

‶
Hey,
kid. I told you I′d be back for you.″

My eyes cracked open to see Richard′s
worried face. Groping fingers found his hand. I used what little strength I had
to squeeze it before my eyes slid shut. All I wanted to do was sleep—because
now I could.

THE END

***

Don’t miss the next exciting Jeff Resnick Mystery:
CHEATED BY DEATH
(http://www.llbartlett.com/index.php/cheated-by-death/).

Jeff Resnick faces a new dilemma: someone is stalking
his sister-in-law, Brenda, who fears that violence from pro-life supporters
will escalate near the women’s clinic where she works. Or could the vandalism,
threatening phone calls, and letters against her have come from her abusive
ex-husband? Meanwhile, Jeff grapples with meeting his estranged father and the
sister he never knew existed. If Brenda was out of the picture, what would
Patty Resnick gain?

***

More
Than Gold

By Shirley Hailstock

Photo Credit: Canstock.com

Photo Credit: Pixabay - public domain

Morgan wore her leotard and tights. She could explain
she was heading for the gym to practice when she saw him. Jack gave her no need
to explain. Neither of them spoke a word.

He walked directly to her, his gait easy, unhurried,
his weight balanced. She had to look up as he approached. Morgan watched him, a
dark Poseidon, a devil-god rising from the sea, advancing toward her, the light
of the water in his eyes. Her heart beat so hard she was sure he could see her
chest moving. Yet they continued to stare, one at the other.

He stopped in front of her. Too close. He breathed hard
from physical exertion. Morgan felt the same although she had done none of the
work that he′d performed while she watched him.

Her eyes rose to Jack′s. Gone was the coldness
she′d always seen there. Gone was the hostility that normally greeted her
when she found herself in his line of vision. His eyes were liquid, large brown
circles that spoke to her without language, without tongue or teeth or
movement. She heard his mind, his heart; his need for her already knew the
words.

***

Dedication

To my sister Loretta Hailstock who had a dream and
fought to win it despite overwhelming odds.

***

Chapter 1

Brian Ashleigh stared at the screen in the
small, plushly appointed room. He sat in a great chair of soft rose velvet. It
had wide arms, and both the seat and back moved to slightly recline for
additional comfort. The room was a small auditorium that could seat fifty
people, but only he and four other men occupied the space. Three of them sat on
the first row, separated by an empty seat between them. One man sat in the
center of the rows of seats and the fifth man sat alone on the last row, away
from the group. It was his nature. He worked alone and didn′t approve of
this plan. The child on the screen was only a few years younger than one of
Brian′s daughters.

Dressed in a white leotard, she stood poised on
the uneven parallel bars, her body leaning forward, her hands reaching for the
next bar as she began another of several routines he′d watched more than
once. At nineteen, she was America′s sweetheart. The darling of an age of
satellite television, palm-size video machines and music that made his eardrums
split. She was beautiful, golden brown with long hair she′d tied into a
ponytail. It bounced as she went from routine to routine, swinging sideways as
it and her body seemingly floated on air from one release move to another.
Brian had been an athlete in his youth. His sport was basketball. He′d
played in high school and college, before it was necessary to be six foot seven
to even be considered for anything more than the bowling league.

He knew the drill of hours of practice, the
bandaged knees, muscle spasms and exhaustion that every athlete was committed
to in their quest to stand in the spotlight. Morgan Kirkwood had spent most of
her young life in pursuit of that goal. This would be her chance, that moment
in time, that she′d worked toward. She had everything going for her: a
past she′d overcome, her luck at finding the right venue and having it
recognized. At nineteen she′d lived more, seen more, experienced more
than most adults. She′d spent hours honing her muscles, refining her
routine, working toward a goal that could only shine on one person in the
world.

And he was going to ask her to give it up.

His eyes followed her across the film. She
moved to a large clear area covered with blue carpet designed for floor
exercises. Music began, an upbeat peppy song. She was poised, confident, ready.
She wore a smile that showed no fear and no cares beyond her routine. Stopping
in a comer, she started the first run, crossing the blue expanse of rug with an
easy rhythm that almost made her routine appear effortless. Then she did the
unexpected and did it well, so well he wasn′t sure he′d even seen
it. He watched her leap into the air, defying gravity, drawing her arms close
to her body and making several turns and twists that had technical names like
layout and double axial, but he couldn′t remember which one went with
which move, before her feet touched the ground with the sureness of a
Billy-goat on a familiar mountain. No one in the room moved or spoke. Morgan
Kirkwood had them spellbound. Brian was sure they were holding their breaths,
just as he was doing, just as America did each time this leggy child came to
the center of the arena.

She hadn′t been slated to succeed at
anything, not gymnastics, not even at life. She′d spent her early years
on the streets, homeless, fending for herself, eating garbage and fighting to
survive, trusting no hand that reached for her. Hands could look benevolent but
turn quickly to swat her aside like an unwanted fly. Brian′s heart
tightened for this child. The woman who′d seen her on a playground and
recognized her potential had been her caseworker and eventual parent.
She′d convinced Morgan to take lessons at a local gymnastics- school and
Brian had no doubt it had changed her life. He felt like a dog asking her to
give up what she′d worked for her entire young life.

But he had no choice.

She was due to go in a few months. Seoul, South
Korea. The Olympics. Morgan would go and the United States would watch their
televisions for the two-week period when it looked like all was right with the
world. To the average Joe, the world stopped and paid attention to the ministry
of athletes, giving them the role of ambassadors of good will. Yet for Brian it
was a much bleaker period. It was the time of terrorists and fools. It brought
out the worst of the worst in an effort to disrupt, disturb, maim and kill. He
was glad the event would not be on American soil.

The film was more than half an hour long.
Morgan went through her routines over and over. Several different days and
outfits passed through the magic of video. Brian looked at her face. He liked
to see people, wanted to read through their exterior and see if the inner soul
was good or bad. He′d been successful in most of his character calls, and
looking at Morgan he could see her youth, her idealism, her complete blindness
to the things he′d seen in his own lifetime. Yet he was about to ask her
to join him in one of the worst. He needed her to save the United States from
embarrassment on a worldwide scale. He needed her to attend the Olympics, and
while she was there he needed her to steal. Break into a heavily guarded prison
and return with a man, an intelligence agent, who held secrets that had lain
dormant since World War II.

In exchange for this little package, which
could get her caught or killed if she was lucky, he′d grant her a wish,
but only one and only within reason.
He
defined
reason and he offered the wish.

‶
Shall we watch it again?″
Jacob Winston sat on his right. Jacob was in charge of the witness protection
program and Morgan Kirkwood might well meet with him in the coming months. It
was why he′d asked Jacob to attend. Along with him had come Brian′s
friend, Clarence Christopher, Director of the FBI.

‶
I′ve seen enough,″
Brian said.
‶
Send
it to my office.″

Brian spoke into a phone connecting him to the
projectionist in the glass booth behind them.

Replacing the phone in its cradle, he stood up.
The four other men looked at him.
‶
What do you think?″ the
youngest one asked, the man sitting on the farthest row, apart from the group,
his face hidden in shadow. He was a loner, Brian knew, and he also knew what
the man thought of the mission and the inclusion of Morgan Kirkwood as part of
the plan. He disapproved of every aspect that involved the girl.

Jack Temple was a young, educated man who knew
both the streets and the jungle. He′d lived in both. He joined the police
academy, but had been recruited for work with the Central Intelligence Agency.
Jack left his position and came forward, walking down the steps to the floor of
the auditorium with unhurried steps.

‶
I′m against this,″
he said and not for the first time.
‶
We′ll get her killed or
she′ll get us killed.″

‶
She′ll be trained as best
we can. She′ll be a rookie, but everyone was a rookie once,″ Brian
told him.

‶
She′s not a
rookie,″ he said.
‶
She′s less than a rookie. She′s a
goddamn civilian.″

‶
Jack, she was
your
idea,″ Forrest Washington,
Jack′s immediate boss, pointed out.

‶
She
wasn′t my idea. I wanted an agent, not a child.″

‶
Child? She′s not that
much younger than you,″ Brian said.

‶
You grow up fast in this
business,″ Jack replied.

‶
She will,″ Brian told
him.

She would have no choice. Jack looked young to
Brian, although he was twenty-five. Brian was nearing twice his age and he
would be sending him and that nineteen-year-old on a job to save face for the
United States, its president and the country at large. Neither of them would
ever be able to speak of it.

Jack stood face to face with him, although a
head taller, and Brian made a decision he′d known he′d have to make
even before seeing the film.

‶
It′s time,″ he
sighed.
‶
See
if she′ll do it.″