Stranger in my Arms (23 page)

T
hree days before she was scheduled to leave for Florida, Alex found the perfect house in Old Town, the core of historic Alexandria. The unoccupied redbrick home, dating back to the nineteenth century, boasted an updated kitchen and bathrooms. Five bedrooms with adjoining baths and sitting rooms would provide ample space for living and entertaining. She'd toured the area by car and had fallen in love with the abundance of antique shops lining King Street.

“I want it,” she told the real estate agent.

“Don't you want your husband to see it before you make a decision?”

Alex stared at the smartly dressed middle-aged woman as if she'd spoken a language she didn't understand. “There is no doubt my husband will like it.”

“It's…it's just that I've had situations in the past where the wife wants something her husband doesn't and vice versa.”

Opening her handbag, Alex took out her checkbook. “How much are you asking as a down payment?” The agent quoted a figure, and she wrote the check. “I'm due to deliver a baby in less than five months. I'd like to be settled in my new home before the end of January.” She handed the startled woman the check. “Please call me when you confirm a date for closing.”

Alex walked out of the house and made her way down the street to where she'd parked her car, her mind filled with how she wanted to decorate the remarkable structure. She no longer worked for the Trust, but she would have her own piece of history to preserve. Browsing for antiques germane to the period would become an ongoing project to keep her occupied until her daughter's birth and many years after.

When the obstetrician had disclosed that she was having a girl, Alex was overcome with joy. She'd begun planning all of the activities they would share: baking cookies, tea parties and browsing antique shops. Alex shuddered to think she wouldn't have a girly-girl, that her daughter would prefer firearms and restoring old cars and trucks to shopping.

Sitting in her car, she dialed the number to Merrick's cell phone. It rang twice before he answered. “I found it!”

“Found what, Ali?”

“Our house. I just put a down payment on it.”

“Where is it?”

“Alexandria. It's a little pricey, but it's worth it, Merrick.”

“Can we talk about this when I get home?”

A frown appeared between her eyes. “I hope we're not going to argue about money.”

“Did I mention money, Alexandra?”

“You're upset, Merrick.”

“Why do you say I'm upset?”

“Because you called me Alexandra. You only call me that when you're angry.”

“Look, baby, I'm not angry. I don't know what the house is selling for and I don't care. If you like it, then we'll buy it.”

Tears filled her eyes at the same time she bit down on her lower lip. “Thank you, darling.”

He laughed softly. “You're welcome, darling. I'll see you when I get home.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“You.”

Before Alex could reply or react, Merrick hung up. She sat in the car, staring through the windshield, unable to believe she could feel so incredibly happy, that her life could be so incredibly perfect.

Merrick Grayslake had come into her life when she wanted nothing to do with men. He'd become a friend, one who'd slipped under the barrier she'd created to keep all men at a distance because of her master plan. He'd waited patiently for her to complete her education, then wooed her with the skill and finesse of a libertine. And she'd taken the bait and let him reel her in.

She'd fallen in love, gotten pregnant and married. All the things she'd professed not wanting to do. But that was before she met Merrick Grayslake. His claim that he never wanted to marry or father children was shattered the moment they went from friends to lovers.

Alex closed her eyes. They would soon celebrate a new year, and she looked forward to celebrating a new life with her new husband in their new home.

Putting the key in the ignition, she started up the car and adjusted the heat. Meteorologists were predicting a white Christmas. Alex hoped the snowstorm would bypass Virginia and blow out to sea. She was so looking forward to spending the week in Florida with her extended family. She'd done all of her Christmas shopping and had shipped the gifts from her and Merrick to her uncle Martin's house in West Palm Beach.

Every year there seemed to be a new Cole baby, and it was becoming more difficult to keep up with the names that now spanned five generations.

She and Merrick had gone over names and had decided on Victoria Cole-Grayslake. The little girl would be faced with the daunting task of being a Cole, but there was no doubt she would succeed, because the Coles
and
the Grayslakes were survivors.

 

Merrick's phone rang just as he closed and locked his desk. He glanced at the wall clock. It was three minutes before he was scheduled to leave for the day. Most times he worked beyond his dismissal because he wanted to avoid rush-hour traffic. He and Alex usually did not sit down to dinner until seven, so he did not see the need to rush out with the other office workers.

“Grayslake.” He'd decided to answer the call.

“I'm going to call you once you reach your car.”

Merrick froze. It was the first contact he'd had with the mystery caller since he'd picked up the cell phones. And how, he mused, did the person know he was leaving for the day? Was something at the CIA monitoring his whereabouts?

“I assume you're going to call me on the phone with the lowest serial number?”

“You assume right. I'll call you in a few minutes.”

Merrick was tempted not to leave, but then what? Would the sicko call him back on the government's line? He would leave as planned. Whoever it was that sought to push his buttons had succeeded because he was anxious to uncover just what the person wanted.

It took Merrick ten minutes to get an elevator and make it down to the parking lot. As soon as he sat behind the wheel, the disposable phone rang.

“What do you want?” His greeting was brusque, rude, but he was beyond caring about social etiquette.

“I want you to meet me.”

“Where?” Merrick listened when he was told the address.

“That's not a very nice neighborhood,” he drawled sarcastically.

“That's why I want you to meet me there. The only vermin you'll encounter will be of the two- and four-legged variety.”

He'd been instructed to go to a crime-infested section of D.C. only blocks from where he'd been assaulted and left to die years before. Unlocking the glove compartment, he took out a small automatic handgun and secured it in the small of his back.

“Come alone and come unarmed.”

“I'm coming alone.”

“Don't bring the firearm.”

It was too dark in the parking lot for Merrick to see if someone was watching every move he made. After all, he was sitting in the parking lot at CIA headquarters with high-tech surveillance equipment everywhere.

“Goodbye.”

“Wait…don't hang up.”

A small smile of triumph parted Merrick's lips. “Are you saying I can bring the gun?”

“Bring it. Come to the second floor. I'll see you in an hour.”

The call ended and Merrick saw a message flashing the number of remaining minutes. Their conversation had lasted exactly two minutes.

Merrick started up his truck, driving away from Langley toward southeast D.C. He hadn't gotten more than a mile when he remembered Alex's phone call about finding a house. He activated the hands-free device and dialed her number.

“Hi, baby.”

Merrick smiled. “Hi, yourself. I'm calling to let you know I'll be late.”

“How late?”

“I'm not certain. But I don't think it's going to take too long. Put away your pots. We'll eat out tonight, and then you can show me our new house.”

“Thank you, Merrick!”

His smile widened. “You're welcome, Ali.”

Merrick continued to talk to his wife until he turned down the street to the address his caller had given him. Slowing, he peered at the dilapidated and burned-out buildings lining the block. A hand-painted number in fluorescent paint shimmered in the darkness on the last house on the street. Someone really wanted him to find the building. He parked across the street.

Merrick alighted from his truck at the same time he reached around his back and gripped the handle of the holstered automatic. The gun was small enough for him to palm it easily.

He entered the building, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light from a dim naked bulb hanging from a frayed wire. He tested the first stair. It groaned beneath his weight, but held. Counting the number of stairs, he made it to the second-floor landing. Firearm drawn, he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” ordered the diffused voice.

Pushing open the door, Merrick was assailed with the smell of stale urine and other unidentifiable odors. He automatically reached for a wall switch but quickly discovered there was no electricity. There came the distinctive scrape of a match, followed by the smell of sulfur, then the weak flickering flame of a candle.

“Sit down,” came the disembodied voice. Merrick complied, reaching for a wooden crate, and sat down. “This will not take long because I know you want to go home to your very pretty wife.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“You don't need to know who I am. Not yet.”

“And you don't need to bring my wife into this,” Merrick retorted.

“She's in it because she
is
your wife.”

“This is not about her, is it?”

“No. It's about your mother.”

Merrick closed his eyes. “What about her?”

“I know who killed Victoria Grayslake.”

M
errick swayed slightly before righting himself. He tightened his grip on the gun butt. “Why are you telling me this?” His query was whispered. “Why don't you expose the murderer?”

“She wasn't my mother.”

“She abandoned me, so why should I feel anything for her?”

“She abandoned you to save your life.”

Merrick closed his eyes for several seconds. “In other words she sacrificed herself for me?”

“It was the ultimate sacrifice. Your mother was an undercover DEA special agent assigned to the Mexican border region. She'd infiltrated a group who'd operated openly and without impunity between the U.S. and Mexico.

“She'd been assigned to gather evidence to put several high-ranking Mexican Federales, at least eight U.S. Border Patrol agents and two Texas and Arizona ranchers in prison for the rest of their lives.

“Victoria, who'd discovered she was pregnant, requested a leave but before she was scheduled to depart Mexico she was abducted and held prisoner until it was time for her to give birth.”

“Are you saying someone blew her cover?” Merrick asked perceptively.

“Yes. A senior agent gave her up.”

“What happened?”

“Victoria was flown by private jet to a ranch in south Texas where she delivered a son. The baby boy was left in a church. Victoria's body was discovered weeks later in a shallow grave near the Mexican border. She'd been tortured, her tongue cut out, then shot in the back of the head.”

“How do you know all this? And why are you telling me about something that happened more than thirty years ago?”

“I was her partner on one undercover mission, and I swore an oath that I would always protect her.”

“It's apparent you didn't protect her. What do you expect me to do?” Merrick asked.

“I want you to expose the man who eventually became an associate director for the DEA. I want you to bring down the son of a bitch who ordered the hit on Victoria Grayslake.”

“You expect me to take revenge for someone I never knew?”

“I can understand your reluctance, but Victoria gave up everything to have you. If she hadn't compromised her mission you wouldn't be here. She forfeited her life so that you could enjoy your life, your wife and await the birth of your own child.”

Merrick longed to spring across the space and snatch the man by the throat. He wanted to know who was it that knew so much about him. “What do you mean she compromised her mission?”

“She cut a deal—her baby for the identities of undercover field agents.”

“How do you know this?”

“It was on videotape. It sent shock waves through the DEA. Agents were pulled, assigned to desk duty or transferred to other agencies. It was the administration's most serious breach in security and the fallout was catastrophic. Victoria was tried in absentia, charged with treason and sentenced to life in prison. The man responsible for her death was promoted and is now a very influential D.C. lobbyist.”

“Victoria is gone, she can't be vindicated and you want me to take this person out? Other than my being the son of Victoria Grayslake, you're going to have to give me another reason.”

“He knows who you are, and he's afraid that one day you may decide to seek retribution for what he did to your mother.”

“If that's true, then why hasn't he tried to take me out?”

“He did try.”

Merrick froze, holding his breath until he felt his lungs exploding. The roaring in his head intensified and he felt faint. He let out a lungful of constricted breath. He knew the answer even before he asked it.

“When?”

“When you were shot and left on the corner two blocks from here. The woman who'd asked you to meet her was also in on the conspiracy.”

Merrick closed his eyes, reliving the scene as if it were yesterday. Corrine Grice, who'd moved into the apartment building in Silver Spring a month after he had, was the consummate neighbor. She picked up his newspaper when he failed to stop delivery because the Company hadn't given him enough notice whenever they called for a new mission. And whenever she cooked too much she shared what she had with him.

There was never anything personal about their relationship, so a year later when Corrine told Merrick that she planned to buy property in a less-than-desirable section of D.C. because she was tired of paying rent he offered to help her with her fixer-upper.

He spent hours painting the kitchen and bathroom, and when he told Corrine he was going home she came on to him like a cat in heat. More shocked than repulsed, he told her that he didn't see her in that way and left, running headlong into three men whose intent was to rob him. What he'd thought was a botched robbery in reality had been a conspiracy for murder.

“Where is Corrine?”

“She and her three flunkies were found a little well done in a burned-out establishment around the corner. No witnesses, no blame.”

Seconds ticked off into a minute before Merrick said, “Who is he?”

“Chandler Duffy.”

A sardonic smile twisted Merrick's mouth. “Chandler Duffy. The unofficial president of the United States.”

“The same,” confirmed what Merrick now thought of as
the voice.

“Why don't you go after him yourself?”

“I can't.”

“Well, neither can I,” Merrick argued softly. “If I'm going to do it legally, then you know I'm prohibited from collecting foreign intelligence concerning the domestic activities of U.S. citizens. That falls under the jurisdiction of the Bureau.”

“I'll provide you with what you need to go after Duffy.”

“Whatever you tell me I'll have to pass along to my superiors.”

“I don't give a flying fig who pinches him. It could be CIA, FBI, DEA, ATF, Secret Service or the friggin' Boy Scouts of America.”

Merrick nodded, doubting whether his informant could see him. “I'll see what I can do.” He stood up. “Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go home and get out of these clothes.”

“I'll be in touch,” said
the voice.

“Oh, I'm sure you will.”

Merrick gripped the gun as he made his way down the rickety staircase and out into the crisp cold air. He sucked in a lungful before letting it out. The cloying stench of human and animal waste lingered in his nostrils.

Merrick drove back to Arlington. He stood outside the door and had Alex bring him a large plastic garbage bag. Not concerned with who saw him in his birthday suit, he stripped off his clothes and shoes and left them in the bag on the floor outside the door.

It was only after he'd showered and washed his hair, twice, that he felt clean again.