Forever (51 page)

He was frowning. 'But you think her being
alive is motive enough to get people killed?'

'Well, can you think of a better
motive?'

'Do you always answer a question with a
question?'

'Do I do that?' she murmured, frowning
prettily.

And so it went. Stephanie was an expert at
evading questions and deflecting directions of enquiry, and Johnny
had a worthy opponent on his hands. Stephanie knew better than to
let her guard down. From experience, she was wise to Johnny's
repertoire of tricks. But had she been able to read his mind, she
would have rested a little less easily.

For Johnny was thinking: She's holding back.
She knows something she's not telling. Not that it surprised him:
after all, the first rule of journalism was never to exchange more
information than was absolutely necessary. But whatever she's
hiding, it's something I should know. . . something major. Sooner
or later, I'll have to dig it out of her. Johnny kept his face
purposely bland and did not press it. Now's not the time. I'll wait
until her guard's down, and then I'll pounce . . .

'Now, if there's nothing else -' Stephanie
began.

'There is one more thing.' Johnny cut her
off.

She sighed.

'Stephanie.' Johnny pinched the bridge of
his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 'I want to give you a piece
of advice. Whether or not you heed it is up to you.'

'Oh, blow it out your -'

'Just this once, will you listen?' he said
sharply. 'For God's sake! Hasn't it occurred to you that whatever
you're mixed up in, you might be in over your head?'

'Gee! Thanks for the vote of confidence,
mister! But in case you haven't figured it out already, Sherlock,
I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.'

'Well, I hope to God you're better at it
than your grandfather,' he said softly.

'And what's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, it's obvious, isn't it? He must have
stirred up a hornet's nest.'

'Y-yes . . .?'she murmured encouragingly.'Do
go on . . .'

'And,' Johnny said grimly, 'it got him
murdered.'

Stephanie's eyes widened and she clapped her
hands with soundless sarcasm. 'Bravo!' she said softly. 'But when
did you figure that one out?'

He ignored the jibe. 'Stephanie,' he sighed,
'why don't we just cut the shit and get to the heart of the
matter?'

'Indeed. Let's!'

'Well, you don't think it's smart to go
undercover without a backup, do you?'

Her eyes locked onto his. 'What are you
trying to say, Johnny?'

'Just that you shouldn't be doing this
alone,' he replied calmly. 'You need help.'

'By that, I presume you mean your help?'

'That's right,' he said, giving a nod.

She shook her head. 'No, Johnny,' she said
firmly. 'I neither want it nor need it. And that's final.'

'You might not want to have an outside
contact you can trust, but you're going to need one,' he said
reasonably. 'Take a minute and think about it, Stephanie. What if
you need research or legwork done? You won't be able to do it all
yourself, not right under the de Veigas' noses. They may be rich
and reclusive, but they're not stupid.'

'Johnny,' she said, giving a deep sigh, 'I
really don't want to discuss this any further. Okay?'

'But say the unexpected happens,' he
continued inexorably. 'What if, God forbid, you get yourself into a
situation you need to be bailed out of? What happens then?'

'If I need help,' she sniffed with dignity.
'I'll call Uncle Sammy.'

'Sammy/' Johnny exclaimed incredulously.
'You're counting on someone thousands of miles away?'

'Go ahead and scoff!' she said angrily. 'For
your information, Uncle Sammy and I got this far without any help
from you!'

'Yeah. And you left a trail a three-year-old
could follow!'

Stephanie's face flushed and her breasts
heaved, but she did not speak.

'And besides, Sammy can't do everything or
be everywhere. Sure, he's in marvellous shape for a guy his age.
But he's no spring chicken, Stephanie. What if things get physical.
What's Sammy supposed to do? Dart between some ruffian's legs?'

Stephanie wished he would just shut up and
give up. Hadn't things gone swimmingly without him? Indeed, they
had. The last, the very last thing she needed now was for a
doomsayer to come along and point out every potential pitfall. She
was tempted to say, Oh, bug off, knew it would only make him that
much more insistent, and tried another tack.

'All right, Johnny,' she said reluctantly.
'I promise I'll think about what you've said.'

'I'm glad,' he said, smiling wryly. 'Despite
the way you feel about me, I still care deeply about you. You know
that, Stephanie, don't you?'

She nodded wordlessly.

'Then perhaps you'll also understand that if
something happened to you, I'd never be able to forgive myself. Not
if it's something I could have helped prevent.'

She stood silently for a moment, then took a
deep breath. 'Like I said, Johnny, I'll think it over.' Her voice
was quiet, but there was no mistaking the steel in it. 'However,
don't mistake that for a "yes", because it's not. I refuse to make
any commitments I can't keep.'

She waited and watched warily as Johnny
pursed his lips and thrust his hands back into his trouser pockets
and jingled some change. Standing there, the glare of the naked
bulb throwing the shadow of his nose across his handsome,
strong-featured face, she thought of how attractive he was, and how
he would make some woman - some other woman - very happy. For his
sake, Stephanie hoped he would find that woman soon.

After a moment, she saw him nod. 'Fair
enough,' he said.

She held his gaze. 'Then stay in touch with
Uncle Sammy. If I agree to work with you - and that's a big "if"-
I'll tell him, and he'll pass the message along to you. If I decide
I don't want your help, I'll have him pass that on, too.' She
paused and added huskily, 'But if I were you, Johnny, I really
wouldn't get my hopes up.'

'All I asked,' he repeated, his voice level,
'is that you think about it.'

'I know.' There was a tightness in her
throat. 'Which brings me to one last thing.'

'Which is?'

Her heavy-lidded eyes watched him closely.
'Which is: what if I refuse your help. What happens then, Johnny?'
Her voice was hushed. 'Are you going to blow the whistle on me and
tell the whole world I'm alive?'

He looked at her for a long moment and then
shook his head.

'No,' he said quietly. 'You know I would
never do anything to jeopardise your safety.'

She nodded, feeling some of the tension
inside her dissipate.'

'But,' he added with a slight grin, 'that
doesn't mean I won't follow you to the ends of the earth.'

'Oh, Johnny!' His name escaped her in a
groan of dismay. 'It's over between us! Why can't you come to terms
with that?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'If you say it's
over,' he said, 'then it's over. But by the same token, I couldn't
stand by and watch you throw yourself in front of a moving
train.'

'Leave me be, Johnny!' she whispered. 'Trust
me. I know what's best!'

He drew a deep breath.

'Don't make it so hard for us,' she said in
a husky voice, and on impulse, she hopped up on tiptoe and brushed
his cheek with her lips. 'Good-bye, Johnny. I'll see myself
out.'

Then she stepped away, he could hear her
swift footsteps receding, and the front door creaked open.

And she was gone.

Stephanie hurried through the dark viuzzi,
grappling with the pros and cons of being allied with Johnny: He's
capable and a quick thinker and he never bores. He's had Special
Forces training. He doesn't scare easily, and isn't afraid to use
his fists - just the person I'd want along on a safari or in a bad
inner city neighbourhood. He's as good with a gun as he is with a
camera, yet put a coat and tie on him, and he's more than
presentable. He even knows which fork is for salad and which knife
is for fish. And, he's one hell of a lover!

Those were the pros.

She sighed to herself.

Now for the cons.

There probably isn't a man alive who's more
egotistical or chauvinistic or cocksure than Johnny Stone. Maybe
it's a hangover from his Special Forces days, but he fancies
himself a born leader. Whatever the situation, he'll inevitably try
to control it - without regard to the feet he steps on in the
process. Infuriating, that take-charge attitude, and demeaning,
too. As if he were more capable than any man, and far superior to
all women!

Stephanie gnashed her teeth in fury. I
really can't bear having him around! Who does he think he is,
anyway - Rambo? This is My war, My investigation! I've done fine
without him, just fine, dammit! Fine!

Her face screwed up in thought, she hurried
purposefully on, stopping only to get her bearings in that maze of
shadowy, tunnel-like streets.

There has to be some way I can shake him off
my tail, she thought. Some way I can disappear into thin air,
without leaving a trail ...

By the time she reached the restaurant, she
had figured out how.

New York City

Sammy leaned forward in his chair, totally
absorbed in Aaron Kleinfelder's scribbling. The slight hiss of the
oxygen apparatus, the steady bleeps of the monitors, the medicinal
hospital odours, the soft squeak of the felt pen and crepe-soled
nurses' shoes . . . for Sammy, all had receded from reality as
Aaron's information unfolded on the note pad:

Where are the children?

How can there be missing children?

That's right, my friend, Sammy projected
silently as Aaron kept writing. Keep it up; just hang in there
until you've finished . . .

Not surprisingly, Sammy's main concern was
Aaron's strength. Twice already, the man's feeble fingers had let
go of the felt pen, and twice Sammy had retrieved it and put it
back into Aaron's hand, gently curling the fingers around it.

But what surprised Sammy the most was that
he had little trouble deciphering Aaron's messy scribbles:

Why were CRY's computers down?

It was too convenient.

Everything was fine the day before.

Then suddenly - poof! The next day, nothing.

Frowning, Sammy said, 'Let me get this
straight. What do you mean by "the next day"?'

Aaron's felt pen scratched:

Day of my 'accident'!!

Sammy frowned. 'Why did you put quotation
marks around "accident"?'

It was no accident.

Sammy took a deep breath. 'Are you implying
that someone tried to kill you?'

Without hesitation, Aaron scribbled:

Yes. The van aimed for me.

'But who would want to kill you?' Sammy
asked. 'Do you have any idea?'

Aaron wrote:

No. But it's strange it should happen

after I tried to enter a secret file

that shouldn't have existed!

Sammy half rose and flipped the pad to a
clean page and sat back down on the edge of his chair. 'So you
think,' Sammy said, 'the reason for the attempted murder is your
discovering the existence of that file?'

Aaron wrote:

Has to be! The programme must

have some kind of built-in trace system.

How else would anyone have known it

was me who'd tried to break into that file?

'Yes, but I don't see how a machine could
tell anyone that,' said Sammy, whose experience with computers was
next to nil and, if he had his way, would happily remain exactly
that way till the end of his days.

Aaron quickly jotted:

I used my access number and

password to enter the programme.

Like a bank machine PIN number,

every password is different.

'That,' Sammy said, 'I understand.' Aaron
wrote:

With an automatic trace, finding

out it was me through my access

number and password, or at the

very least, the terminal I was using

would be child's play. Do you understand?

'Now that you've explained it that way,'
Sammy said, starting to flip to another blank page, 'yes, I believe
I do.' He had to wait: Aaron's pen moved again:

I need your help!

Sammy looked startled.'My help?' he
said.

'Yes,' Aaron rasped. '
Your
help!'

Sammy looked at him and shook an admonishing
finger. 'Please, my friend. Save your voice and energy.'

Aaron nodded weakly and let out a reedy
sigh. Then he scrawled:

I really do need your help. The children need it!

'But... I know
bupkes
from
computers!' Sammy protested. Aaron wrote:

So? I'll help you. But until

I'm released from here, I need someone to

be my eyes, hands, and ears. I'd like it to

be you.

Sammy sighed. 'Well, so long as you
understand that I'm not in the least bit technically inclined.'
Aaron smiled slightly and scribbled:

Understood. You'll do fine.

'If you say so,' Sammy said dubiously,
leaning forward and flipping to a new page.

Aaron wrote:

Somehow, you'll have to get into the

computer file at CRY. The one I

couldn't enter. Each time I punched

in Jowanda Daneece Jones, I'd get a

request to punch in the OPUS number.

Damned if I ever heard of it before.

'Opus?' said Sammy, as though testing the
word. 'That refers to a musical composition.' Aaron wrote:

Or a book.

'That too,' Sammy said gloomily. 'That too .
. .' Pen moving quickly, Aaron wrote:

I think it contains information

on missing children.

Sammy sighed. 'So what good does that do
us,' he groused, resignation in his voice, 'if we cannot gain entry
to the file?' Aaron's pen slashed almost savagely: