Mysterious (17 page)

Jennifer’s mind raced. It seemed as if they had reached an impasse. She could bluff, but she wasn’t certain she would be able to carry it off. As she was deliberating what she should do next, there came a scraping sound from the shadows.

Wainright reacted instantly. Grabbing Jennifer, he pulled her back against him and his heavily muscled arm whipped around her neck as he jammed the barrel of a pistol against her temple.

His two hired gunmen reacted just as swiftly. Guns appearing in their hands as if by magic, they fanned out into the darkness, each going a different way.

"It seems you didn’t come alone after all," he rasped into her ear. ’That could prove to be a fatal mistake."

Desperation for Jerome’s safety was upper most in her mind. "I tell you, I did. It’s probably just some rats."

Jerome didn’t know who or what had made the sound, but he knew he hadn’t moved a muscle since Jennifer had entered the warehouse. It really didn’t matter one way or another though. The second the steel-blue barrel of the gun had jammed Jennifer’s head, a cold sweat had broken out over him. He drew his own gun.

As one of Wainright’s men continued toward him, he tried to think, but the only clear thought that kept coming through was that he refused to let it all end like this. There was something very important he had left undone: He hadn’t told Jennifer he loved her yet. And he had every intention of doing so as soon as possible.

From behind the forklift Leo tracked the man’s progress. As far as she could see, Jerome didn’t have a chance. She wasn’t sure what she could do, but she knew one thing: She couldn’t let anything happen to him.

In the center of the warehouse Jennifer struggled vainly against Wainright’s iron grip. It was all happening too fast, and it was out of her control. To her right she caught sight of Jerome. He must have followed her! A feeling of helplessness washed over her. If anything happened to him, it would be her fault entirely. She wanted to call out to him, but she knew better than to bring Wainright’s attention to him.

Then to her left and directly across the warehouse from Jerome’s position, she heard a fight break out. Barely able to turn her head, she looked to the side to see Phil, the cabdriver who had picked her up. She had no idea what he was doing here, but he had evidently jumped the second of Wainright’s men.

Jerome, too, was observing the fight, but there was nothing he could do about it, because the man who had been quietly stalking him was closing in, the pistol in his hand shifting to cover suspected hiding places as he came ever closer. He would have to be careful, Jerome cautioned himself. Using his gun would be a last resort. He needed to disarm this man as quickly and as quietly as possible.

Jerome held his breath, every muscle in his body coiled, ready to spring. The man was almost upon him. And then suddenly there he was, at the corner of the nearest crate. Jerome hurled himself from his hiding place.

As he slammed his shoulder into the man’s side, the collision forced grunts of pain from both of them. They crashed into another stack of crates, and Jerome’s gun was knocked out of his hand. He straightened and felt the crown of his head connect with the man’s chin. The blow staggered them both, and Jerome fell to his knees, waves of dizziness swirling over him while he clutched urgently at the man’s right arm, clawing for the man’s gun.

But before he could get hold of it, a heavy fist clubbed the back of Jerome’s neck, followed by a knee that slammed into his forehead. His head whipped back and the knee came again, this time smashing into his chest. Jerome lost his grip and fell backward onto the floor. For a split-second he allowed himself the luxury of lying still, then the thought of Jennifer in the grasp of Wainright had him struggling to his knees. He looked up just as the man he had been fighting raised the pistol until it was pointed directly at his head.

"No!"

Jerome heard the screams of protest in that fraction of a second before it seemed death would come to him. He recognized Jennifer’s voice, but there was also another that came from behind him. The man standing in front of him heard it also, and his finger squeezed the trigger.

There were two shots so close together that they could have been mistaken for one. Jerome saw a stunned look cross the man’s face, then a bright red stain leaked out across the man’s chest and he crumpled to the floor.

Wainright heard both shots as well, and in his surprise he allowed his attention to stray. Jennifer’s terror for Jerome gave her strength. Frantically she brought her elbow up against Wainright’s right arm, the one that held the gun, and simultaneously dug the heel of her high-heeled shoe into his instep. Wainright let out a yell and she wrested free. Immediately her eyes searched for and found Jerome. He was getting to his feet. She let out a sigh of relief. Obviously he was all right.

Behind her she heard a noise and spun, ready to fight for her life. She discovered a well-muscled, tough-looking man bending over a semiconscious Wainright. Brewster.

She gasped in horror. This couldn’t be happening. Brewster was the man who had been ransacking her apartment the day she had discovered Richard lying on the floor, his blood all around him.

He looked up at her and grinned briefly. "Sorry to have arrived so late, Jennifer, but my men managed to cross some signals." He fastened a pair of handcuffs on Wainright.

Jennifer took a step backward. "You!" Her throat clamped around the word, and she found her next words were barely audible. "You’re the one I saw at our apartment."

"No, don’t be frightened." He stood up and held out his hand to her, but she began backing away, her eyes clearly expressing her fright. He followed slowly, talking to her carefully, making every effort not to frighten her any more than he already had. "It wasn’t what you thought. I didn’t kill Richard. Please believe me. I work for the National Defense Organization," he explained. "And Jennifer"—his voice was gentle—"Richard’s alive."

All at once Jennifer swayed, weak with a great swelling of relief. Brewster gripped her arm, steadying her. "I don’t understand," she murmured.

"When you walked into the apartment, I had already called for help. Richard wasn’t dead. But he had been knocked out and was suffering a severe head wound, which explained all the blood. You see, Richard came to us when he began to suspect Wainright, and your brother and I have been working together ever since. But Richard, feeling the second microdot was his insurance, hadn’t told me where it was. You may have heard our argument over that very fact."

"There’s a second microdot?" Jennifer whispered, stunned.

"At any rate, I knew Richard would survive, but I also knew he’d be out of the action for a while, so I was searching your apartment, trying to find the microdot before Wainright did. I had no idea you had walked in and seen me until I found the packages you had dropped. And one other thing, being a lieutenant with the St. Paul police was my cover here." Suddenly his attention was caught by something behind her. "Oh, God, no! Bob," he barked to someone unseen, "call for an ambulance."

Jennifer turned and let out a gasp. Jerome knelt, cradling Leo against him. He had undone her coat and blood was seeping from a wound in the left side of her chest.

He pressed a handkerchief to the ugly hole. "Leo, you’re going to be all right, do you hear me?"

Her faded blue eyes opened and seemed to focus on him for a moment. "Jerome ..."

"Don’t try to talk," he murmured, smoothing away strands of gray hair from her colorless face.

"Jerome." Leo whispered weakly. "I—I’m sorry." Then she lost consciousness.

"Somebody get an ambulance here fast!" he yelled frantically, unable to comprehend why Leo was even here, or why her last words to him before she lost consciousness were "I’m sorry." His head was still ringing from the blows he had taken, and he felt dizzy.

Jennifer dropped down beside Jerome, and her arm went around his shoulders, briefly hugging him as tightly as she could. "The ambulance is on its way," she murmured soothingly, even as sirens began sounding in the distance.

Holding Leo to him with one arm, he used the other to reach up to her face. "Thank God you’re okay! What happened?"

Jennifer tried to smile, but couldn’t seem to manage it. Reaction had set in, and she could feel herself trembling. She glanced a few feet away from them as Brewster knelt beside the man who had been about to shoot Jerome. He was talking quietly to one of his agents, who still held a gun in his hand. She supposed the agent had shot the man before he could get off another round. Across the warehouse an agent was handcuffing the man Phil had fought.

She looked back. "It’s all over, Jerome. It’s all over." Gingerly she touched the nasty bruise that was beginning to form on his forehead. "Are you in pain?"

"Just a little. Mainly I’m concerned about Leo. Dammit, she took a bullet for me! Why?"

White-coated ambulance attendants suddenly swarmed in. "We’ll take over now." Quickly they hooked her up to a cardiac monitor and replaced Jerome’s bloodied handkerchief with a thickly padded gauze bandage. "Who is she?"

"Her name’s Leo," Jerome snapped, "and be careful!" It seemed to him as if they were being extraordinarily clumsy and rough with her.

"Leo what?" the attendant asked, who in reality was performing his duties with professional expertise. "She doesn’t seem to have any identification. We need to know if she has any allergies."

Unnoticed, Phil had approached the group around Leo, and for the first time he spoke. "Her name is Leonora Mailer. And as far as I know, she has no allergies to any medication."

If the bullet had struck him, Jerome couldn’t have been more shocked. "What did you say?" he asked slowly.

"Leonora Mailer. She’s your mother, Jerome," Phil said quietly. He was holding a handkerchief to his nose. It looked as if it had been broken and already his lip was beginning to swell from a deep cut. Someone approached him with an offer of aid, but he brushed them aside.

The attendants were lifting Leo onto a stretcher.

"That’s impossible," Jerome denied vehemently. "My mother’s dead. And besides, Leo doesn’t resemble my mother in the least."

"You were a child the last time you saw her," Phil reminded him. "We tend to expect that people we don’t see for a long period of time will still look the same as the last time we saw them. But we forget that time has a way of changing even stone."

The attendant looked from one to the other. "You can follow us if you like, but we need to get going."

Jerome nodded dazedly. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. And yet. . .

"I’ll drive you," Jennifer said.

"I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Jennifer." Brewster had joined them.

Disoriented, Jerome turned on Brewster. "Who are you?" he snarled.

"Brewster, NDO." He held out ID for Jerome’s inspection. "Well need Jennifer for questioning, plus her brother is eager to see her."

"Richard?" Nothing was making any sense. Richard was alive, and Leo was supposedly his mother? It was as if the world had suddenly been turned upside down, and he wasn’t sure what he should hold on to. Jerome’s head jerked toward the stretcher being wheeled out the door, then back to Jennifer. "Is that all right with you?"

"Yes. You go on."

He hesitated. "Are you okay?"

She wanted Jerome to hold her, to still her tremors, to be happy with her that Richard was alive. And she wanted to put her arms around him, to comfort him until that dazed look left his face, to help him understand about Leo. But they both had responsibilities. She couldn’t stand in his way any more than he could in hers. She said. "I’m fine, Jerome. Go on. Leo needs you now."

The antiseptic smell of the hospital assaulted Jerome’s confused senses. The lights seemed too white and too bright, and the people seemed alien and almost hostile. Phil had driven Jerome to the hospital and they arrived right behind the ambulance.

Leo was immediately wheeled into an examining room, and Jerome and Phil were shown to a reception area, where someone waited with a clipboard full of forms. After surveying all the blank spaces to be filled In, Jerome shoved away the clipboard in anger. "I don’t know any of the answers, dammit!"

"Give it to me." Phil suggested quietly, "and I’ll fill in what I know."

The first shock waves had begun to recede, and Jerome’s throbbing head was clearing somewhat, leaving behind a terrible anger. He rounded on Phil. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"Just a friend of Leo’s, that’s all."

"Just a friend! Yet you know more about her than I do."

Phil returned Jerome’s stormy stare impassively. "I know that she’s a good lady who has a lot of friends."

Jerome ran his hand around the back of his neck, experiencing a strange agonizing disappointment. For five years she had been within touching distance. He cursed silently. If it were true that she was his mother, why hadn’t he known it? Why hadn’t she said something?

A doctor walked in wearing surgical green. "Is one of you a relative of Mrs. Mailer’s?"

Jerome’s throat clogged. He couldn’t answer that question.

Phil spoke up, pointing to Jerome. "Yes, he is. How is she?"

"She should be all right. She was lucky. The bullet missed her heart and entered beneath the clavicle. We’re taking her up to surgery now."

"I’ll be responsible for her bill," Jerome informed the doctor tersely. "I want the best for her. Money is no object."

The doctor nodded. "I’ll let you know as soon as she’s out, but it’ll be a few hours before you can see her." He paused. "And by the way, it looks as if the two of you have injuries that should be seen to. If you’ll go speak to the nurse at the emergency desk, she’ll arrange for one of our doctors to look you over."

"I’m fine," Jerome said curtly.

"Maybe later," Phil intervened. "Thank you, doctor."

Jerome sunk to a couch. He felt battered. It seemed beyond his capabilities to assimilate the information that Leo was actually his mother. He quit trying. Instead, he thought of Jennifer and gave a brief prayer of thanks that she hadn’t been hurt. If only she were here with him now.