Rebecca York (15 page)

Once inside he made a quick trip through the house, satisfying himself that it was empty. Then he grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer, laid it on the table beside him, and collapsed onto the sofa.

As he sat with his head back, breathing hard, he wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

He needed money. A gun. And a more secure hiding place.

When he felt a little better, he got up and staggered back into the kitchen. There wasn't much to eat, but he found an unopened box of sugar-coated cereal. After tearing off the top, he started eating out of the box.

The only reason he'd gotten this far was that he'd been born and raised in Maryland. He'd been able to take some back roads Colefax's men wouldn't have known about.

But now what? He'd been lucky to escape the goon squad. Staying out of their clutches was going to be dicey.

He remembered a book he'd read about a guy who'd kept the government from coming after him by telling his story to the New York Times. A great idea in fiction.

But it would be difficult for him to pull that off—when his most recent address had been the loony bin.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN THE COURSE of his career, Jordan had never flinched from an illegal search. He'd given the police a tip that led to the arrest and conviction of a serial killer who had kept jewelry from the women he'd murdered.

And he'd found hidden records that proved an accountant was stealing funds from old ladies who trusted him to manage their financial affairs. He'd even gone Dumpster diving outside a famous Washington, D.C., men's club and come away with evidence that someone inside was selling controlled substances to the members.

This morning he couldn't suppress the feeling that he was violating Todd Hamilton's privacy as he stood in the doorway to the dead man's childhood bedroom.

Todd hadn't listed his father's house as his home address for six or seven years. But he had come here regularly, and maybe he'd hidden materials here that he didn't want discovered in his own apartment.

Shrugging off his reluctance, Jordan started with a quick inspection of the room—which was huge—perhaps twenty by eighteen. It looked like it had been redecorated sometime in Todd's teens.

The furniture was dark, expensive, and well cared for, nothing like the scratched and dented bedroom set from his own youth. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases spanned one wall. Along with books, board games, CDs, and VCR tapes were expensive model cars that Todd had apparently collected as a boy.

The stereo system was state of the art. And a fiat-screen television graced the wall across from the bed.

Either Todd had a lot of money to spend, or his father had decided to make the living quarters as appealing as possible.

There were some interesting touches in the room. A couple of trophies sat on the middle shelves of the bookcase. Jordan picked them up and discovered that Todd had won them both in spelling bees at the Winthrop Academy. He'd also saved ribbons he'd won for horsemanship. Apparently, he was proud of his adolescent achievements.

On the top shelf were two plastic cups—one from a snoweone shop on Tchoupitoulas Street in New Orleans. The other was from a bar on Bourbon Street.

Jordan turned away from the bookcase and stepped into the adjoining bathroom. Lifting the lid on toilet tank, he looked for a plastic bag hiding government secrets. No dice.

And the medicine cabinet yielded nothing besides the information that Todd had sensitive skin, used tooth whitener, and suffered from allergies.

Repressing his frustration, Jordan began a methodical search of the bedroom. None of the baseboards or floorboards was loose. And Todd hadn't fallen back on the traditional "under the mattress" hiding place.

In fact, he'd used the Purloined Letter method.

In plain sight on his desk was a metal rack with colored file folders. One held directions for the various electronics equipment in the room. Another was stuffed with Caribbean travel brochures.

A third had some clothing catalogues. In one the page advertising black sweatpants and shirts was bookmarked— with a folded piece of printer paper.

If Jordan hadn't been pretty methodical himself, he would have left the paper where it was. Instead, he unfolded it and found a handwritten map showing what appeared to be a government agricultural research facility called "Maple Creek." It was located near Waldorf, Maryland, less than fifty miles from the Chesapeake Bay, where Todd's body had been discovered.

Maple Creek!

Suspicion confirmed. Lindsay's visit from Sid Becker was connected to the Todd Hamilton case.

Todd had saved this map—and hidden it in plain sight. Because he'd wanted it to be found if anything happened to him?

Jordan stuffed it into his own briefcase. And kept looking. He unearthed notes on some research projects at Fort Detrick in a similarly unlikely place—a textbook Todd had saved from his prep school days.

So, would Lindsay know about these projects? Would she share the information?

Lindsay again.

He'd been trying to keep his mind off of her. Finally that was impossible.

Sitting down on the bed, he allowed his thoughts to wing back to her—and saw her standing in the produce department of a grocery store. He recognized it. Whole Foods on Wisconsin Avenue. Was she really there? Or was he just trying to feel closer to her?

All at once the separation was intolerable. He had to stop himself from racing down the stairs and out the door without saying good-bye to Hamilton.

Instead, he sought out the old man, who was leaning over the handlebars of his motorized cart—dozing.

He snapped erect, looking embarrassed, when he heard footsteps on the tile floor.

"I'm going back to D.C.," Jordan said.

"Did you find anything?"

Jordan hesitated. "Maybe it's safer if we don't share information on a regular basis."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Safer for whom?"

"Both of us."

"Maybe. But I can see you found something. And I want to know what you unearthed in my son's room!"

"I found a list of projects at Fort Detrick."

"Where?" Todd's father demanded.

"In an old chemistry book."

Hamilton snorted. "An ironic place to hide information on Defense Department chemical and biological warfare projects."

"Yeah."

"Did you rind anything else?"

Because he knew Hamilton would note any hesitation, Jordan went on quickly, "That was all. And speaking of sharing—when you decide to tell me what you're hiding, give me a call."

Hamilton's lips firmed.

Jordan waited for a moment to see if the millionaire wanted to say anything more. When he kept silent, Jordan turned and walked out of the conservatory.

* * *

MARK had slept for a few hours, then scavenged for food again. Maybe he was paranoid, but he'd wiped up any fingerprints he might have lett initially, then found a pair of leather gloves in the coat closet and pulled them on.

He'd just chugged down a can of room-temperature Coke when he heard the sound of a car in the driveway.

"Shit."

Glad he'd taken precautions, he hurried toward the window and carefully pulled a curtain aside. A large man with thick blond hair had gotten out of the car. He was dressed in a yellow knit shirt and well-worn jeans. He stood in the driveway looking at the car Mark had stolen.

"Aw, shit," he repeated. He didn't recognize the guy out there. Was it one of Dr. Colefax's goons? Or somebody connected to this house?

Whoever he was, he returned to his car, popped the trunk, and pulled out a hunting rifle.

Mark's heart was pounding as he retrieved the knife from the coffee table. He could run out the front door. But he wouldn't get far on foot.

And he wasn't going to let them take him again. Yet at the same time he felt nausea bubble in his throat as the guy approached the house. This man might be an innocent bystander. Which didn't mean he wasn't a jerk if he intended to go up against an intruder himself, instead of doing the smart thing and calling the cops.

The throbbing in Mark's head surged as he closed his hand around the knife handle. With his supercharged state of awareness, he thought he heard the guy outside cock the rifle.

So what did he think—that kids had broken into the house—and he was going to scare them shitless—or maybe blow their heads off and claim self-defense?

Mark moved to the side of the door and flattened his shoulders against the wall.

From his hiding place, he heard keys jingling on a metal ring—before one slipped into the lock.

He hated hiding like a sneak thief. But he stayed where he was until the intruder stepped into the room, crouched over like he thought he was a goddamned SWAT team leader.

Mark stepped forward, thrusting the point of the knife against Mr. Macho's back. "Move a muscle and you're dead!" he growled.

Instead of being smart and freezing, the man started to turn. As his hand jerked on the trigger, the rifle discharged, blowing a hole in the wall—and blowing Mark's improvised plans to bits. He had only a split second to react. He still had the knife. He could jab the guy in the ribs—which might be a fatal move.

Or he could drop the knife and try for the rifle—which would give him the upper hand.

The blade clattered across the floor as he reached for the rifle barrel, yanking hard.

But the other man kept a death grip on the weapon. They struggled for possession, turning in a circle, both desperate to end up with the gun. As Mark spun past the open door, sunlight flashed into his line of vision. Instinctively he blinked.

Mr. Macho grunted and gave a mighty tug. Mark tried to compensate, but lost his footing.

The rifle fired again, and Mr. Macho screamed, the toe of his boot blown away.

Mark shoved him backward, and he landed in a heap on the floor.

Both barrels of the rifle were now empty. The man looked down, staring at the blood leaking from the toe of his shoe.

His face had gone gray. Beads of perspiration bloomed on his forehead. Feeling sick, Mark leaped on him, scrabbling through his pockets, grabbing his keys and his wallet before fleeing outside toward the car still in the driveway.

* * *

JORDAN had rented a motel room in Wilmington, where he'd planned to spend the night. Instead he checked out and headed back to D.C. Back to Lindsay.

He'd only met her a few days ago. He barely knew her. Well, if you thought in conventional terms. But there was nothing conventional about the way her mind had opened to him—or his to her.

As he drove south, he kept picturing himself folding her into his arms, ravaging her mouth, ripping her clothing from her body so he could feel his skin pressed to hers.

The sexual fog made driving difficult. To keep some semblance of sanity, he tried to focus on another problem— the puzzle of Leonard Hamilton.

The old man knew something important. Something he wanted to keep hidden.

If he were acting normally, Jordan would have turned around, driven back to the estate, and demanded that the old prevaricator come clean.

He focused on the Hamiltons—Senior and Junior—for as long as he could. But after he drove through the tunnel just north of Baltimore, he couldn't prevent his fevered thoughts from zinging back to Lindsay.

The need to connect with her suddenly gripped his chest like an iron band. Where was she? In her apartment?

She was in her kitchen. She was going to put the groceries away. Only she had decided to leave them in the bags.

Or was he just glomming onto that picture to calm himself down?

He didn't know. But he couldn't turn off the picture, either.

He almost pulled off at a rest stop so that he could sit in the car with his eyes closed and try to bring her into focus. But that would be a waste of time. Better to speed up and ask her to meet him. He could call her on his cell phone. No, he'd gotten paranoid about leaving a trail.

Could he just send a message to her through the ether?

He snorted. Sure. And next he could put Jonathan Edwards out of a job.

The idea of sending her a ... telepathic ... message made him feel light-headed. But that's what you called it— didn't you? What he and Lindsay had been doing. When they touched. When they kissed. When he turned her on. And she made him so hard he thought he might explode.

The erotic images in his head fueled a rising tide of urgency—part sexual need. Part something he couldn't name. The need to connect with her on the most basic level? And what was that—exactly?

The frustration bubbled up, spilling out into words he spoke aloud into the closed compartment of the vehicle: "Lindsay, can you hear me?"

He waited tensely. Shit! What was he expecting? That he'd hear her voice coming from the empty passenger seat?

He managed a strangled laugh. But now that he'd started the mental game, he couldn't quit.

"Go to the Bishop's Garden," he whispered into the silence of the Mercedes. "Lindsay, go to the Bishop's Garden. Wait for me there."

He realized after he'd said it that the last time they'd been there, they'd been locked together on the grass.

No. They'd been standing up. The part about rolling naked on the lawn had simply been his fantasy.

But maybe she was too embarrassed to go back there. Maybe ...

"Shit." He was already worried that she wouldn't get his Twilight Zone message. Changing the meeting place was only going to confuse her. And maybe the damn garden was the best alternative—since both of them had very vivid thoughts of their last encounter.

His hands gripped the wheel as he sped toward D.C., desire and uncertainty warring inside him. He had no idea if his message to Lindsay was going anywhere besides into the fluffy clouds he could see wafting across the sky in front of him. But he knew he had to make her stop running from him. He knew he would go mad if he didn't make love to her.

He also understood deep in his gut that there was a flip side to the coin. Because pressing his naked body to hers might be the last sane thing he ever did.

Yet simply contemplating the tantalizing possibility was enough to make his blood boil. He wanted to grind down on the accelerator—to take the car up to eighty. But he forced himself to stay a few miles above the speed limit because he knew the cops loved this stretch of 1-95.