Witness (28 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I knew I could count on you.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Alverson.” Sam slammed down the telephone. “Dammit!”

 

J. T. B
LACKWOOD
stood in the doorway, holding two roast beef sandwiches in his hands. It looked like Sam was in rare form this evening.

His partner of over four years had become his best friend. Oddly enough, the two men had found they had a lot in common, despite the vast differences in their backgrounds and present lifestyles. J.T. admired Sam Dundee more than anyone he knew. Sam was a man you could trust with your life, a man you could count on to be a tower of strength.

Like J.T. himself, Sam didn't make friends easily. Of course, he could be a mean bastard at times, but that was part of his charm. And one more thing the two of them had in common. In any fight, J.T. would want Sam on his side.

A lot of men disliked Sam, but J.T. didn't know one smart man who wasn't just a little bit afraid of Sam Dundee.

“Got a problem?” He walked into the office, laid the sandwiches on top of the stack of newspaper clippings and sat down on the edge of the desk.

“Nothing I can't handle.” Sam glanced at the sandwiches. “Roast beef?”

“What else?” J.T. eyed the coffee machine on the low shelf in the corner. “I take mine black.”

“What?”

“My coffee,” J.T. said. “I brought the sandwiches. I figured you'd fix the coffee.”

“That stuff's been sitting there for a couple of hours. It'll probably grow hair on your chest.”

“I'll take my chances.”

Sam scooted back his chair, walked across the room and poured two cups of strong, well-aged coffee. “Here.” He handed J.T. a bright red mug.

“So, are you going to tell me or not?” J.T. asked.

“I've got to fly to Biloxi in the morning. I don't know how long I'll be gone. A week, two, maybe more.”

“Biloxi, huh?”

“Yeah, I know. I said I'd never go back there.”

“What changed your mind?” J.T. unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite, then washed it down with the coffee. “Jeannie Alverson.”

“Who's Jeannie—? Hey, you mean the woman on the news, the healer who saved some kid's life after she'd been wounded in a drive-by shooting?”

“Yeah, that Jeannie Alverson.”

“You're taking a bodyguard assignment? You haven't done that in years. Why now?”

Sam lifted his mug to his lips, tasted the bitter coffee and frowned. “I should have made us a fresh pot.”

“Is there something personal between you and this Jeannie Alverson?”

“Yeah, you could say that. She's the woman who saved my life six years ago, when the DEA sting I was involved in went sour.”

“So you owe her.”

“Yeah, I owe her. I promised her that she could demand payment in full anytime she needed me.”

“And she's called in your marker.”

“Something like that.”

There was more going on here, something Sam wasn't telling. J.T. had known the man for nearly five years, he considered him his best friend, but there was a lot the two of them had never discussed. Oh, they shared old war stories… Sam's days in the marines and the DEA… J.T.'s own stint in the army and his life as a Secret Service agent. He had explained to Sam why he wore the black eyepatch, had told him all about how he'd lost the vision in his left eye when an assassin's bullet lodged in his head. But he'd never told Sam about his childhood, had never told him about his Navaho mother. J.T. twisted the silver-and-turquoise ring on the third finger of his right hand.

A man usually didn't share the demons in his soul, those personal demons that kept him raw and bleeding inside, long after old wounds should have healed.

J.T. had known, when Sam told him the bare-bones details of his last DEA assignment, that something had happened during that time to change Sam's life forever. J.T. wondered if that something had anything to do with Jeannie Alverson.

S
WEAT COATED THE
palms of Jeannie's hands, beaded across her forehead and trickled between her breasts. Her heartbeat roared like a runaway train, the sound drumming in her ears, pounding in her chest. Her legs weakened. She gripped the curve of her wooden cane. Nausea rose in her throat, bitterness coating her tongue.

Why wouldn't they leave her alone? She had tried to answer their questions, had tried to make them understand. But they circled her like vultures waiting for the moment of death. They shoved microphones in her face. They bombarded her with questions so personal her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Flashes of light from their cameras blinded her.

If only she could escape. But there was no escape from the media—from the frenzied crowd of reporters determined to get a story out of Jeannie Alverson. Nor did there seem to be any escape from Maynard Reeves and his followers. At least a dozen of the reverend's disciples were there this Thursday morning, dispersed throughout the crowd, their Die Witch posters held high for everyone to see.

How could this have happened? She'd been so careful for the past fourteen years, revealing the truth to no one, using her abilities to only a limited degree, so that others would not suspect.

The day Cassie Mills was shot, how could Jeannie have known that by helping her, she would doom herself to a living hell? Poor Cassie, in all her childish innocence, had told the police exactly what had happened, and neither she nor the police
had realized a snoopy reporter could hear their conversation at the hospital. Tory Gaines had not been content to exploit the present facts. No, he had dug into Jeannie's past—a past she had prayed would never return to haunt her.

“When did you realize you possessed the ability to heal, Ms. Alverson—or should we call you Ms. Foley?”

“Do you claim to work miracles for God?”

“How much money did your mother and stepfather cheat people out of by passing you off as a faith healer?”

“What religion are you, Jeannie?”

“The people we've questioned who were present when you supposedly worked your magic on Cassie Mills claim that you seemed to go into shock, taking away the child's pain and stopping the bleeding from her gunshot wound. Is that true?”

Dr. Julian Howell wrapped his arm around Jeannie's shoulders. She desperately wanted to lean heavily on the man who had been her foster father since she was thirteen, but Julian was a very old man, and his health had been failing these last few years. Jeannie realized she had to be strong as much for him as for herself. But she wasn't sure how much longer she could endure the endless questions, the clamor, the noise, the bodies that pushed closer and closer.

Dear Lord in heaven, help me, she prayed. Agreeing to hold this press conference had been a terrible mistake. She should have listened to Sam Dundee. He'd tried to warn her. Why, of all places, had she chosen the gymnasium of the Howell School as the location for this debacle? There was nowhere to run, and no one to help her and Julian.

Tory Gaines shoved his way through the throng of reporters, his tall, gangly frame towering over the others. His dark eyes focused on Jeannie.

“I understand that since the truth was revealed about you, Jeannie, you've been flooded with requests from terminally ill people begging you to heal them.”

“Is it true that a man you refused to help actually attacked you?” a red-haired TV news reporter asked.

“Please, listen to me.” Jeannie couldn't bear the way they were looking at her, the way they were treating her. As if she were some freak, some alien creature. “I do not possess the power to heal people. I never have. I have certain… abilities…as an empath. I can feel the pain of others. What I do for people is temporary. That's all—”

“You can't only feel their pain, you can take it away.” Tory raked back a long strand of black hair that had fallen over his right eye. “You can remove both physical and psychological pain, can't you, Jeannie?”

“I am not a true healer.” Jeannie glanced down at her wooden cane. “If I could heal others, why wouldn't I heal myself?”

Julian's arm, clasping her shoulder, trembled. Jeannie sensed her foster father's frustration at not being able to protect her.

“I'm all right, Julian,” she whispered. “Please don't worry. All this stress isn't good for your heart.”

“We have answered every question we can,” Julian said, facing the crowd, his voice strong and authoritarian. “Jeannie has told you everything. There is no more. Please, allow us to leave.”

When Julian, aided by Marta McCorkle, the supervisor of the Howell School, tried to assist Jeannie through the crowd, the media closed in around them, pushing and shoving. Julian and Marta flanked Jeannie, slowing their pace to accommodate Jeannie's hampered gait.

“I had hoped he would be here by now.” Julian leaned down, directing his conversation to Jeannie. “When you spoke to him again early this morning, he promised he would arrive in time for the press conference, didn't he?”

“He'll be here soon.” Jeannie saw the microphone as it came toward her face. She stopped dead, aware that the young female reporter for the local television station was not going to move aside.

“Is it true, Ms. Alverson, that the deacons from the Righteous Light Church here in Biloxi have condemned you as a fraud, and their minister, Reverend Maynard Reeves, has gone so far as to claim you are a witch, a devil worshipper?” The reporter glanced meaningfully at the Die Witch signs held high in the air by Reeves's avid disciples.

Jeannie tried to turn her head, wanting to avoid answering the question. But the reporter was persistent, stepping closer, inserting one of her feet between Jeannie's feet, pressing the microphone a hairsbreadth from Jeannie's mouth.

“Let us pass,” Julian commanded, unaccustomed to people disregarding his orders.

“I've called the police.” Marta pointed her index finger at the persistent reporter.

“Are you a fraud, Jeannie? Or are you a witch?” the reporter asked.

“I'm neither.”

The reporter's foot slid into the side of Jeannie's walking stick. Jeannie gripped her cane, but to no avail. The cane tumbled from her hand. Her knees gave way. She clutched at Julian's sleeve, but her clammy hands slipped off the soft material of his jacket. Marta cried out, reaching for Jeannie, her fingers just touching her hair as she toppled over, landing roughly on her knees.

 

S
AM
D
UNDEE SAW
Jeannie Alverson fall, accidentally tripped by the overzealous redhead harassing her. Sam cut through the media horde like a machete slicing through untamed jungle. The reporters stared at him, whispers rising from the mass, questioning the big man's identity.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” a bearded middle-aged tabloid photographer asked.

“I'm the cavalry to the rescue,” Sam proclaimed, the deadly curve of his mouth an easily understood warning to others.

Sam reached out, grabbing the red-haired reporter who had
tripped Jeannie Alverson. Manacling her arm, he glared at her, noting the shock in her green eyes. When he released her, she backed away, the surrounding swarm following her lead.

Sam stared down at the woman whose face had been plastered on the front page of newspapers and across every television screen in the country for the past few days. Jeannie looked even more delicate, more fragile, in person. Bending on one knee, Sam gently shoved Julian Howell aside and lifted Jeannie into his arms. She gazed into his eyes, and a hard knot of fear formed in the pit of Sam Dundee's stomach. He remembered those compassionate eyes. Those warm, compelling brown eyes.

Jeannie clung to Sam, draping her arm around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Everything will be all right, Ms. Alverson. I'm here now. I'll take you to safety. I had a limousine pick me up at the airport. It's waiting outside.”

The crowd watched in stunned silence while Sam Dundee carried Jeannie Alverson through their midst. Once the pair had exited the building, the reporters followed, taking little note of Dr. Julian Howell or Marta McCorkle.

Sam told himself not to look at Jeannie Alverson again, to simply carry her out to the waiting limousine. Her fingers touched the nape of his neck. A soft, tender touch. Sam's nerves screamed. His body tensed.

“I prayed for your help.” Her voice was sweet, and unintentionally sultry. A slow, honey-coated southern drawl. “Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I appreciate your coming in person.”

Against his better judgment, Sam looked at her then. She smiled—a closed-mouth, half-formed smile. Jeannie was not classically beautiful. Her features were too large—her big eyes a gentle, faded brown, her full lips a pale pink, her round cheeks flushed with emotion. Despite the frailty of her appearance, she felt sturdy and solid in his arms. And at that moment, Sam knew without a doubt that her fragile facade was an illusion,
that behind her delicate feminine softness existed an incredibly strong woman. Jeannie Alverson was a survivor. And yet she possessed a quality so totally feminine, so genuinely genteel, that Sam wanted nothing more than to protect her, to keep her safe from all hurt and harm.

He forced his gaze away from her face.

The chauffeur held open the limousine's door. Sam slipped inside, depositing Jeannie on the seat.

“Where's Julian?” she asked, tugging her billowing skirt over her legs.

“I'm sure he's fine. The reporters aren't interested in him. Only in you,” Sam said, then turned to the driver. “Take the route I mapped out for you. That should take care of some of our followers.”

“Where are we going?” Jeannie took a long, hard look at her rescuer, and her breath caught in her throat. This big, strong man, who had carried her through the crowd as if she weighed nothing, was the man she had found dying on the beach at Le Bijou Bleu six years ago. She had saved his life then; now he was here to protect her and repay the debt he thought he owed.

“I'm taking you home.” Sam sat back in the seat, his gaze focused out the side window. He was not going to be suckered by this woman, despite her aura of sweet innocence. She was a job, and nothing more.
Liar!
His conscience screamed at him. He should have sent Blackwood or Roarke.
But this was Jeannie Alverson.
He had no choice but to handle the job personally.

He owed her his life. If she hadn't found him six years ago, he would have died. And nothing she asked of him would be too great a price to repay her for his life.

Jeannie didn't mean to stare at Sam, but she couldn't stop herself. She had dated several men over the years, but hadn't allowed herself to become close to any of them. She knew she never could give herself to a man without first being honest with him about her past, about who and what she was. And she had
been able to control her sexuality all her life. So why couldn't she handle the attraction she felt for Sam Dundee?

She wanted to reach out and touch his hard, lean face. She wanted to say or do something that would make him smile. He looked as if he seldom smiled. His face had set into a sensually beautiful aloofness, every feature blatantly, irresistibly male.

His thick, wavy blond hair was styled short in the back and sides, with more length left on the top. His heavy brown eyebrows hooded a set of intense blue-gray eyes.

Sitting at his side, Jeannie could feel the power and strength of the man. She felt safe and protected, and at the same time she was vividly aware of the danger Sam Dundee posed to her.

In six years, she had not been able to forget him. He had remained a vivid image in her mind, a smoldering passion in her heart.

They sat alone in the back of the limousine, neither of them speaking. Sam continued gazing out the window. Jeannie closed her eyes in silent meditation, praying for the strength to live through this ordeal, to be able to resume her normal life and find a way to bring peace to Sam Dundee's tortured soul.

When they arrived at Julian's home, the limousine slowed to a snail's pace as the chauffeur turned into the driveway. Crowds of people—reporters, curiosity seekers, true believers and accusers—lined the driveway, filled the front yard and spilled over into the street.

“Damn!” Sam cursed under his breath.

“What's wrong?” Jeannie peered out the tinted side window. “Oh, dear Lord!” There were more people surrounding her home than had overrun the Howell School.

“Don't worry. I'll try to get things under control before I take you inside.” Sam glared at her, his look a warning in itself. “Stay here. I'll come back for you in just a minute.”

Jeannie nodded her head. She clutched her hands together in a prayerlike gesture, trying not to think about anything—not the past, not the present, not the future. Summoning all her
willpower, she forced herself not to look out the window, not to check on what was happening. If she and Julian were going to survive this ordeal, they would have to allow Sam Dundee to do his job. After all, he was a trained professional who was ready to lay his life on the line to protect her.

She heard voices outside, a mixture of questions, shouts and pleas. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on emptying her mind, on blocking out everything except the serenity within her own soul. Someone threw a brick at the limousine, shattering a side window. The loud crash jarred her from the moment of peace she sought.

The door flew open. Sam Dundee reached inside, dragged Jeannie across the seat and lifted her into his arms. “We're going in the side entrance. The housekeeper will open the door the minute we approach.”

“What about all these people?” Jeannie asked, holding on to Sam's neck as he carried her up the sidewalk, the crowd closing in around them. “Why won't they leave me alone?”

Sam knew that he couldn't hold back so many people for long without using his 9 mm Ruger. He had to get Jeannie inside as quickly as possible.