Dangerous Secrets (30 page)

‶
Do you own this house?″

‶
No.″

‶
Are you sure we′ll be
safe here? I didn′t see any gates around it.″

She continued walking.
‶
I′ve only
been here once.″

‶
You seemed to know exactly how
to get here.″

‶
I know a lot of things.″

Jack let that go. He needed to determine their
immediate safety before delving into her education, street or otherwise.

‶
Who owns the house?″ he
asked.

‶
It belongs to a friend of mine.
I have permission to use it anytime I want.″ She opened the screen door
and punched a memorized code into an electronic lock. Morgan′s world
seemed to be populated with electronic locks, gates and doors.

And now assassins.

Jack didn′t doubt the people after Morgan
weren′t amateurs. They knew who she was and exactly where to find her.
The fact that she was so well-prepared for them is a story he wanted to hear.

‶
This friend of yours,″
Jack spoke.
‶
Is
he here?″

‶
No.″

‶
How do you know he won′t
decide to come up for the weekend?″

‶
Because we left
her
splattered all over my foyer.″
Jack was smacked by the cryptic comment. He knew Morgan was hurting inside and
trying to deal with it. There wasn′t time for grieving, not even time to
do the right thing for a life that was so suddenly ended. He understood her
grief. He′d seen it before, even experienced it himself when he lost a
friend during a raid in Lebanon. He had seven men to think about. He
couldn′t stop when one of them went down. But Remy hadn′t been
shot. He′d been caught, not killed. At least not right away.

‶
There′s a bathroom down
that hall and several others upstairs.″

‶
Morgan?″ She hadn′t
stopped moving since she got out of the car. She walked quickly from room to
room on the first level. Another familiar action for someone grieving and
trying not to let anyone else know. He went to her and took her arms. He turned
her to face him.
‶
How do you feel?″

‶
I′m fine.″ She
tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold. She winced, but he knew he
wasn′t holding her too tight. He loosened his hold anyway.

‶
You′re not fine.
You′re remembering. You′re no longer driving. Your concentration
isn′t on anything and that leaves you time to remember. Tell me.
Don′t go through it alone. You don′t have to.″

She looked at him then. Eyes that had been
avoiding his shifted to stare straight at him. Her brown irises were huge and
bright. Then she slapped his hands away.

‶
I said I was fine.″ She
stepped away as if she were back on the streets, scared, alone and fending for
herself.
‶
There
is food in the refrigerator and plenty of entertainment if you want it. If
you′re tired, there are eight bedrooms on the second floor. I′ll be
in the last one on the right. You can use any of the others.″

She disappeared, leaving him alone.

***

Morgan needed some down time. Her nerves
pulsated fire. Red and raw, they spewed flames, licking at the backs of her
eyes, until she wanted to scream. Her eyes were blurry from the intense pain in
her head. The headache had begun last night, but she′d staved if off
while she drove, wishing she had her medication handy, but knowing it had gone
up in flames with the house on Wild Meadow Lane. She had a small bottle in the
first-aid chest, but that was in the car′s trunk. The road had been
practically empty for most of the drive. She didn′t have the beams of
other cars′ headlights stabbing her with illumination, and the steering
wheel acted as an anchor, keeping her sane.

Her kind of life didn′t come without a
physical manifestation of the abnormalcy that was all but tattooed on her
forehead. What a normal life was like she had no clue. She′d traded the
streets for what she thought should be normal. It had the promise of normalcy,
but it had been temporary, only letting her glimpse the good life. She could be
part of it for a price and that price was time. For a short period she could
live like the rest of the world, but then she would trade one set of
circumstances for another. Some people tried to cope by disappearing into
bottles of Jack Daniels or pints of Boone′s Farm Apple Wine, an elixir so
cheap it burned through tissue on the way to the stomach. Others escaped the
world through slow forms of suicide like crack, heroin or one of the
psychotropic drugs with long names and short initials. With her it was
stress-induced migraines. She wasn′t sure her own methods of coping
weren′t as potentially dangerous and suicidal as daily doses of cyanide.

The headaches began the winter after
she′d moved to St. Charles. At first she thought they were normal
headaches, but their constancy made her realize headaches were generally
symptoms of some other physical problem, and that her body was telegraphing her
a message so loud she couldn′t ignore it. Morgan visited her doctor for a
complete physical. It rendered nothing organically wrong with her. The doctor
determined, from her description of head-exploding, light-sensitive pain, that
she suffered from migraines. Morgan understood the stress and worked to provide
physical outlets for it. The first was an exercise program that resulted in her
building the escape tunnel. She hadn′t begun thinking of it, but later
thought her headaches would be less frequent if she knew she could hide or
escape the house if someone came looking for her. For a while this had helped
and she felt better, slept better. Then Austin Fisk entered the picture with
his constant questions and implicit threats of bringing the world to her door.
The headaches returned with a vengeance so forceful they could rival any
switchblade stab.

And now Jack.

She could do nothing with Jack around. He threw
her equilibrium off big time. In this state she was too aware of him as a man.
She could use his arms around her, protecting her, for the moment keeping her
fears at bay. But that was a door she could not open. Not now, at least. Maybe
not ever. She still hadn′t come to terms with his presence. Why did he
show up now? Although he′d saved her from exposing herself too soon when
they were in the tree, he could still be her assassin.

She went to the bedroom and closed the door.
Pulling the drapes shut the soft green tones of the guest room disappeared, and
the furniture melted into shrouded shadows. The darkness eased the throbbing
pain somewhat. Closing her eyes, Morgan massaged her temples a moment then went
to the bathroom in search of aspirin. She thought of Michelle lying back in her
house. It was doubtful anyone would find anything of her after the explosion.
Poor Michelle, who never hurt anyone, and never had a headache judging from the
contents of this medicine cabinet. Closing the mirrored door, she went back
into the bedroom and lay across the bed.

It was too far to go back to the car for the
medicine. Sleep would have to do.

***

Jack didn′t pursue Morgan. He understood
what she was going through, and even though she didn′t have to go through
it alone, she was insistent on not allowing him to help her. Jack didn′t
know if he blamed her. He′d come to see her because he′d been there
when her message came through. Jacob Winston was his friend and they were
meeting for lunch. Her message interrupted their departure and Jack told Jacob
he′d check it out. He wasn′t authorized to work in the United
States. His area of concentration was overseas, the Middle East and Asian
countries, oil-producing areas and places where nuclear weapons could become an
immediate threat. After the Soviet Union collapsed and each of the states
became its own country, the threat increased with bureaucracy in chaos. There
was little or no accounting for medical research, viruses and super-viruses, or
weapons of mass destruction. Paperwork and missiles fell through cracks as wide
as superhighways. Some of them found their way to Middle Eastern countries and
that′s where he came in. With his coloring and ability for language, he
was less likely to stand out than some of his contemporaries.

Jack surveyed the house as he thought of his
job then and now. The downstairs was clean of electronic bugs and the kitchen
was fully stocked with food. Both the refrigerator and freezer were filled to
capacity. The cabinets bulged with every type of dry goods. He wondered if
Morgan was telling the truth. She said she′d only been here once, but she
moved through the house as if she were a swimmer moving through water.

Jack checked the locks downstairs on the doors
and windows before going upstairs. Bedroom by bedroom he checked them for
anything out of the ordinary. They were all clean. At last he got to the door
where Morgan told him she was going. He knocked lightly. She didn′t
answer. Gently he turned the knob and opened the door. The room was in complete
darkness. She lay across the bed, asleep. Her feet dangled over the side and
she still wore the tennis shoes she′d had on for more than twelve hours.

She couldn′t sleep that way. Jack knew
she was exhausted, but her feet would swell and she wouldn′t be able to
walk. He went in and closed the door to keep the light out. The room suddenly
seemed much longer than it had when he looked inside. He felt as if he was
intruding on her. Feelings toward her made him warm and he felt himself
becoming aroused. She looked so peaceful in sleep. When she was awake she was
always on guard. He′d seen it twelve years ago and he saw it yesterday
when she came into her house. Sleep was her only refuge, the only time she
could let her guard down, drop all the masks she held firmly in place, the
barriers that kept the world away from her, kept her safe from needing another
person. There was only one time he knew of her need, of the fire she kept
encased inside her. He remembered it still, as if it had happened yesterday and
not twelve years earlier.

He′d kissed her. A kiss that moved him,
changed him so he never forgot it, but also scared him so badly he could only
turn and leave. He walked away from her, but he wanted to run. She′d
altered his reality, jolted it as surely as if she′d taken a tire iron
and beat him about the head. And there was nothing he could do but stand and
accept the pain.

Jack took Morgan′s legs and lifted them
onto the spread. He unlaced one shoe and eased it off. She sat up.

‶
What. . .″ Her eyes were
wide and afraid.

‶
Shhh,″ he said, reaching
out and pushing her down.
‶
Go back to sleep. I′m here.″

She lay down and closed her eyes. Jack stared
for a moment. He′d never seen anyone as beautiful as Morgan Kirkwood.
Even at nineteen when he′d viewed her on the film in the CIA headquarters
building, she was the most beautiful woman he′d ever seen and she was
barely more than a child. She was still as beautiful, but no longer a child.
She was a woman and he couldn′t help being aware of it. Jack stood there
for another moment before forcing himself back to his task. Quickly he removed her
other shoe and pulled a light blanket over her. The air conditioning had been
turned on and he didn′t want her to get cold.

He looked down at her, wanting to kiss her
forehead, wanting to curl her body into his and hold her, the way he′d
held her in the tree, but he couldn′t trust himself to stop there. He
brushed his knuckles down her face and left the room.

The door clicked quietly closed.

Morgan Kirkwood opened her eyes. She raised her
hand to her cheek and slowly caressed it against her skin.

Chapter 4

Outside a perfect May morning was in the
making. Jack walked into the backyard noticing the area had both advantages and
disadvantages. The house sat alone in the middle of a manicured yard. The
landscaper had probably been paid well to clear the land and form a sloping
emerald green lawn that extended from the house to the trees at its perimeter.
Square-cut hedges dressed the outside of the house, broken here and there for
massive flowering plants, roses, philodendron, forsythia, a holly bush whose bright
red berries would contrast the snow in winter, and the ever-present
bougainvillea, which must be law for every landscape architect since it
appeared in most yards in the eastern United States.

The perimeter of the property was ringed by oak
and sycamore trees. The trees prevented anyone from surprising them, but
conversely they had three hundred feet of open space before the trees would
provide cover for escape should it be necessary. The front of the house also
had the reflecting pool. Jack found pumping equipment and a fireman′s
hose. This far from another house or any other form of civilization, the house
had its own water supply in case of fire. It also had its own emergency
generator. Michelle O′Banyon must have been very well-to-do. Jack
wondered about caretakers. Someone had to keep the lawn cut and the
refrigerator stocked. He wondered about the road too. It was hidden from a
casual driver and far enough back that when it became nearly impassable, any
normal driver would assume they′d made the wrong turn and go back. It was
good for hiding, Jack thought.

Morgan had to feel comfortable to come here. He
turned to look at the upstairs windows. Her room faced the open yard where he
stood. The closed drapes indicated her sleeping quarters. He thought of her
lying up there, oblivious to the danger they′d gone through, and he knew
there was more ahead of them.

The shot that took out her friend, Michelle,
had been a Meier RD-12, a gun that shoots a spray of bullets in the form of a
circle. The impact is enough to cut through bone and tissue surrounding the
heart and fling it against the wall ahead of the body. The average hit man was
a sharpshooter, whose weapon was as personal to him as his fingerprints. Their
choice of firearm was something small, easy to carry, easy to dispose of if
necessary. The bullets that had killed Michelle O′Banyon came from a
weapon he knew. It was stock-in-trade for his profession, military, deadly and
identifiable to terrorists.

Jack turned back, continuing his surveillance
of the area. When he reached the trees, he estimated the distance to the house
at three hundred feet, the length of a football field or three Olympic-size
swimming pools. Leaning against a tree, he pulled his cellular phone from his
pants pocket. The small, government-issued instrument was state-of-the-art. As
thick as a Hershey candy bar, it contained all the internal technology to reach
any other phone or communication device on the planet. He pushed the button
that called up the password screen and tapped out the memorized code onto the
flat keypad, then pressed his thumb to the identification pad and spoke into
the speaker. Through a massive amount of secure computer code, his verified
signal uplinked to a military satellite thousands of miles above the earth and
bounced his scrambled voice code back to a specific secure phone in FBI
headquarters only eight hundred miles from Jack′s present location.

‶
What the hell is going on
there?″ Jacob Winston, director of the witness protection program sounded
angry. Jack knew an LCD panel had lit up in Jacob′s office revealing
Jack′s location and identity. Before Jacob even lifted the receiver, he
knew who was on the phone.
‶
I′ve got reports of Morgan Kirkwood′s
house exploding, gunfire exchanged and one dead body. What
happened?′′

‶
I′d like an answer to
that question myself,″ Jack replied.
‶
I′d only arrived on the
scene when the light show began.″

‶
Is she safe?″

‶
For the time being. We escaped
the house before she blew it up.″

‶
She
blew it up?″

‶
There isn′t time to
explain everything that happened, but she′s an amazing woman, Jacob. She
had a planned escape route you′d have to see to believe.″ He hoped
his voice didn′t reveal his emotions. He′d never had a problem
doing it before, but whenever he thought of Morgan Kirkwood, any rules of
keeping himself separated from the situation evaporated like ice on a griddle
at five hundred degrees.
‶
We drove all night to our present location.″
Jack was careful to keep names out of the conversation. The line was secure as
far as he knew, but no system was foolproof. Jacob knew where they were and
he′d been identified by both voice and thumbprint before the phone at FBI
headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue in the nation′s capital had even
rung. Jacob could locate him by the signal from his cell phone if he needed an
exact location.

‶
Is she safe?″

‶
Not in the long run.
Twenty-four hours at best.″

‶
You′re there to make sure
she′s all right.″ Jacob appeared to be giving him orders.
‶
I′ll
send enforcements. Can you hold?″

‶
I′m not
authorized.″

‶
I′ll clear it,″
Jacob said.

‶
Copy,″ Jack said.
‶
I′ll
still need to check in,″ he paused.
‶
I need to know the
situation.″

‶
She hasn′t told
you?″

‶
She′s got a problem with
trust. One I believe is validly supported by circumstances of the
past.′′ Jack didn′t have to tell Jacob of Morgan′s
Korean operation which had gone horribly wrong. He already knew most of the
details. ″She thought I was here to kill her and I′m not sure she
doesn′t still think that.″ He stopped short of accusations, but
knew Jacob understood the implication.
‶
Do you have anything?″

‶
Nothing,″ Jacob said.
‶
Other
than her message about her suspicions, we can only assume it has something to
do with her past. That′s your ballpark.″

He and Morgan had been together on one mission,
twelve years ago. What could that mean now?
‶
I′ll check into
it.″

‶
We′ll talk later,″
Jacob said, indicating there was more on the table than could be communicated
over satellite links despite the security measures in place.
‶
Sit
tight, we′re on our way.″

The phone went dead. Jack checked the state of
the drapes on Morgan′s windows. Nothing had changed. He hoped she was
still sleeping. It was nearly time for him to sleep too, but he had one more
phone call to make.

Brian Ashleigh headed the Central Intelligence
Agency. He was a great guy, a hands-off manager to his direct reports. Jack
didn′t report to him. He reported directly to Forrest Washington,
director of antiterrorist activities in the Far East. Forrest gave his agents
in the field the freedom to act. He realized the agents had to have the latitude
to make decisions on their own. There was no book of rules to follow for the
situations a field agent could face. It was instinct, experience and intuition
that was the guidebook.

But Forrest was away on vacation and Jack had
to call the director in his stead. The problem was, Jack shouldn′t be
here at all. He had no rights and no protection under the law other than that
of a private citizen. This was not his pool or even his neighborhood. He had no
authority here. The fact that Morgan Kirkwood′s life was tied to his
presence and ability to protect her, or that she′d once been pivotal to a
successful CIA operation, meant nothing to Brian Ashleigh. She was no longer
active. She′d performed one operation and had been duly retired.

When this call was verified and his identity
confirmed, Ashleigh would burn his ass over the satellite-linked carpet.

***

Where was
Jack?
Morgan′s first thought when she woke was of the man who might
be here to harm her. She checked the clock. It was afternoon. She′d been
asleep for hours. Her headache was gone and she felt better. Not rested, but
better. She hadn′t felt rested in years. After yesterday it seemed like a
lifetime. And she was hungry.

Pushing back the blanket Jack had obviously
thrown over her, she got out of bed and folded it neatly. She didn′t know
which of the rooms he′d chosen to sleep in, but the house had presence to
it, a stillness that said nothing was moving and no one was about. No smells
came from the kitchen, no coffee or television playing to disturb the rhythm of
air currents. Morgan had made a study of air in the house she′d occupied.
She knew any changes due to barometric pressure or the presence of living human
beings. This house wasn′t her domain, but she could feel the quiet. Jack
was here, but he was asleep, not moving, not disturbing the air.

Morgan wanted to look for him, peep into each
of the bedrooms and see if he was comfortable, see if the chiseled features in
his face changed to the little boy face she imagined it could be. Jack′s
features were hard. She wondered what he did to keep his face so stern and
serious. Through the long night of driving, his face had remained still,
unchanging, immobile. At the beginning he′d sneaked glances at her, but
after a while his stare was trained on the road ahead of them. She wondered at
the practice it must take for him to put total concentration into a task. He
probably had the same technique when he slept, but she wouldn′t know that
since she wouldn′t look for him.

The kitchen was stocked to the rafters.
She′d known it would be. Michelle had told her there was plenty of food,
and Morgan didn′t expect any less than she saw. She knew Michelle had
grown up poor, dirt poor. She′d come from the mountains of Tennessee,
from a large family, where money was short and mouths long. For years she
didn′t wear shoes, didn′t go to school, didn′t eat and
didn′t see any future greater than the one in front of her face.
She′d told Morgan this during her first Ladies Auxiliary Annual Tea
Party. The kind of place where the society of the town congregates to socialize
and plan. Michelle had pulled herself up from the uneducated muddy streets and
changed her life, but her kitchen was always packed with food as if she was
afraid she′d have to return to that life of hunger. Morgan understood
her. They both had the same kinds of backgrounds. Morgan′s had been a
fight for existence and Michelle′s a struggle to survive. They came from
the same cloth and believed in the same things. Except for Jack they would have
died on the same day. A tear slipped into the corner of Morgan′s eye and
she wiped it away.

Jack had already eaten. There were dishes in
the drainer that had been washed and stored. Morgan knew he had to be as hungry
as she was, but her migraine superseded her need for food.

Quickly she scanned the contents of the
freezer. Thoughts of broiled steak and baked potatoes dripping with raw butter,
lumped high with gobs of sour cream wafted through her mind and made her mouth
water. Only there were no potatoes to bake. She could bake pork roast and
couple it with warm applesauce and gravy-laden mashed potatoes from a box.
There was frozen shrimp and lumpfish, a tray of baked lasagna she could cut and
microwave. And for Michelle′s efforts at dieting, there were packaged
dinners from Weight Watchers, The Budget Gourmet and Lean Line. While Morgan
would love to have a decent meal, the preparation time was too long. Her
headache could return if she didn′t fill her stomach soon. She wondered
what Jack had eaten as she pulled the lasagna tray from the freezer.

As the microwave sent radiation at a frequency
of 2,450 MHz into the molecules of her food, causing them to move rapidly and
generate enough heat to cook it in a few minutes, she stared through the
kitchen window. The glass structure composed the entire wall, broken only by
the huge wooden frames that sectioned it into six panes and separated the
outdoors from the inside. Without the frames, the double layer of tempered
glass would appear invisible. Without adornment, the window′s giant panes
were nearly as large as she was tall. The lawn on the other side was bright
green and healthy, but Morgan′s mind returned to a different time and a
different pool. She saw a cool pool of water and a man swimming in it.

Jack′s strokes were strong and rapid. His
shoulders rotated through the liquid, propelling him forward toward his goal of
the pool′s end. Back and forth he swam, switching direction with only a
mere disturbance of water. He fascinated her and she found it difficult to look
anyplace else while he swam. But Jack Temple had been a coach, not even a
competitor. He had been within the age range, no more than twenty-five she
estimated. Competition wouldn′t be a problem for him. She wanted to ask
him why he was coaching and not competing, but he stayed away from her. His
body radiated a don′t-come-near-me message. Consequently, she gravitated
toward him, but kept her distance, usually observing his personal practice
sessions from the far end of the audience section or through the glass
observation room.

She usually left before he completed his
routine. Morgan had watched him enough to know the length of time he took
before returning to the residence village and his team.

Except for that one night.

Maybe she had the next day′s mission on
her mind or her own final competition had driven her to the pool. Whatever the
reason, she overstayed her timing and Jack came out of the water to find her,
the only spectator, in the stands.

Morgan′s heart hammered in her chest.
They′d spoken to each other once, on the plane when they′d both
headed to their seats at the same time and the plane hit an air pocket, causing
them to collide. His hands caught her arms and she looked into his eyes. She
couldn′t move, couldn′t speak. Now she felt the same way watching
him come toward her. She stood, wanting to run, feeling the need to escape. He
was dangerous. She knew dangerous men, could recognize them in a snap. Jack was
deadly. She should run from him, stand clear whenever he was around. Yet he
attracted her like morning attracts the sunrise. She couldn′t keep her
eyes off him. Danger poured from him like the water rolling off his shoulders
and chest. It shimmered down his athletic legs, glistening like rivers of black
gold.