Ashes (38 page)

“No,” she said after a moment. “I was scared worse before. Now, go on and help your Dad. Scoot!”

Matthew gave her a grin and ran off to help Gene and Bill. Suzanne and Jennifer sat amid the debris of dinner. Jennifer felt sleepy from the food and the beer, and was startled when Suzanne spoke.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like. To dodge a bullet like that must be... overwhelming.”

“It is, sometimes,” Jennifer said.

“And twice in, what was it, a year and a half?” Suzanne shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. You’re a hell of a girl, Jen.”

Suzanne knew. Ever since the TV movie, she’d guessed that Suzanne probably knew. “When did you find out?”

“About two weeks after you moved here. Mrs. Reisman left a copy of
People
and your picture was in it.”

And to think, all that time she’d worried what would happen when Suzanne found out, that her friend would regard her differently. “You never said anything.”

Suzanne shrugged. “I figured you’d been through enough. You’d talk about it when you were ready.”

Jennifer gave her a hug. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She rode in Gene’s truck as they dropped off the boxes of food at the church. “That’s such great news about the thing on Monday, with the newspaper,” she said as they neared her house.

“Well, wish me luck. Oh, they gave me some application paperwork. Could you help out with that?” Gene asked.

“No problem. Why don’t you come over for dinner Saturday?”

“Name the time, we’ll be there.”

She looked at Gene, at his hands, so capable on the wheel, the blue eyes no longer unreadable, at least not to her. “How about just you?”

“Just...” He frowned for a second, then his eyes lit up with understanding, and he smiled. “I’d love it.”

She smiled back at him, and her only regret was that she hadn’t asked him sooner.

* * *

J
ennifer got home a bit late the next night, having stopped at the grocery store after work. She’d spent most of the day trying to come up with ideas for a nice meal for her and Gene. She figured they were both weary of seafood, wrote off chicken as too boring and game hens as too pretentious, finally settled on filet mignon with béarnaise sauce. She drove through the streets toward her home, singing a song she’d heard on one of Gene’s tapes. The leaves were turning and the air was cool. Fall was here already. She found herself looking forward to it, to the rain and chill, for it made the warmth inside all the sweeter.

She parked in her driveway, hoisted bags into her arms. As she slammed the car door, Suzanne came trotting out with a grin on her face and a hand behind her back. “Someone’s got a date tomorrow,” she sing-songed.

“Is this published somewhere?”

“Hey, not a lot happens here. We take our gossip where we can get it.” Suzanne’s smile softened. “Besides, Jen, people have been hoping for this for a while now. We were wondering when you two would finally get together.”

“It’s dinner, Suze. Not like we’re engaged or anything.”

“Whatever. Anyway, I brought you a little something for the big night tomorrow.” Suzanne produced two tapered candles and handed them to Jennifer.

Jennifer set down her grocery bags and looked at the candles. They were lovely, a pale blue at the tips, shading gradually to a dark cobalt at the base. A faint honey scent of beeswax. “They’re beautiful. Thank you. Where did you get them?”

“My friend Eskimo Sally sent them to me. She runs this New Age hippie shit store down in California, around Santa Cruz.”

“Well, they’re just — wait. Her name’s
Eskimo Sally?”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Long story. Oh shoot, phone’s ringing.” She ran back to the house. “Later, Jen!”

“Bye!” Jennifer tucked the candles into one of the bags, then carried the bags into the house. Once inside she headed straight for the kitchen and set down her bags. “Oh Pete Puma-kitten, Mama got you some yummy—”

Behind her, a
thunk
as the front door closed.

Jennifer turned around, eyes wide in the dim kitchen. The front door didn’t close on its own. If you didn’t do it yourself it would sit there wide open until Judgment Day. “Suzanne?” No answer.

She listened hard, and heard Pete Puma mewing. But the sound was muffled, and there was a scratching. Pete scratching at her closed bedroom door.

She never left Pete locked in her bedroom, where there was no food or water or litterbox for him. And no way could he shut the door himself. Even as she realized it she heard a creak on the living room floorboards.

Someone is in the house with me.

For a moment her heartbeat drowned out any other sound. Instinctively she reached for the light switch, then snatched her hand away. If it was dark, she would have the advantage, knowing the house as she did. If it was light, she and whoever else was here would be on the same footing.
Unless he’s got those creepy
Silence of the Lambs
night-vision goggles
.

But she wouldn’t let herself think of it. Instead, she reached out to the phone, realizing she had no idea who to call. Did 911 work in Canada? Should she call the police? The Mounties? Or just dial zero, like in old movies?
Operator, give me the police.

She grabbed hold of the phone, and realized before she even got it to her ear that it didn’t matter. The line was dead.

For a moment she wanted to panic, to scream for help. But that would lead whoever it was right to her. No, after all she’d been through, she had to be smart. She set down the phone and reached for the knife block, pulled out the first one her hand touched. The carver. Good. Jennifer took a deep breath, psyching herself up. She knew the house, she was familiar with it. She would run out of the kitchen, act like she was going straight into the living room and then buttonhook around the hallway. Hopefully get to the door before Mystery Man knew what was up. And if she didn’t, well, maybe this knife would give him something to think about.

One, two, three.
Jennifer ran for the door, then switched and ran down the hall. She heard no footsteps behind her, and for a relieved moment thought that it had just been a gust of wind and her mind playing tricks on her.

Then hands seized her, one clamped over her mouth and muffled her scream. She flailed with the knife but her assailant’s other hand caught hold of her wrist, gave it a sharp but painless squeeze and she dropped the knife. She screamed again behind the gag of his hand, lashed and kicked with all her strength but his arms were too strong, they held her tightly. Dimly she realized that he did not seem to be trying to hurt her, though he held her fast. But that thought was swallowed up in her terror and a wild sort of rage.
This will not happen, I will not let it happen. I did not live through the L.A. bombing and the Southern Hammer just to get murdered by some catburglar.

She pried at the arm across her neck and shoulder, dug in with her nails. A low hiss of pain from the man but no loosening of his hold. Jennifer twisted again, and then his left arm shifted, brought something up toward her face. She had time to register a wad of white cloth, an acrid chemical stink, and a hoarse voice saying, “I’m sorry about this.”

And then knew nothing.

* * *

S
he woke, feeling slightly queasy. Heard the sound of the sea; breakers, not the gentle lapping of the Haven Cove harbor. Blinking, she looked at her surroundings. She lay on a leather couch. The room was unfamiliar, spartan. No pictures on the walls. Most of the furniture draped with sheets. Under one sheet, a shape she couldn’t recognize. The room seemed spacious enough but the air felt stale, as if it had been a long time since a window was opened. The only light came from a single torchiere lamp, off in the far corner.

Jennifer tried to sit up, and found that her wrists and ankles were tied. But not tightly. The bonds were secure but did not pinch or hurt her. She maneuvered herself to a sitting position and looked around, wondering where she was, who had brought her here, what they wanted with her. Not murder or rape, perhaps; physically she seemed to be all right. But then why?

She licked her lips, took a deep breath and felt the last of the fuzzy feeling leave her brain. She was about to ask what was going on when a hoarse male voice said, “Hello, Jennifer.”

She turned and saw a man sitting in a chair, off to one side. He was so still, she hadn’t seen him at first in the dim light. She shrank back, recognizing his voice, knowing this was her captor. But he made no move toward her, threatening or otherwise. Merely sat there, looking at her.

Jennifer looked back at him. He was older than her, probably in his middle fifties or so. His hair was dark brown or black, impossible to tell for certain in the dim light; a receding hairline, a few streaks of gray showing. His eyes were brown, dark-shadowed with weariness. A face of no particular distinction, neither ugly nor handsome, anonymous and unmemorable. She had never seen him before, she was sure, although with a lab coat and safety goggles he would have looked a bit like Mr. Burnham, her high school chemistry teacher.

He sat looking at her, and there was something strange about that, something that sent an odd chill through her. Maybe it wasn’t his look, but the way he sat, poised, relaxed but tense. Or maybe it was the bruises she now saw, all up and down his throat. Finger marks, as if someone had tried to choke the life out of him not too long ago, and nearly succeeded.

If her scrutiny bothered him he did not show it. After a moment he spoke again. “You let your hair get longer,” he said. “It looks nice.”

Jennifer took a deep breath. “Who are you?” she asked.

T
he man didn’t reply at first. “Who are you?” Jennifer asked again.

“My name’s Sean Kincaid,” he said. “I used to work for the government. Covert work, infiltration.”

Jennifer took a breath, trying to keep her fear at bay. It was easier than she’d thought; if he was going to hurt her, he’d had time and opportunity by now. Curiosity began to get the better of her. “You mean the CIA?”

Kincaid shook his head. “Not exactly. It was...well, you wouldn’t know the name. It’s a classified group, what they call black ops.”

Oh great, I’ve stumbled into a Tom Clancy novel.
Jennifer tried to work out what was going on; she hadn’t felt so confused since the bomb ripped the federal building apart and she was staring out a hole where the hallway had been. What was she doing here? How did this man know who she was, and why had he captured her? Why did he just sit there, looking at her in that strange way, as if she was the answer to some question? “What do you want with me? Where am I?” she asked. “How do you know my name?”

Kincaid smiled, and she thought of those mysterious flowers she’d received back in March. Pleasant yet somehow disquieting. On the surface there was nothing wrong with the smile. It was gentle, made him almost handsome. Yet she didn’t see the smile reflected in his eyes. That was what bothered her, more than the choker of bruises he wore, or the wiry strength she could see in his hands and wrists, or the slight bulge under the left side of his jacket.
Jesus, he has a gun.
No, it was his eyes, hard and blank as glass.

She couldn’t read his eyes, had no idea what lay behind his face. She’d have to take her chances.

She tried to keep her face expressionless, but some of her apprehension must have shown. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said. “I would never hurt you.”

From somewhere in the room a sound like a muffled laugh. She had no idea where it had come from.

Got to get out of here.
“Prove it,” Jennifer said. “Untie me.”

She expected him to protest, but he only said, “All right.” Kincaid stood, walked over to her, knelt in front of her. Now that he was close to her she could see how tired he looked, as if he hadn’t slept in a week. But his hands did not shake, they untied the bonds easily and quickly.

The knots undone, he stepped away from her. She sat for a moment, massaging her wrists and ankles, then jumped off the couch and looked for the front door. She saw it — saw
a
door, anyway — and ran for it, expecting any moment to feel his hands on her or to hear a gunshot. But there was nothing. She was at the door, yanking on the knob. It was locked.

“You can’t get out that way,” Kincaid said. He had returned to his chair, sat there watching her calmly. “The windows are bulletproof glass. It’s a safe house, you see. And there’s ten miles of dirt road to the highway and another fifteen miles to Haven Cove. I know this must all seem strange. But please,” he said, gesturing to the sofa. “Sit down.”

What choice did she have? Jennifer walked back to the couch and sat. “What do you want with me? You said you were with the government, is this some kind of interrogation or something?”
I haven’t done anything,
she started to say, then stopped. Better to volunteer as little information as possible.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If there was another way to do this, I would. It’s strange for me, too. I’ve waited for this for a year and half now. Same as you.”

Jennifer felt herself go cold. A year and a half. Nothing else it could mean. The bombing, something to do with the bombing.

“I saw you on TV,” Kincaid said. “When the fireman carried you away. I still don’t know why, but ever since, the only thing I wanted was to help you.” He smiled again. “I’ve brought you something.”

She felt cold, sick, afraid. And angry. The picture, the damn picture. He didn’t want to help her, he wanted to help that girl in the picture. Why couldn’t anyone understand? “That’s not me.”

He blinked, looked confused.

“I’m not that girl any more. I came up here to get away from her and Los Angeles, and that damn picture has followed me everywhere I go. If you want to help me, take me back home, right now. And whatever you’ve brought, I don’t want it.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.” And yet... “What is it?”

Kincaid got to his feet and walked over to the odd-shaped object draped with a sheet. Something familiar about the way he walked, and she realized that he reminded her of Gene. Like Gene he was only medium-built, but carried himself with the assurance of a taller man. “It was the way you were crying. How lost and afraid you were. I wanted to help you, and I knew there was only one way to do that. And that was to bring those who had hurt you to justice.”