Storming Heaven (43 page)

He’d gotten what he wanted so badly, he reflected, taking a long pull directly from the bottle. The infamous Jennifer Davis was now gracing his sofa at the low, low cost of three lives. Three and a half, if he counted what was left of his own.

Beamon took another shot from the bottle and then screwed the cap back on. It wasn’t over yet. Four more days until Jennifer was scheduled for her promotion to godhood. Four days for Sara to correct her mistake. And with the FBI after him and Ernie and Goldman dead, holding onto the girl might prove more challenging than finding her had been. By now there were probably a thousand Kneissians scouring every apartment complex and hotel for three hundred miles looking for him. Not good.

He looked over at Jennifer. Except for the bare feet, she was dressed in the same clothes that she was reported last seen in—the pair of shorts and sweatshirt she’d donned after her fourth-place finish in Phoenix. She looked thinner than she had in her photographs and the calculatedly obvious dye job that kids seemed to favor these days had grown out a bit, revealing an infinitely prettier natural brown. The ring was gone from her slightly swollen nose, and dark circles had painted themselves under
her eyes. ?ll in all, she looked like the only person on earth who had had a worse month than him.

The local news opened with dramatic scenes of the blaze at Ernie’s house. Interviews with firefighters suggested that they hadn’t yet investigated the cause of the fire or whether anyone was inside when it started. They said they were just going to let it burn out and would know more tomorrow.

Beamon watched the rest of the program, his eyes darting nervously to the door every few seconds. There was still no mention of Goldman’s death and nothing on the shooting at the air terminal. He suspected there never would be.

When the weather came on, Beamon turned the old TV off and lit a cigarette.

What now?

If he could keep Jennifer alive for the next four days and get her story on record, she should be safe. Sara struck him as vindictive but certainly not stupid.

Staying at the apartment was out of the question. It was possible that the church’s people would never find this place—the threads leading to it were pretty thin—but he couldn’t risk it. And that left very few options.

One: Dump the car and hole up in a motel somewhere.

Not exactly ideal. It still left him alone against the combined forces of the church and the way his luck was running, he’d end up in a Kneissian-owned hotel. But even if he didn’t, they’d sure as hell be looking for him at all the hotels in the area and would be watching all the roads out of town.

Two: Take her to the press.

But who in the press? Obviously, the church
had contacts there or he’d still have a job. Besides, they’d be watching for him there, too. And that didn’t solve his problem of keeping Jennifer’s head off the chopping block until the Easter season was safely over.

Three: Take her to the FBI.

Probably his best option, but still less than ideal. He wasn’t really ready to go in yet—there were some loose ends that he wanted to tie up before he condemned himself to six months in endless conduct hearings, and probably three to five in any number of conveniently located local penitentiaries.

Chet Michaels was the answer. Or at least the lesser of the evils. They could meet somewhere a few miles from the Phoenix office and Michaels could drive them in, with Jennifer, Beamon, and his shotgun keeping out of sight.

Even if Layman was involved with, or being blackmailed by, the church, what could he do? Jennifer would be standing in the middle of a crowded office and would become public property. From then on, the whole thing would be someone else’s responsibility.

B
EAMON JERKED AWAKE AT THE QUIET
creak of the sofa. He was confused for a few moments—by the weight of the shotgun lying across his lap, by the young girl unconscious on the couch.

The events of the prior week started replaying themselves before his mind was completely back on line. His suspension, Carrie, Jack’s and Ernie’s deaths, and finally, the girl he’d taken possession of last night. Along with a whole host of other problems.

Jennifer was still more or less in the position he’d left her in, Beamon noted as he stood and stretched his back. The apartment was silent, except for the low drone of the computers that surrounded him. The only thing that had changed was the sun filtering through the dusty blinds.

Beamon leaned the shotgun against his chair and walked over to the sofa. He reached down and gave Jennifer a gentle shake. Her muscles tensed for an instant and then went slack again. Faker.

He shook her again, this time a bit harder. “Come on, Jennifer. Rise and shine. I know you’re awake.”

No reaction at all this time.

He went into the kitchen and filled a rusty pan halfway with ice from the freezer. “Wake up, Jennifer.
Last chance,” he warned as he filled the pan the rest of the way with water.

Humming quietly, he put a ltd over the pan and walked back to the sofa, slowly swirling the mixture. He could see Jennifer’s neck stiffen almost imperceptibly as she tried to decipher the unfamiliar sound of ice rolling against metal. Beamon moved the lid so that there was about a three- quarters-inch gap and began pouring the contents of the pan on her face.

The first splash of water had barely reached her before she was off the couch and diving over the old coffee table toward the chair Beamon had slept in that night.

It was quite a show, really. By the time Beamon had tilted the pan back up to check the water’s flow onto the now-empty sofa, he had a very scared- looking fifteen-year-old girl pointing a loaded shotgun at him.

Beamon screwed up his face and closed his eyes hard. Nearly two decades of putting some of the most notorious criminals in the world behind bars and an adolescent girl was the first person to ever get ahold of his gun. In the unlikely event he survived long enough to write a report on this investigation, he’d probably leave this part out.

Beamon slowly opened one eye. “Looks like you got the drop on me, Tex.” He opened the other. “Jesus, I don’t remember ever being young enough to move that fast.”

“Freeze!”

“How ‘bout I sit instead?” He placed the pan on the coffee table and plopped down on the sofa.

“I’ll shoot!” Jennifer said as Beamon reached into his pocket. He slowed the motion of his hand
and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Tapping one out into his hand, he said, “I believe you, kid. But let’s make sure that if you
do
shoot me, it’s because you want to.” He held his lighter to the end of the cigarette. “What would you say about moving your finger off that trigger a little bit?”

He patted what remained of the stubborn roll of fat that wouldn’t release his waistline. “I think you’ll agree that I’m in no condition to get all the way across the room before you can move your finger half an inch.”

She looked at him suspiciously but finally moved her quivering finger off the trigger. “Who who are you?”

“Mark Beamon. I’m with the FBI.”

“You don’t look like an FBI agent.”

He assumed she meant his casual clothing. People seemed to think FBI agents slept in their suits. “Thank you.”

“Let me see your ID.”

Beamon frowned. “Actually, saying that I’m with the FBI is a bit of an exaggeration. I
was
with the FBI until I got suspended last week. That’s your fault, actually.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Beamon shrugged. “What’re you going to do, then?”

Jennifer chewed her lip for a moment, then moved toward a haggard-looking sideboard and began pulling open the drawers. She found a phone book in the third one she looked in and flipped through the first few pages, keeping one eye trained on him.

“Oh. I’d rather you didn’t do that,” Beamon said as she reached for the phone on the sideboard.
“Could be traced here. Use this one.” He slid his cell phone off the coffee table and rolled it across the floor to her.

She looked at it like it might explode but eventually picked it up and dialed.

“Hello? Hi. Uh, I’d like to speak to Mark Beamon, please.” She looked him up and down while she waited to be connected. The gun was shaking less now and the barrel had dipped a bit from its previous position pointing directly at his face. Not that it really mattered.

“Hello? I’m trying to reach Mark Beamon … No, I don’t want to leave a message, it’s pretty important… Oh. Really? Could you hold on for a second?”

Beamon caught the phone she tossed him and put it to his ear. “Hello? You still there?”

“Mark! I’ve been trying to reach you! Where have you been? And who was that?”

“I’ve been around, D. Enjoying my time off, you know?”

“Have you heard what’s been happening here?” she said. Her voice echoed slightly. Because she had cupped a hand around the mouthpiece of her phone, Beamon guessed.

“No, what?”

Jennifer looked like she was getting impatient and Beamon flashed her a quick smile.

“Mark, they’re talking about going public with the fact that they’re looking for you. We’re talking APB. The director’s flying down personally to meet with Layman.”

D. really was the ultimate secretary. If a clerk at headquarters got a paper cut, she knew about it the same day.

“When?”

“The APB? There’s no decision yet, just talk. The director’s coming in on the first, though. I think if Layman doesn’t have something by then, you can count on this thing going public that day. What did you do? You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve been hearing.”

“Oh, I probably would. What time are Layman and the director meeting?”

“I don’t know. Morning. Mark, what’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Sure, fine. Hang on a sec, would you? Someone wants to talk to you.”

Beamon tossed the cell phone back to Jennifer.

“Hello? Yes, ma’am. I just wanted to ask you, is that Mark Beamon? Uh-huh. You’re sure. Okay. And what’s his job there exactly? He is? Thanks. ‘Bye.”

She turned off the phone and slumped into the chair behind her, laying the gun carefully on the floor.

Beamon leaned forward. “Smart, Jennifer. Very smart. I take it I’ve checked out to your satisfaction?”

She seemed to have used up the last of her strength and bravery to grab the gun and confirm his identity. Her head went forward to her knees and her entire body shook as she began quietly sobbing.

Beamon wasn’t sure what to do. He got up and knelt down in front of her. “It’s okay, Jen. You’re okay now. You’re out of there.”

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him to her.

“Uh, hey, come on. Don’t cry. I’m depressed
enough already,” he said, patting her on the back tentatively.

“They were going to kill me, Mr. Beamon!” The words came out in jumbles when she momentarily caught her breath. “They kept me in this room, and I was all alone and they wouldn’t let me out. They were going to kill me!”

She used the sleeve of her sweatshirt to wipe at her running nose and then suddenly jerked back from him. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday. Tuesday the twenty-fifth.”

She pushed him away, jumped out of the chair, and slammed her back against the far wall. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

“Jennifer, calm down. What’s wrong?”

“It isn’t over. She won’t stop. It’s not time yet.”

Beamon stood and led her to the couch. “Good Friday?”

She nodded. “My grandfather, he … he wanted me to be in charge of the church. But she lied to them. She wants to kill me so it… it’s hers.”

“Who’s ‘she’? Sara?”

Jennifer nodded again.

“It was a religious thing, though, wasn’t it?” Beamon said. “Albert—your grandfather—died too soon and she was able to use that to justify killing you. She said that you were the new Messenger and had to ascend in his place, right?”

She didn’t seem to be paying attention to what he was saying. Her head was moving from side to side as though the church’s forces were going to materialize from the walls at any minute. Hell, maybe they were.

“Jennifer, is what I just said right?”

“Yeah.”

He reached out and gripped her shoulders. “Okay, then. Cheer up. All we have to do is keep you safe till midnight Friday; then you’ll be useless to them, right? That’s only a couple of days—no problem.”

He tried to keep his tone light and to make sure none of his doubts shone through.

“Promise?” Jennifer said.

“Promise. You want something to eat? I’ve got Cocoa Puffs.”

“That stuff’s just a bunch of sugar,” she said, her eyes moving from the door to the window and back again.

He opened the refrigerator. “Well, I’ve got hot dogs. But no buns.”

“I guess I’ll have the cereal.”

“I love this stuff,” Beamon said as he grabbed the box out of a cabinet. “Cuckoo for it.” She actually almost smiled at that.

“Do you know anything about computers, Jen?” She nodded.

“Why don’t you see what you can do with the one over there while I whip this up.”

“What do you want me to do?” she said, sitting down in front of the screen and tapping the mouse.

“Check for voice messages and e-mail.”

“Why don’t I just make the cereal? You know where everything is in here.”

“Actually, I barely even know how to turn the thing on. It’s not mine. I was kind of hoping you could figure out how to work it.”

“Whose computer is it?” she said, looking a bit nervous again.

“A friend’s.”

“Where is he?”

“He had to go home. His father’s been sick for
years and he took a turn for the worse a couple of days ago,” Beamon lied.

She looked up at him for a moment and then turned back to the screen. A few moments later, recorded phone conversations were playing over the speakers.

“Hey! That’s me!” Jennifer said when the recording of her call to the Colorado Cyclist came on. Her smile faltered when she heard herself scream and the sound of the brief struggle before the phone went dead.

Beamon laid the bowl of cereal down next to the computer and pulled up a box to sit on. The messages—recordings of the church’s phone tap, actually—were still playing, but he wasn’t really expecting anything interesting. They seemed to be pretty careful about using the phone.