Rebecca York (20 page)

* * *

"Something's going to happen," Lindsay whispered, feeling trapped, her gaze swinging to the long empty driveway.

"Yeah."

"Are they going to find us?"

"I don't know. You're the one who can sense the future."

"Lucky me."

He laced his fingers with hers. "Tell me what you feel— exactly. Do we have to get out of here?"

She struggled to open her mind—to possibilities. "It's not us," she whispered. Seeking comfort—more than comfort— she shifted so that she was curled against him again, the way she had been when they'd sent the message to Sid.

He held her close, slipping his free hand under her shirt, increasing the skin to skin contact. Neither of them moved, and she closed her eyes as she felt her thoughts merging more firmly with his.

The process was becoming familiar now. More controlled.

When a vision formed behind her closed lids, she squeezed her eves more tightly shut so that hc could concentrate on the scene.

A meadow. Trees in the background. Not somewhere nearby, although the same pinks and oranges tinged the sky. At least she knew it was in the same time zone.

Is this a fantasy? A place where we can escape? she murmured.

No. I think it's real.

The picture wasn't quite clear. As she sharpened the focus, she felt a small surge of triumph. She and Jordan were working together, although she still wasn't sure how they were doing it.

She felt like she was looking at a television commercial—where the scene is supposed to be so real that the viewer can almost step into it.

Yeah, Jordan agreed.

She focused on the grass. It wasn't tall and weedy, the way you might see it out in the country. It was more like a lawn that had been mowed in the past few weeks. In addition, she saw several picnic tables grouped around a metal grill. Nearby sat an overflowing trash can. And to the right was a large metal swing set and a row of seesaws.

"I know that picnic grove," Jordan muttered.

How?

I was on a team that played Softball up there. It's off Military Road. Just past 27th Street.

She felt her stomach knot. The park looked peaceful enough. But she was almost certain that something was going to happen. Something she wasn't going to like.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. A man was hiding among the trees. His hair looked like it was growing out from a military cut. His eyes were haunted.

Who is that? Jordan asked.

Sid's cousin. She had never seen him in her life, yet she was sure of his identity. And sure that he was on the run from . . .

Sinister forces, he supplied.

Yeah, that.

A car pulled into the parking area near the picnic tables, and she felt her heart start to pound.

When the door opened, Sid Becker got out. He was dressed in jeans and a light jacket over a plaid shirt.

A baseball cap partially hid his face. But she could tell he was checking out the area—looking around in all directions. Apparently satisfied that he was alone, he started toward the trees.

The other man stepped out into the early morning stillness. He was a few years younger than Sid.

They met at the side of a table and embraced.

"Mark, thank God you're okay," Sid said.

Lindsay's fingers dug into Jordan's hand. They were doing more than seeing this. They were hearing it, too.

"Are you sure you weren't followed?" Mark asked.

"I came down Linnean and took a bunch of winding roads through the park. And I looped around several times. I would have noticed another car in back of me."

"Okay."

"So tell me what happened to you? Why are you on the run?"

Mark looked around, as though he still wasn't sure they were really alone.

Does he know we're watching? Jordan asked.

How could he?

It was a strange question. Until today, she would have believed that what she and Jordan were doing right now— eavesdropping on two men who were seventy-five miles away in the city—was impossible.

Finally the fugitive answered the question. "Maple Creek was attacked."

Every muscle in Lindsay's body went rigid. Not just her body. The tension radiated from her to Jordan and back again.

"You screwed up?"

"No!" Mark shouted. "You've got it all wrong."

"Okay. Calm down and tell me what happened."

Mark dragged in a breath and let it out. "It's a little hard to stay calm—when I know my ass is grass if I get caught."

Sid nodded. "Start from the beginning. Tell me about the attack."

"It was a two-man invasion."

"I thought the base was impenetrable."

"I thought so, too. That's the weird part. Two guys dressed in black made it past the sentry at the gate—then into the control room."

"How?"

As though someone could hear the conversation, Mark lowered his voice. "I was on duty. They zapped me and Cordova with some kind of mind-control ray. Not just us. Rota. Maybe others." Once he had started to speak, the story poured out of him. "Rota was the one at the guard post. I saw him standing there, like he was in a trance— and I thought someone had hit him with a tranq spray or something.

Then they came for us. They didn't have any conventional weapons. Not that I saw, but they zapped us. I heard the staff talking at the hospital. The others are dead."

As she listened to the impassioned words, Lindsay fought for breath. What Mark was telling Sid was impossible— unless...

Beside her, Jordan made a strangled sound. They were already gripping each other's hands. Their hold tightened to the point of pain.

"Mark, arc you sure?" Sid demanded. "What do you mean by 'some kind of mind-control ray'?"

The younger man grimaced. "I don't know what I mean! Don't you get it? The English language doesn't have the right words for what I'm talking about! But that's what it felt like. Something hit me. Not something physical. In my brain. First it hurt like hell. Then I went unconscious."

"Jesus!"

Jesus, Jordan repeated, the exclamation echoing in Lindsay's mind.

"The others died from the death ray?"

"Or from what Dr. Colefax did to them in the hospital. He tried to make me tell what happened. With persuasion. With drugs. And he didn't care what happened to them— or me."

Even as she struggled to wrap her brain around Mark's revelation, she felt something else tugging at the corner of her consciousness.

The image of a gray car solidified in her mind.

Someone else is coming.

She felt Jordan's alarm—and surprise.

Here? he asked, his inner voice urgent.

No. There. Mark, run. Get out of there. Run. Run.

The young man paid her no attention. Instead, he addressed himself to Sid.

"I was pretty out of it at first. But I'm thinking straight again. No thanks to that bastard Dr. Colefax who ran the place. He pretended I was contagious or something. And he pretended like he was trying to help me. But really, he wanted to find out what I knew. Then he wanted to make sure I didn't blab to anyone else."

A vice clamped around Lindsay's chest, choking off her breath. Run, Mark. Run. For God's sake, get out of there!

But his full attention was on Sid.

"Isn't it your job to help them figure out how somebody got through security—so it can't happen again?"

Mark dashed a hand across his close-cropped hair. "'You think this is my fault. You think I'm crazy?"

"No."

"But you think I should turn myself in. Like a good little soldier."

"I don't know."

Mark's expression turned angry. "You're not listening to anything I said. This is all about covering somebody's ass. They didn't report the break-in, did they? You didn't read about it in the paper, did you?"

"No."

"You say we've got to report it. Well, I think that's dangerous. For me—and you, too. So give me that information I asked for."

Sid hesitated, then reached inside his jacket and handed over several folded pieces of paper.

As Mark reached for them, the gray car slammed to a halt in the parking lot and a loudspeaker boomed out across the picnic area. "Mark Greenwood and Sid Becker. Put your hands in the air."

MARK STARED IN horror at the vehicle. "'Oh, shit."

"Get out of here," Sid growled.

"I can't leave you."

"Go! You can't risk getting caught. I'll hold them off."

Four men in sweat suits jumped out of the car. Lindsay watched helplessly as they ran toward the picnic area.

Sid reached inside his jacket again. This time he pulled out a gun. "Hold it right there," he growled.

The lead attacker stopped. "Don't do anything you're going to regret," he said.

"I want to know what the hell is going on. Are you the police? What?"

"We're after a dangerous criminal."

"I don't think so."

"You don't have all the facts."

"Fill me in."

"I don't have to." The voice came from behind the lead attacker. "Let us pass."

"Not without an explanation."

"Sorry. You're holding us up."

While the leader argued with Sid, one of the other men pulled out a gun and shot him twice in the chest as casually as he might have swatted a fly.

Lindsay gasped, then gasped again as Sid went down, sinking to his knees, then sprawling on the grass.

The shooter ran up to Sid and knelt beside him. Wresting the gun from his hand, he tucked it in his own belt. "Get the bastard!" he shouted.

The other men had already leaped into the woods after Mark. The man who fired the fatal shot followed.

But Sid had given his cousin a few minutes' head start.

Shaking, Lindsay buried her face against Jordan's shoulder, but she couldn't blot out the terrible scene.

Sid lay on the ground. Blood bubbled between his lips as he tried to speak.

"He's not dead," she gasped. "Oh, Lord. He must be in pain."

Jordan held her more tightly. "I'm sorry," he growled. "I should have let you call—"

"Quiet! He's trying to talk."

To her astonishment, the first word out of his mouth was her name.

"Lindsay..." he whispered. "What are you doing here?" His lids fluttered, and she thought he was looking directly at her, although that had to be an illusion.

"Sid. Oh, God, Sid."

"Lindsay, help Mark ..."

"Sid?"

"Don't let... cover up ..."

He stopped talking and lay still, and she felt the picture in her mind snap off. Because Sid had died. Her link to the place had been severed.

She tried to claw the connection back into existence and knew she was trying to bring Sid Becker back to life.

But that was beyond her power.

She felt her shoulders shaking as great gulping sobs took her. She had kept her emotions under control, but now she couldn't hold back the pain and guilt. "He's dead. He's dead ... and it's my ... fault."

Jordan's fingers dug into her arms. "No. Stop it. That's crazy. He was trying to help his cousin."

"Don't you get it?" she screamed. "Sid came to me! He asked for help. He asked for it again—just now."

"And his cousin came to him! He called you and said he was taking care of the problem. Mark was in trouble, and he agreed to meet him. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing!"

She wanted to believe him. Yet the guilt was like a giant, crushing weight.

"I hope ... at least... Mark got away," she whispered.

"Yeah. Sid gave him a head start. If he knows his way around the park and they don't, he could have made it."

She clung to that, even as she tried to absorb the terrifying scene she'd just witnessed.

"What can we do for him?"

"I don't know. I don't even know where to find him."

* * *

Behind him, two shots sounded.

Oh, Christ. Sid!

He felt sick. He should have known that dragging his cousin into this was a bad idea. Probably he had gotten Sid killed. Now he thought about simply stopping, turning around, and letting the bastards get him.

But he didn't do it. Because then they'd win the whole game.

So he made for a fallen log and dived into the trough he'd scooped out under the massive horizontal trunk. After stuffing the paper into his pocket, he scrambled to pull a cover of fallen leaves back over the opening.

He could hear men move hastily through the underbush, coming after him.

He didn't know whether he was completely covered. A toe of his shoe could be sticking out of the leaves. But he didn't dare move now. All he could do was lie in his shallow grave, wondering if they were going to find him, drag him into the open, and shoot him.

* * *

LINDSAY held on to Jordan because that was all she could do. She wanted to believe they could keep each other safe, although she knew that safety was just an illusion.

"Those are the same people who are after us?" she whispered.

His features had been grim. They turned grimmer. "We have to assume they are. Well, not the exact same people, since the time frame would be pretty tight. They probably have several goon squads."

"Wonderful," she answered, struggling to think rationally. "How did they find Sid in the park?"

"Probably they worked backward—and figured out who was most likely to help Mark. Then they could have put a transponder on his car."

"A tracking device?"

"Yeah. And they could have tapped his phone. In that case they'd know he called you."

She felt her throat clog.

Jordan stroked her hair, her shoulder.

"Why did Sid speak to me—at the end?" she managed.

"I guess he sensed your presence." He tightened his hold on her shoulder. "Maybe he did get the message about being careful. But he wanted to meet Mark anyway. Or he didn't believe he was hearing you in his head." He stopped and made a frustrated sound. "Hell, I'm only guessing here. Maybe he didn't actually get the words— just an impression that you were trying to contact him." He sighed. "Neither one of us has much experience with this."