Dangerous Secrets (26 page)

Chapter 2

Twelve
Years Later

Morgan Kirkwood hadn′t made her bed over
a warm grate in some filthy alley in the southeast section of Washington, D.C.,
for nearly twenty years. She′d replaced shoes made of torn newspaper
soles and discarded rags with designer suits, handmade boots and satin bed
sheets, but her sense of danger, the need for self-preservation, piqued her
senses the moment she stepped from the oven heat of the garage to the
air-cooled comfort of her kitchen.

Someone was here.

She could feel him. A man. She didn′t
smell a male scent or the faint odor of sweat. Not even a cologne betrayed his
presence. It was the air that had changed. It hadn′t been stirred like a
morning cup of coffee or hastily rushed through by an aerobic exerciser.
Whoever was here had passed through it with ease, barely moving, seeking, but
not with stealth, more with purpose. Morgan had schooled herself to be aware.
Living on the streets of D.C. had given her a course in survival, in being
prepared for anything at any time. She thought she′d forgotten it, but
her senses were alive, and Adrenaline pumped into her blood. Her mind sharpened
as she thought of what was at hand that she could use as a weapon. Internal
radar scoped the space, trying to hone in on the hiding place of her assailant.
She didn′t sense more than one.

He could be a robber, someone looking to feed a
habit, someone she walked in on, but Morgan knew better. Whoever was here was
looking for her. He′d been coming for twelve years. Finally they′d
connected.

Tonight one of them would die.

***

Morgan put her purse on the counter and stepped
out of her heels. The kitchen tiles were cool to her stockinged feet. Her clothes
were a disadvantage, but she couldn′t do anything about them. She′d
been to dinner with friends and wore a straight dress with short sleeves and
high heels. The dress had no pockets and she′d like to keep the car keys,
but the dress had no place to put them. She was going to need her hands. As her
mind probed the space around her, hunting for the hiding place of her killer,
she removed money and her drivers license and, along with the keys, stuffed
them inside her bra.

The kitchen had a pantry, but she didn′t
feel him in there. The space was small and crowded with canned vegetables,
flour, sugar, bottles of maple syrup and other nonperishable foods. The dining
room and living room were both accessible from the kitchen. Neither room had
any hiding places that didn′t involve furniture. There was a hall closet
near the front entrance. Like most people living in development housing they
entered through the garage. Morgan′s house wasn′t in a development.
It was set apart, far into the woods, alone, deserted and, now she felt,
vulnerable, but the garage was connected to the house by a short hallway. The
front door was only opened for guests and to let the air in on warm, breezy
days. It was much too hot today. Every house would have its air conditioner
running, and the neighbors would be too preoccupied with the noise of life to
notice anything different even if they could see Morgan′s house.

Taking a knife from the kitchen rack, she
noticed all of them were present and accounted for. The killer must have his
own weapon. Of course he would, she thought, nearly laughing at her own
stupidity. He hadn′t picked up anything or moved anything. Every piece of
furniture was in the exact place. Every dish, every pot was exactly where
she′d left it.

But he was here.

She knew he would come, knew someone would.
First Austin Fisk, reporter for that rag the
St. Louis Star,
begins poking into her past, calling for interviews
and following her around. Then the mysterious feeling she was being watched by
someone other than Fisk plagued her. He was too much an in-your-face reporter
for covert action, but she could feel it. All the time. No matter if she went
to the mailbox or drove into St. Louis to meet friends, there was that feeling
of being under surveillance. She could see nothing, no matter how often she
looked over her shoulder or glanced in the rearview mirror, only the feeling
remained. There was no visible evidence of anything, but she knew someone was
there.

Morgan moved through the space of her kitchen
like a thief. She didn′t want to be surprised. Her eyes shifted from side
to side, taking in the entire room and all its crevices. Her heartbeat
accelerated, pounded in her chest and her ears, and she consciously willed it
to slow down. She needed all her wits, all her thought processes to be at their
best if she was to survive.

He would know she was in the house. She′d
disabled the alarm when she came in and he would have heard that. Somehow
he′d gotten past the code that she′d programmed into the system.
Morgan knew that wouldn′t be hard to do. This was a good system, but it
wasn′t foolproof, especially for the kind of person they would send after
her. What she had was worth a good price. The killer would be experienced, paid
well and ready for anything.

Morgan had to be ready too. She circled around
the living room, checked behind every piece of furniture and almost convinced
herself she was being paranoid. She went to the stairs. She wouldn′t go
up. There was no way out if she went to any of the bedrooms. There were four
bedrooms. He could be in any of them. While she checked one he could surprise
her from behind. If necessary she′d go back the way she′d come.

Suddenly she saw something. A shadow. She
whirled around. Nothing. Had she really seen it? Morgan was sure of her mind.
If she saw a shadow, it was there. She moved toward the area. Slowly, her
shoeless feet making no noise on the tiled entryway, she got to the stairs,
looking right and left. Nothing.

Suddenly, he was behind her. A hand came over
her mouth, cutting her scream. A gloved hand that tasted like engine oil
clamped her mouth closed and prevented her from making a sound. She tried to
scream, but he pulled her head back, wrenching her neck to the point of pain.
His free arm grabbed the hand holding the knife and pulled it backward until
the pain in her arm forced her to drop her only weapon. Then he circled her
waist and his leg spread between hers and wrapped candy-cane style around one
of hers. This kept her from kicking. If she tried to lift a foot she′d
lose her balance and fall. Still she fought, using whatever appendage she had
free, arms, hands, her body, her head. She tried to butt him, but he moved,
anticipating her blow.

Morgan fought with every ounce of the
twelve-year-old street waif who learned to withstand the dangers of being alone
and female. She concentrated her energy, winding it into whatever move she
made, concentrating her entire weight into the blow she intended to deliver. He
outwitted her at every turn. But he relaxed the hold on her mouth. Taking
advantage of it, she bit down on the hand in her mouth. Her killer screamed,
but held fast to her, dashing her hope of escaping his hold. He kicked her leg
out, too far for her to remain upright. They both went down to the bare floor.
She scrambled, trying to get away, but he was larger, faster, stronger. He
grabbed her about the shoulders and flipped her over, pinning her to the floor.

Morgan′s hands were free and she pounded
at the shoulders and head of the killer. He grabbed her hands and pinned them
above her on either side of her head.

‶
Morgan, stop it!″

She looked at him.

‶
Not you,″ she said, and
renewed her struggles.

‶
Stop it or I′ll kiss
you.″

Every nerve in her body froze.

‶
That′s better.″ For
a moment he still held her, but then he sat back and moved away from her.
Morgan was surprised. Why hadn′t he killed her? She was surprised to find
it was him.

Jack Temple.

She′d hoped whoever came would be someone
she′d never seen before. To be killed by someone she knew, someone
she′d met. She couldn′t call him a friend. They′d been part
of the same team once and when they parted, Morgan never expected to see him again.
And now he was here.

Here for her.

She had to get away. Morgan inched away from
him. He wasn′t looking at her, but resting his head on his drawn-up
knees. He looked winded. Maybe she could use that, but she had to act now.
Morgan would have to pass him to get to the front door, and it was locked. Her
only option was to go through the garage or one of the windows. She had an
escape route, but she couldn′t use it with him running behind her.

In a split second Morgan sprang to her feet and
darted for the kitchen and the garage door. She wouldn′t have time to
open the door and take the car. Her best bet was to get out the side door and
run into the woods. It was only fifty feet to the trees. Hopefully she could
get there before he shot her in the back. She couldn′t go toward a neighbor.
She didn′t know if he′d be willing to kill more than one person,
but she wasn′t going to take the chance. And her nearest neighbor was
miles away.

Jack came after her. She heard him, but refused
to turn around and look over her shoulder. He was a big man. She′d known
his strength twelve years before when they were in South Korea together; she as
a contestant in the Olympics and he as one of the coaches for the United States
swim team.

Her stocking feet slipped on the permanently
waxed kitchen tiles. Jack was on her in an instant. They crashed to the floor.
She took his weight on her side. Again he flipped her over.

‶
What is wrong with you?″

‶
Just kill me now and get it
over with,″ she hissed. She was breathing hard, her voice holding more
bravado than she felt. How would he kill her? Strangle her? A bullet? The knife
she′d lost the battle to hold onto? She could feel a heavy object
pressing against her through his coat.

‶
Kill you?″ He looked at
her with piercing eyes that bore through her, but gave nothing away as to his
intentions. She saw cold-bloodedness in them.
‶
You think I′m here to
kill you?″

‶
Yes, I do.″ Her chin shot
out without her even thinking about it. She′d learned it in her youth.
Never back down. Never show fear.
And
that gesture came back to her now.
‶
Why else would you
come?′′

He got to his feet, pulling her with him.
Morgan immediately looked for other methods of escape. He was stronger than she
was, taller, maybe even faster, but she wouldn′t let his advantages be
disadvantages for her. She′d try anyway.

‶
I′m here because you
called.″

‶
I never called you.″

‶
You called Jacob
Winston.″

Jacob Winston was the director of Witsec, the
witness protection program. She wasn′t in the program, but if anything
ever happened to her, she was to contact him.

How could he know that?
‶
I never called
anyone by that name.″ She hedged, buying herself time.

The look he gave her told her he knew she was
lying.

‶
Look, we need to talk.″

He released her and stepped back. Morgan
didn′t know if he′d let her walk away if she tried, but his
distance seemed to ask for her trust. She wouldn′t give it, not yet. He
could be anyone and he still could be here to kill her, but he had given her
the proper buzz word.
Jacob Winston.
She
hadn′t called Jacob, but she had contacted him, by a secure electronic
mail transmission. Her name hadn′t been disclosed, only a code she
thought she′d forgotten. It, too, had come to her mind as quickly as her
street tactics had returned. She could personally attest to the will to stay
alive now. Her message gave details of Fisk′s efforts to interview her.
She′d also mentioned her sense of being watched. That had been two days
ago. She hadn′t heard from Jacob.

‶
Let′s go someplace
else,″ Jack suggested.

Getting out of the house was a good idea. She
was alone with him here and he could certainly overpower her, as he′d
demonstrated twice. Going someplace very public would be a wise move. Before
she could reply, the doorbell rang. Morgan froze for a moment as if another
killer had already appeared.

‶
Are you expecting
anyone?″

She shook her head. Frightened, Morgan′s
hand came up as if to catch hold of something or someone for support. Jack
cautioned her, pulling a gun from under his jacket. She′d known it was
there. She′d felt it while he had her pinned to the kitchen floor.
Noticing her hanging hand, she dropped it to her side. Jack motioned for her to
go to the door. She picked up the knife that had been her weapon against him
and went toward the portal. He took up a blend-into-the-wall position which
would have been laughable if she wasn′t already geared up to be
frightened to death. Morgan peered through the curtain and saw her friend,
Michelle O′Banyon, standing alone on the porch. She relaxed. Her whole
body went limp and she grabbed the doorknob tighter than she would have if her
Adrenaline wasn′t working overtime.

‶
It′s all right,″
she said to Jack as she pulled the door open.
‶
Michelle, what are you doing
here?″

Michelle pulled the screen open.
‶
I
can′t come in, Morgan. I′m in a real hurry,″ she said in a
rush.
‶
I
have to get to the train station, but since I was passing and I′ve been
carrying this bowl around in my car for a week, I thought I′d drop it
off.″

Michelle hated being indebted to anyone, even
if it was for a bowl containing potato salad which Morgan had taken to a
backyard barbecue and left. She offered the package to Morgan, who realized she
was still holding the knife. Both of them looked at the gleaming blade at the
same time. Morgan offered a weak smile. She was glad she hadn′t actually
cut Jack with it.