Rebecca York (23 page)

She knew he was trying to distract her. Still, she felt her throat.close as she thought about what would happen if the cop pulled her over. He'd ask to check her license and registration—and ask why a man was lying in the backseat.

The cop stayed behind her as she drove with what she hoped looked like casual unconcern toward the highway.

To calm herself, she turned on the radio. An old Police song was playing. "Every Breath You Take."

The words and the rhythm didn't calm her nerves.

Maybe it had the same effect on Jordan because he said, "See if you can get a news station."

She switched to AM and turned the dial, stopping when she came to an interview with a diet guru. After what felt like a hundred years, the police cruiser speeded up and drove around her. He was in front of her for several blocks, then turned onto a side street.

When he was out of sight, she gave a small sigh of thanks.

In the backseat Jordan shifted to a more comfortable position—if there was a comfortable position for him in such a small space.

On the radio the announcer was in the middle of a weather report. Next came a series of advertisements, and Lindsay reached to find another station, then changed her mind.

Something important was coming up. She was sure of that, and she clenched the wheel as she waited for the commercials to end.

Finally the announcer returned with the headlines— starting with the situation in the Middle East.

"Come on," she muttered.

"What?" Jordan asked from the backseat.

"Shush ..." she hissed. "I have to hear this."

Probably because Jordan caught the tension vibrating in her voice, he sat up and leaned forward.

Finally the announcer said, "Police have a new lead in the murder of retired Army Colonel Sidney Becker, who was found shot to death in Rock Creek Park this morning."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

JORDAN WATCHED LINDSAY'S hands go rigid on the wheel, her knuckles whitening. He felt the same tension, but all he could do was wait to hear the rest.

"They caught them," she whispered. "Thank God."

The announcer was still speaking. "Evidence points to the involvement of Mark Greenwood, the colonel's cousin. Family members say that Greenwood's behavior became erratic over the past several months. He had demanded money from his cousin, who had agreed to meet him in the park. Greenwood, who is five feet nine, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, brown hair and brown eyes, is armed and dangerous."

"Oh, God. No," Lindsay breathed.

"Jesus!" Jordan leaned against the front seat, pressing his hand to the side of her neck. He could feel the pulse that had started pounding.

"That's a lie." Lindsay whispered. "We saw what happened. We know it's a damn lie."

"Yeah."

Waves of anger and outrage came off of her, threatening to wipe out caution. "We have to set the record straight."

When she started looking wildly around, searching for an exit where they could find a gas station—and a phone—he slipped his fingers under the neck of the shirt, cupping her shoulder. "Lindsay, you can't make a phone call. Not now."

"Don't dictate to me!"

"Just stay with me for a minute. What do you think somebody's going to say if we try to tell what really happened? You were there? Oh, you weren't there. You saw it psychically. In a vision? Maybe we'd better take you right to the funny farm." »

She made a strangled sound. Still outraged, she shouted, "What we heard on the radio is a lie! Mark didn't kill his cousin."

"We know that. But nobody will believe us. And whoever is after us will know where we are. To prove that Mark is innocent, we have to unravel the whole rotten conspiracy."

"How?" she demanded.

"We're going to start by finding out what happened to Todd Hamilton thirty years ago."

He could feel her struggling to calm down. "Okay," she finally whispered.

He looked around and pointed to an Exit sign coming up. "Take the road to Frederick, so I can get back into the front seat. And we can get something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I. But we skipped dinner and breakfast. Our bodies need fuel."

She didn't reply, but she slowed as they drove into town, eyeing the fast-food restaurants among the businesses that lined the road.

"We might as well have burgers and fries."

"Do you look for excuses to eat junk food?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "Stick with me long enough, and you'll learn all my vices."

* * *

MARK gritted his teeth. He hadn't signed on at Maple Creek to become a criminal. But he was a realist.

If he was going to survive, he was going to have to keep his freedom. Which meant staying out of the clutches of the men after him—and probably the cops, too.

He'd waited a long time under the blanket of leaves, straining his ears, listening to birds and small animals taking back the forest.

It was agony to lie without moving. Finally the need to take a leak became a major consideration.

Furtively he brushed some leaves away, sat up, and looked around. A sudden noise made him freeze.

But it was only a squirrel dashing across the leaves.

A good sign, all things considered.

As far as Mark could see, he was alone. But he still knew he was taking a chance as he relieved the pressure on his bladder behind an oak. Then, moving slowly and cautiously, he slipped from tree to tree as he made his way through the park—listening to the sound of his shoes crunching on dry leaves.

He emerged into a settled city neighborhood where it looked like both husbands and wives went off to work in the morning.

He chose a house that appeared to be closed up for the day, then jiggled the lock on a basement window. When it opened, he climbed inside without needing to break any glass.

After determining that the place was empty, he gave himself twenty minutes inside—max.

Hardly able to believe his nerve, he rummaged in the homeowner's closet and found clothing that fit him.

Next he took the quickest shower on record, his ears straining for sounds in the house.

Christ, if someone came in while he was naked and covered with soap, he was in big trouble.

Once he was dressed in clean clothes, he felt better— and secure enough to shave—both his face and head.

As he peered at himself in the mirror, he decided the skinhead look went pretty far toward altering his appearance.

Hoping he could hide his brief presence in the house, he cleaned up after himself, then hid the towel he'd used in a pile of dirty laundry on the floor in front of the washing machine.

The clock on the dresser told him he'd been inside for fifteen minutes. At least he didn't have to look for money. Mr. Macho had been carrying over seven hundred dollars in his wallet. Mark still had most of it.

Knowing he was pressing his luck, he liberated a box of cookies and some fruit juice from the pantry.

A noise at the front door made him freeze. And he flashed back to the nasty confrontation with Mr.

Macho.

Relief flooded through him when he realized he'd heard the mailman, dropping letters and circulars through a slot in the front door.

"Get out of here before you get caught again, Greenwood," he muttered as he stuffed the food in the knapsack he'd brought to the park and his dirty clothing in a plastic garbage bag. After jamming sunglasses on his face, he left through the back door. In the next block he stuffed the bag with his clothes into a trash can, then grabbed some of the cookies from the box and munched them as he walked toward Connecticut Avenue, pretending that he was a fine, upstanding citizen.

He got the bad news about his murder-suspect status at a bus stop—from a blaring car radio.

"Evidence in the Becker murder points to the involvement of Mark Greenwood, the colonel's cousin."

Made-up details and a description of the supposed murderer followed.

As the announcer explained that he was armed and dangerous, Mark wanted to scream that he was innocent—that the bastards had framed him.

Instead he worked to keep his face from freezing into a mask of anger.

Sid was dead. And he was going to get the fuckers who had done it—and clear his own name.

Figuring no one would think he'd walk around D.C. in the open, he caught a bus downtown. At Dupont Circle he sprang for a cab and asked to be dropped at the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street, in the heart of Georgetown, where the streets were full of shoppers and tourists.

In a little Middle Eastern restaurant near the Four Seasons Hotel, he ordered a gyro sandwich, then ate it at a table in the back, where he could read the papers Sid had given him.

Tears blurred his vision when he thought about his cousin. Sid had come through for him—and lost his life. Because his eager-beaver cousin Mark had taken a job guarding a secret lab. He'd done it because he was comfortable in a military organization—and the pay had been great.

As he read the information Sid had paid for with his life, he wanted to scream out his anger. Instead he began to formulate a plan—something to do besides simply staying alive.

Could he succeed? Maybe. But it would take every drop of cunning and stealth he possessed.

* * *

GLANCING frequently in the rearview mirror, Lindsay headed north. At a McDonald's, they ordered burgers and Cokes, which they ate as they drove north.

"We should take an inventory," Jordan said as he stuffed his empty burger wrapper into the bag.

"Of what?"

"Our, um, special powers."

"You make me feel like we're in the middle of a superhero movie."

"Except that this is real life. Our lives."

She kept her eyes on the road. "Okay. So what can we do?"

"Share thoughts when we're touching each other. And block those thoughts—to some extent. Get hints about the future," he added. "Remote viewing. You're the one who's better at those last two."

"You think we can get better at the things we do?" she asked.

"Yeah. Because Todd and Glenn did—unless they started off with a mind-zapping routine. My guess is that they put a lot of time and energy into figuring out how to break into Maple Creek."

He laid his hand on her thigh, feeling her reaction. After they bonded.

That first time—did. .. did you feel. . . like your head was going to explode?

He swallowed. Yes.

What does that part mean?

He shrugged. I guess that bonding isn't a sure thing. I think there was some chance we could have blown our brains out.

A nice way to phrase it.

How would you put it?

That the process could have driven us crazy? Or given us a stroke?

And now we're left with the good part?

"'Very good," he said, his voice thick.

"Yes."

If they hadn't been in a car on the highway, he knew what would have happened next.

"Do you always focus on sex?" she asked.

He sent her a picture. His hand sliding up her thigh, working its way between her legs, pressing against her clit through the fabric of her pants and panties.

"Stop! Unless you want me to crash."

He switched the picture to Van Gogh's famous sunflowers, and she laughed.

Struggling with arousal, he leaned toward the car door, watching her as she drove. When she didn't speak, he asked, Are you angry?

"About what?"

My . .. making you hot.

"Making us both hot."

"Like you said—it's a guy thing. We think about sex a lot. I should be embarrassed that you're picking up on it."

Do you always get instantly aroused?

With you, I do.

Should I be flattered?

"Don't fish for compliments. You know you should be flattered."

She kept her hands on the wheel and her eyes on the road, and he knew that this time, she was the one having trouble handling their relationship. He knew that sex had never been a big part of her life. Now she was being bombarded by his sexually explicit thoughts.

Do the multiplication tables, she suggested.

Oh sure . . .

She made another silent comment—which he didn't catch. They needed to strengthen that ability.

Which one?

Talking in our heads—without touching, he answered, then began contemplating a way to do it—being careful to keep his plans to himself.

* * *

AS head of the Senate Armed Services Committee, Daniel Bridgewater had his own considerable power base. Still, he'd kept his involvement with the Crandall Consortium to a minimum. Kurt MacArthur was dangerous to anyone who opposed him. Calvin Crandall had been the same.

Dan had seen a sanitized report on the incident at Maple Creek, and he'd been willing to take MacArthur's word for the details.

Now he felt compelled to find out what had really happened, and he'd already figured out the best way to access that buried information. Pulling his chair up to the desk, he called up the office e-mail system and sent a message to George Underhill, his nerd-in-chief.

"Need to talk to you one-on-one about some files."

Five minutes later Underhill shambled in. He was in his mid-twenties, the oddball on the staff. Very odd.

He was dressed in a gray button-down shirt that had once been white and faded jeans with a hole in the crotch revealing striped boxer shorts. Thank God it wasn't the guy's cock.

Daniel thought of Underhill as a necessary evil, an adaptation to the computer age. He was the staffer who protected the office network from viruses, worms, and hackers, and he was the best. Still, they kept him in a back room, where he wouldn't frighten small children or other visitors.

"How's it goin', man?" Underhill said, parking himself in one of the guest chairs and slicking back his dirty brown hair.

"Fine," Daniel answered. He'd like to tell the guy to go home, take a bath, shave, and change his clothes.

Instead, he got down to business. "I need to dip into the records of a D.C. think tank—the Crandall Consortium."

"Which part of the records?"

"I want information on a break-in at Maple Creek—one of their facilities. I need their internal assessment of what happened there—not just what they've put out for external consumption."