Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (28 page)

Jewels stared at the ceiling. Speechless. Motionless.

Consumed by regret. How in the hell did she allow herself to get suckered into believing she could trust this guy—handsome or not—who was now strapping her down to a gurney like an insane person being prepared for shock treatment? Uh-huh, insane! That was the key word. And that was what she was for trusting Marshall Watters.

After buckling the remaining two straps across Jewels’ arms and waist and over her shins, he gently brushed away the straggling strings of tossed hair that blanketed her face like an old lace doily.

Innocently, she gazed up at Marshall whose features had softened, almost appearing caring. Softly she asked, “What’s happening, Marshall? Where are you taking me? What are you going to do—”

“Shhhh,” he said, pressing a single finger on her lips. Bending over, he kissed her on the forehead.

Jewels blinked wildly. What the hell?
Judas kiss
, she concluded. This hunk
was
a psycho, just like everyone else she had encountered so far in the compound ... with the possible exception of Doc Callahan.

As casually as pushing a grocery cart, he wheeled her down the murky hall.

Gazing at the ceiling, her senses were acutely tuned to pick up details. The sight of flickering, half-dead florescent lights sporadically coming and going among the non-pattern of grey and brown stones. The sound of gurney wheels popping and skidding across the uneven floor. The touch of frigid fingers from the draft, molesting every inch of her body. And the smell of stale, damp air highly seasoned with fear—her fear—expanding to fill the hollowness between the corridor walls like a helium balloon on the verge of bursting.

A maze,
Jewels thought regarding the odd layout of the compound as Watters drove the gurney down hallways and around corners. Finally, he stopped at a door, swung it open, wheeled her inside.

“Hello, Marshall,” greeted Doctor Callahan, as Watters pushed the gurney into the expansive receiving room of the medical wing. Sliding his hands into the pockets of the white doctor’s coat, he gazed down at Jewels, who was securely fastened to the gurney by three wide straps. “And how’s our clever little ball-buster today?”

Jewels didn’t respond, just stared at the ceiling.

“Take her into the exam room,” Callahan said, gesturing with his hand toward the entry.

The gurney wheels roughly rolled over the FLOWER POWER etching on the floor, pulsating Jewels’ body like an old coin-operated vibrating bed in a cheap motel. “General said I’m to stay while you do this,” Watters said, arriving at the exam room.

Callahan shook his head in agreement and nodded toward Jewels, “Probably a wise decision, since experience—painful experience—has taught me not to tinker with this little keg of dynamite.”

Watters laughed. “Yeah, Doc. Guess she really let you have it,” he said, grabbing his crotch and painting a face of pain to mock Jewel’s brutal strike at Callahan.

Jewels piped up, “Why am I here? What are you going to do to me?”

Callahan smiled, patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Just need a little blood, Honey.”

Jewels’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Blood? Why do you need
my
blood?”

“Because you gotta be made dead,” a caustic voice boomed from the exam room entry.

Her muscles tensed. She held her breath. That voice. It was her kidnapper’s. Poking her neck forward, her eyes confirmed her audio conclusion.

Watters whirled around, faced Tank. “What the hell?”

Tank spawned a halfhearted smile, waving his hands in front of him as to call off an impending fight. “Whoa, Buddy. Cooman sent me to collect the blood so I can do my job.”

Nervously Jewels squirmed under the restraints. “Job? What job needs my blood?” she quizzed, her voice degenerating into a childlike whimper.

Eager to enlighten her, Tank’s eyes brimmed with devilish excitement. “The Commander wants to take possession of you tonight.”

“Possession? Tonight?” Jewels’ shrieked, her eyes darting to Marshall Watters for an explanation, but Tank started up again.

“Before the Commander can take you, we have to implement Phase Two. That’s the part where folks think you’re dead.”

“Dead?” she echoed, her voice strained.

Tank exhaled, rapidly rubbing his hands together in eager anticipation. “Yep. And to make you dead, I need blood.
Your
blood. I’ll smear it all over the inside of your Humvee,” he said, gesturing a smearing motion in mid air. “Leave pieces of your torn T-shirt here and there.” He inhaled deep, puffed out his chest in pride. “By the time I’m through, it’ll be such a fuckin’ mess, authorities will conclude you’ve been murdered. And once you’ve been assumed dead, law enforcement will automatically back off efforts to find you.”

Gulping dryly, Jewels knew Tank was right.

“You see, as long as the cops think you’re alive, there’s a sense of urgency about the case. But as soon as they figure you’ve been killed....” Tank let raised eyebrows, an evil sneer, and shrugged shoulders finish his sentence.

Closing her eyes, she shuddered. It was true. Once the cops assumed she was dead, the harried rescue campaign would be relegated to a greatly scaled-back effort to recover a corpse. Worse yet, whoever the Commander was would be taking possession of her, as if she were chattel. Couldn’t allow that to happen. The best way to stop, or at least slow down, the Commander
taking possession
of her was to throw a monkey wrench in his Phase Two operation.

Had to do something. Soon. But being securely strapped to a gurney greatly limited her options. The only alternative was to launch a verbal plea. An attempt to appeal to whatever goodness or sense of justice these men may have in them. Certainly Tank didn’t have a decent bone in his body. No need to waste efforts with him.

Eyes darting back and forth between Doc Callahan and Marshall Watters, she pleaded her case. “Come on, you guys know this is a crazy scheme. Surely in your heart you know this is wrong.” Pointing with her head in Tank’s direction, “You two are nothing like that psycho maniac.”

A demonic grin grew on Tank’s face. He folded his arms over his chest, clearly enjoying the scene.

Continuing to address Callahan and Watters: “I sense you are good men, with good hearts and you know the difference between right and wrong. So why not do the right thing? Return me unharmed to my home, my life. Your morals will thank you. You’ll sleep well at night. And as a token of appreciation for you doing the right thing, I’ll announce you two were my heroes. I’ll further express my gratitude in the form of a five million dollar reward to each of you.”

Watters and Callahan exchanged glances at the part about five million bucks a piece, knowing full well she had the means to dish out that kind of money.

Callahan hung his head. “Miz Andrasy, I don’t deserve the praise you’ve given me, but it means a lot to me that you think I have that kind of goodness inside.”

Behind Watters’ back Tank played an imaginary violin and made sappy faces. Occasionally he dabbed invisible tears from his eyes, mocking the syrupy scene.

Callahan glared at Tank, who looked like he was ready to erupt into wild laughter any minute.

Turning to Jewels, Callahan shook his head no. “I’m sorry, Dear.” Biting his lip, he reached for the needle.

Jewels focused her attention on Watters, who was standing at her side. “Marshall, please. I know you, especially you, really don’t belong with this group of radical wackos. Help me. Don’t let them do this to me.”

Watters’ face pinched with tension.

Hoping her words were getting to him, she continued, her voice full of urgency and raising an octave, “Remember, Marshall Watters, you said I should trust you...,” she paused nodding at restraints, “and obviously, I did. I trusted you, Marshall, simply because you said I should. Please don’t make me regret believing in you. Don’t let them do this to me. Please, help me, don’t let—”

Suddenly Watters clamped his massive hand over Jewels’ mouth, his face molded into stone. “Enough.”

Jewels blinked with surprise.

Tank blurted out a maniacal cackle. After regaining composure, he slapped an open hand on Watters’ shoulder for a job well done, confessing, “I underestimated you, Watters. You’re good. Fuckin’ masterful. Actually convinced the bitch she could trust you.”

Watters smirked. Raising his hand to his mouth, he folded his fingers and huffed on his nails, then rapidly buffed them against his shoulder gesturing,
damn, I’m good,
while keeping his other hand firmly locked over Jewels’ mouth.

Embarrassment trampled her heart and soul. How could she have been so stupid? So gullible? Unfortunately, she knew damned well how: Marshall Watters’ handsome face and studly body, that’s how.

“Tank,” Callahan called, motioning with a nod of his head for him to approach Jewels. “To draw the blood I need her right arm. The strap across her shoulder and the one at her waist needs to be released. Will you hold her down while I do that?”

“Be glad to help ya, Doc,” Tank responded with perverted enthusiasm.

Once the straps were loosened, Jewels forcefully contorted her body and jerked her arms launching a valiant, but pitiful, battle for freedom from Tank’s viselike grip that, once again, proved her resistance worthless.

Seconds later Jewels’ right arm was strapped onto a long thin board with the veins from the underside of her elbow exposed for Callahan’s needle. The straps from the gurney were immediately fastened across her shoulders and waist, engulfing her left arm.

Callahan began drawing the blood.

Initiating another futile squirming battle against the restraints, she struggled to voice another plea, but Watters’ thick hand remained an effective gag.

Under the watchful eye of Callahan, the large plastic bag filled. Doc turned his attention to Watters. “Since I’m taking two pints, she’s going to become very weak. Under these circumstances, I think it’s best to keep her here so I can observe her for a few hours.”

“No problem, Doc. You do whatever is necessary to keep her healthy,” Watters returned without emotion.

“Just remember to keep the bitch strapped down,” Tank said to Callahan. Sneering, he added, “And, Doc, don’t be tempted to take Miz Millionaire up on her offer, or I’ll have to visit your daughter.” He scratched his shiny bald head. “Uh, what’s her name? Alexis?”

Callahan’s temples pulsated with rage as he tried to ignore Tank’s comments. Deep inside, he wished he could kill the bastard, but knew even if he did, there would just be another Tank-like character waiting to fill the void. No. Callahan knew he had to remain loyal to SPOF. Anything and everything requested of him, he would do. His daughter’s life depended on it.

The blood retrieval process lasted about fifteen minutes, during which time Jewels’ had physically surrendered to the situation, no longer twisting and turning under the confines of the restraints. Didn’t even put up a fight when Doc removed the needle and repositioned her arm at her side, binding it to the gurney. When Watters finally lifted his hand from her mouth, she remained silent.

Allowing her eyelids to glide shut, she mentally replayed the actions leading to her latest predicament, berating herself for the obvious: the handsome, no-good, dirty rotten scoundrel Marshall Watters had played her for a fool. Tears meandered down her face as she promised herself never to trust Marshall Watters, or anyone else associated with this bunch of crazy militiamen, again ... no matter what her vibes told her. Never again.
Never
.

SATURDAY, 5:00 A.M. JUST BEFORE DAWN.
The FBI helicopter touched down on the temporarily closed highway. FBI Special Agent In Charge Theodore Hines slid out. Dressed in an expensive brown pin-striped suit, yellow silk shirt and red necktie, he looked like he just stepped off the pages of a Harrod’s magazine ad.

Shielding his head with his hands, he ran slightly hunched to buck the whirlwind of the helicopter blades. Seconds later, the chopper departed. Patting down his feathered hair, he straightened his suit.

“Special Agent Hines?” a husky Salt Lake County deputy inquired after jogging out to meet him. In his late twenties and pudgy-faced, he wore a brown and gold deputy uniform. A wide black belt with the standard police-issued equipment sagged under his overflowing belly.

“Yeah. Where is it?” Hines quizzed.

“Over there,” the deputy pointed with his flashlight. “About two-hundred feet down that dirt road. We confirmed the Hummer is registered to Julia Andrasy.”

“Anything inside?” Hines asked, walking rapidly.

The deputy had to occasionally jog a step or two to keep up. “Blood. Lots of blood. On the windshield. All over the seats. On the floor. A real blood bath,” the deputy said, breathing heavily.

“A body?”

“No, Sir. Not in the vehicle or anywhere around it, at least not as far as we’ve been able to ascertain.” Pausing, he added, “Looks like the vehicle hit something somewhere else, though. The driver’s air bag has been deployed and the front end’s pretty banged up.”

“A deer?”

“No. Don’t think so, Sir. Didn’t see any blood or hair, which is usually easily seen with the naked eye when an animal is hit. I’m sure your CSI’s will be able to tell you more once they check it out at your lab.”