Rebecca York (26 page)

"Jordan?"

"You were having a bad dream," he said again.

She tried to bring her mind back to this room. Back to Jordan. "No. You don't understand. It wasn't a dream. It was real."

"What?"

"I was in Leonard Hamilton's bedroom. Well—my consciousness was there. It was like what happened before, when Sid met Mark—and you and I saw what happened."

She could tell that he was listening to her with full attention.

"Like before? You were somewhere else?" he asked urgently.

"Yes. Only I wasn't awake. I was asleep. And I was alone. I mean, I was the only one who was having the vision, or whatever you call it. You weren't there."

"What happened?"

"A man named Jim came to Hamilton's bedroom. He wasn't someone Hamilton knew. Not a friend.

Not anyone who worked for him." She made a hitching sound. "He came there to get information about Todd and about... about us."

"Jesus! Us?"

Yes! But Jordan, he's going to kill Hamilton!

How do you know?

They were talking about it. Hamilton made a deal with him. He said if Jim tortured him, he'd have a heart attack and die right away—without revealing anything. He said he knew Jim was there to kill him—and they could exchange information first.

Jordan swore again.

She gripped his arm. We have to stop him. It may not be too late. They were still talking.

How do we stop it?

Call the house.

The exchange of information was fast. They weren't actually speaking in each other's heads now. Ideas and concepts flashed between them in some form she couldn't describe.

He ran a hand through his hair. It's the same people who are after us. The same people who killed Sid.

Probably they've tapped Hamilton's line. They'll find out where we are.

Then we'll be ready to leave as soon as you make the call. She leaped off the bed and began pulling on her clothing. "Hurry."

She knew he felt her urgency as he began doing the same. When he was dressed, he dashed into the living room and packed his computer, then pulled a small book from his carry bag, found the number, and dialed.

The phone range twice. Then a man answered. A man with an English accent. Not Hamilton or Jim.

"Who's calling, please?"

Ignoring the question, Jordan said, "Mr. Hamilton may be in danger. There may be an intruder in the house. Call the police."

"Who is this?"

"Someone who wants to help."

"Is this Jordan Walker?"

"Shit," he growled, then slammed down the phone. "Come on." Grabbing Lindsay's arm, he pulled her out the door, and they pounded down the steps.

They were in the car and onto the highway again in less than a minute, and she admired Jordan's ability to drive at a normal pace.

"Why did he ask if it was you?" she whispered.

"If it was the butler I met twice, I guess he recognized my voice." He snorted. "Or he's psychic, too!"

"If someone recorded the conversation, then they know you have information."

"Yeah. Unfortunately."

"What are we going to do?"

"Tell me exactly what you found out when Hamilton and the other guy were taking."

She might have started to speak rapidly. Instead, she laid her hand on his muscular arm and closed her eyes, opening herself to him, trying to show him the vision exactly as she had experienced it.

She knew he was getting it from her because she felt the mental response.

Jordan took his hand from the wheel, reached for her fingers, and squeezed. "It must have been pretty horrible for you—being there."

"Yes."

"But it helped us."

"How?"

"We found out a lot. We know that the guy named Jim was sent to find out about the Maple Creek incident with Todd. We know who he works for—the Crandall Consortium."

She shivered. "Why was he asking about us?"

He swallowed. Maybe they suspect that we 're like Todd. Maybe that brother and sister—Saxon and Willow Trinity— are another pair.

A brother and sister. She made a strangled sound. "You think they ., . developed powers ... the way we did?"

"I'd be interested to know."

"And are we going to turn on the radio and find out that billionaire Leonard Hamilton is dead—like Sid Becker?"

"I hope not."

"Maybe his butler is a bodyguard."

"Maybe."

She pulled her hand away, and they drove in silence through the night. She caught flickers of thoughts coming from Jordan, and she knew he caught the same flickers from her. But they had apparently both decided to put up shields.

It was dawn by the time they reached Darien.

"Can we call Hamilton's house again?" Lindsay asked, even when she knew the answer. It was too dangerous.

"I don't think we can risk it."

She wanted to scream that she had to find out if another innocent person had died.

But, deep down, she already knew the answer.

"I think the best thing to do is check into a motel and get a few hours' sleep. Then we can try to find someone who worked at the Remington Clinic. And see if they're willing to tell us anything."

"You think they wouldn't talk about a clinic that went out of business thirty years ago?"

"If it was a hush-hush operation—maybe not."

* * *

"Yes?" he asked, trying not to sound as if he'd been wrenched from a restless sleep.

"I have what you want," George Underhill said.

"Not over the phone."

"Of course not," Underhill snapped. "I can meet you at the office."

"Not the office," Daniel answered, thinking. "There's a Starbucks at Four Corners in Silver Spring. We can meet there."

"You want me to come all the way from Mt. Rainier?" the computer nerd asked, naming a small community just across Eastern Avenue from the District.

"Yes. You have the information on a disk?"

Underhill sighed. "Yeah. And I've got some of it on paper. But it will take me about forty minutes to get there."

"The shopping center is right on the corner of Colesville Road and University Boulevard. On the right as you're coming from the Beltway."

Daniel was there early, trying not to look like he was balanced on a knife edge of tension as he sipped a cup of today's special blend at a table near the front. Underhill came in fifteen minutes late, with a thick manila envelope under his arm. He looked like he'd been up all night and hadn't shaved, taken a bath, or changed his clothing. SOP for Mr. Clean.

Daniel stood and said, "Let's go for a drive."

"I busted my chops getting here. You should at least buy me a cup of coffee," the computer nerd answered.

Stifling the impulse to point out that the guy got a fat paycheck every two weeks, Daniel let him order a latte with banana syrup.

The combination made him want to gag. But he paid for the evil concoction and led the way outside to his parking slot.

He circled around the back of the shopping center, then into the tree-lined Silver Spring neighborhood that was tucked away between the major roads. "So you hacked into the Crandall computer?" he asked.

'They've got the mother of all firewalls. But I got in." He laughed. "They're responsible for some pretty crazy stuff."

Daniel considered how to respond. "We'd better keep this under wraps, until we decide whether it's to our advantage to take it to committee."

"Yeah. Sure."

"So what about Maple Creek?"

"They're continuing with chemical and biological weapons testing programs that the Defense Department said were shut down years ago. But Crandall kept some of the stuff in the hopper—to fight terrorists."

Daniel nodded and let his staffer keep talking.

"According to their internal report, some guys broke in there and tried to disrupt the place. Maybe they even thought they could screw up the whole deal. Anyway, the guards neutralized them. But the men who came in contact with the intruders claimed they were hit by some kind of death ray. Most of them died later. Maybe from the combination of what happened at Maple Creek and the drugs a Dr. Colefax gave them to stimulate their memories."

"Jesus."

"Or maybe some of the stuff they were working with was hallucinogenic, and they got high on their own dope." He laughed.

Daniel wanted to tell him it wasn't funny. Instead, he said, "I appreciate your getting the information.

Maybe it's enough to shut them down." A further thought made him ask, "What happened to the guys who broke in?"

"They're both dead—from a dose of a chemical weapon called Granite Wall. Only Crandall covered it all up and made it look like a boating accident." He tapped the envelope. "It's all in there."

"I appreciate your getting this so quickly."

"I enjoyed it," Underhill answered, then offered some more information. "Something interesting. Kurt MacArthur has a personal file on the situation. Lindsay Fleming's name turned up in there."

Daniel blinked. "Our Lindsay Fleming?"

"He identifies her as on your staff. Apparently she's been conferring with Jordan Walker."

"Jesus. The investigative journalist."

"I assume so."

His eyes narrowed. "I'd better find out what's going on." He gave Underhill a direct look. "This can't go any further. Until we can make an official inquiry."

"Yeah," the hacker agreed, and Daniel wondered if he could trust the man with news that was bound to ignite a firestorm of controversy. Well, it was a little late for second thoughts—particularly when he didn't have a choice.

Back in the parking lot, Underhill ambled back to his car.

As Daniel drove up Route 29 toward the Beltway, he thought about his next move.

Was a special investigation the best route? Or should he talk to one of his contacts at the Washington Post or the New York Times?

It was in the nation's interest to expose what the Crandall Consortium was doing at Maple Creek.

Shit! Scratch that.

He wasn't going to the news media. He wasn't going to any of his colleagues. He was going back to Florida—as soon as he could let his staff know that he'd be out of the office again.

He considered bypassing the office and going directly to Reagan National Airport. But that would look suspicious. He needed to find out what was going on with Lindsay Fleming. And he needed her and the rest of his people to think he'd been called back to Florida for a meeting with important constituents.

Well that wasn't a lie. Who was more important than Willow Trinity?

His foot bounced on the accelerator.

What the hell was he thinking? Confidential government information didn't belong in the hands of Willow Trinity. He needed to share it with the members of his committee, so they could take appropriate action.

No. This wasn't going to his committee. It was going to Willow.

And when he saw her again, he would finally make love with her. Just the two of them. Without the damn brother who was always hanging around.

She was young and unmarried. He wondered if she'd like the idea of being a senator's wife.

He let that fantasy swirl through his brain. A senator's wife. No, a president's wife. Because the Trinitys had something special. And with their help, he could surely capture the White House.

Doubts swam around in his mind like little fish nibbling at his brain cells. But he ignored them. It was much more pleasant to think about making love with Willow.

THE COLD SWEAT had dried on Jim Swift's forehead by the time he pulled out his cell phone. Glad that the instrument didn't transmit a picture of his features, he called his boss.

"Where the hell are you?" MacArthur asked.

"I'm on my way back down there—like you told me," he said. He never lost his temper. He never got impatient. But the session at Leonard Hamilton's had frayed his nerves. This whole assignment had been a circus from the first. And it wasn't getting any better.

"You should have called me right away. I've been waiting for you to report."

Catching the edge in MacArthur's voice, he asked, "You know something I don't?"

"Did you hear the phone ring while you were there?"

"Yeah. But not in Hamilton's bedroom."

"The person who called was Jordan Walker."

"Christ!"

"We have it on our wiretap," MacArthur continued. "Not that I would have recognized the voice. He didn't say who he was. And he wasn't calling from his cell phone. He was in a hotel room in Somerset, New Jersey."

"Did you get a team there?"

'Too far away."

"He's heading north."

"Yeah. When the butler asked if it was Jordan Walker, he hung up."

"Could it have been somebody else? The butler could have been confused in the middle of the night."

"Maybe."

Before Jim could proffer another theory, his boss asked, "What happened after that?"

"The butler came in to check on Hamilton."

"Did you have to kill him, too?" MacArthur asked in a matter-of-fact voice.

"I would have. But I was already across the room. So I slipped into the dressing area. The butler was focused on Hamilton. He examined him and found out he was dead. Then he didn't know what to do and went to wake up the other servants. I got out through an upstairs window."

"Walker was calling to say that Hamilton was in danger. That's odd, don't you think?"

Jim felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "Yeah, odd," he agreed. His mind flashed back to the scene in the bedroom. He'd been sitting on the bed, talking to Hamilton, and he'd felt like someone had opened a window and let a blast of cold air into the room. Only, when he'd turned around to look, nobody had been there. Well, nobody real. He'd thought he'd seen a dim figure in the darkness. A naked woman. But when he'd started to get up, the image had vanished, and he'd put it down to nerves.

Which had never been a problem before. He'd carried out plenty of assignments like the Hamilton interrogation. Nothing had ever spooked him, but somehow this had been different.