The Twelfth Of Never: A suspense mystery romantic thriller (4 page)

CHAPTER 3

McDougal Alley was one of those quaint little streets no one
ventured down because of its obscurity. Benjamin had Jenny by the hand, pulling
her along until they reached the red brick carriage house tucked sedately in
the middle of the alley. The light in the third floor window was a beacon in
the early morning light. Jenny knew Trish would be waiting. She also knew
another argument over Benjamin would ensue.

Benjamin squeezed her hand tightly as they walked silently up
the three flights. Neither one wanted to speculate on whom Trish was angrier
with. Benjamin finally broke the long silence when they reached the landing and
walked down the narrow hall.

"I'll be working late at the studio, meet you back here
at six!" He was not asking, he was telling, and he would not give her a
chance to refuse.

"You don't have to do this," Jenny argued.

"It's not right, being alone. Besides, John would agree,
a good Italian meal is what you need." He looked pleadingly at Jenny.

She smiled. "It's been eons since I was at Papa
Joe's."

"I know, too long." Benjamin glanced down the hall
at the door looming in front of them. "Do you think Trish would want to
come too?"

"I don't know? Why don't you ask her?" Jenny
suspected for some time that Benjamin had underlying feelings for Trish that
went far beyond his artistic needs.

"She would sooner rip my heart out."

"Maybe if you kept the sarcasm to yourself, and didn't
come on so strong."

"I just tell it like it is," Benjamin replied.

"Yeah, right! You and your caveman mentality," Jenny
mocked while shaking her head. "I swear Benjamin, you think girls enjoy a
club over the head and a quick drag off to the cave. It does not work that way,
not in this day and age."

"She's the one who starts it."

There was no use arguing. Jenny unlocked the door and let it
swing open slowly. The apartment was the same as the day John had left. The
hardwood floor sparkled with only braided rugs here and there, nothing more to
take away from its natural beauty. The overstuffed early American furniture was
from a time in her life she never wanted to forget. The colors were earth
tones, a soothing mixture of golds and browns with accents of orange. An old
milk can stood in the corner with a bouquet of cattails from a trip up north
years earlier. The morning news blared throughout the small apartment. Trish
stood in the kitchen with her arms crossed, tapping her foot.

"If that jerk is out there, tell him thanks a lot,"
Trish yelled. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned as she turned to face the door.

Jenny glanced back at Benjamin, but he was already tiptoeing
down the hall. Before he entered his apartment, he turned to Jenny and
sheepishly smiled while mouthing the words, "See you later."

The longstanding feud over Benjamin's artistic interpretation
of Trish's body was never-ending. Up until that point, no one had really cared
who his models were. But the big show coming up at the Conrad Gallery and them
wanting him to bring his models to mix with the clients had Trish in a tizzy.
The idea of mingling with all those snooty people and having them look at her
like some kind of freak was unnerving. After all, an eye in one's belly added
nothing to her attractiveness as a model.

Jenny turned to Trish. "He's gone already," she
said, letting the door shut behind her.

"I don't know how you can spend so much time with that
pervert. Did you see his latest?"

"No. Why?" Jenny asked.

Trish shook her head. "I swear he uses me as a model just
to torment me."

"It isn't that, I'm sure."

"Well, tell me, what's wrong with the stuff he was doing
six years ago?" Trish asked while pointing to the living room wall.

Jenny looked at Trish anxiously, and then turned slowly to the
television as the commentator started talking about President Carter. Jenny
hoped he would start addressing the issue of the missing in action in Vietnam,
but instead his main concern was with Middle East peace talks. She shook her
head: no sooner than one war was over, the country was looking to get mixed up
in another. She walked over to the set and flipped the switch.

Jenny turned to the pencil sketches on the far wall. They were
wedding gifts from Benjamin, ones he had done when they were all at NYU.
Benjamin had a talent that not many people in the art world acknowledged. The
sketches of John were Jenny's favorite. They captured the gleam in his eyes.
Jenny remembered the expression so well. The only time he'd lacked that gleam
was at the gate of Kennedy International when she’d seen him off. All she'd
seen that day was a solemn expression of doubt. It was a vision of him she
remembered in dreams that still haunted her nights. It was the last time she
saw him.

Jenny did not think the sketch of herself was as good, but
John had cherished it nonetheless. She remembered him saying he wanted to
always remember her in the way that Benjamin captured her in the sketch. He had
a friend take a picture of it for just that reason.

Trish walked over to Jenny, who stood mesmerized by the sketch
of John.

Jenny reached up. She touched the glass as if by doing so, she
was touching the man she loved. "They are good," she whispered.

"Why can't he immortalize me like that?"

"I don't know, ask him," Jenny replied, and then
turned to Trish.

"Yeah, right, as if talking to him would do any
good."

"He listens to me."

"That's different. You were always able to reason with
him. But when it comes to his art, I never met anyone with such a closed
mind."

Jenny was lost in a world that had ended for her five and a
half years earlier. This day should have been an important milestone in her
life. They'd planned to have their first child by this anniversary. There were
so many hopes, so many dreams, so much left undone.

"Are you listening to me?" Trish asked. In
frustration she turned and walked into the kitchen.

"You talking to me?"

"No, I'm talking to the walls!"

"I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Forget it. It isn't important." Trish poured two
cups of coffee. She walked over and handed one to Jenny. "Are you going to
work?"

"Steve said I could take the day off, but there are
admission reports I should be working on for the fall term."

"I don't know why he hasn't asked you out yet."

"I'm a married woman!" Jenny blurted, taken aback by
the remark.

"Look again," Trish replied while glancing around the
room. "When are you ever going to face the fact? He isn't coming
back."

"You sound like Benjamin now."

"It's the truth," Trish snapped. When Jenny did not
answer, she continued. "So, when do you plan to start living again?"

"I guess when someone gives me answers."

Trish sat down on the couch, curled up in the corner. She held
the coffee mug in both hands, savoring its warmth while inhaling the rich aroma
of Columbian brew. She turned to Jenny after a long moment of silence.

"The way Steve looks at you, I'm surprised he hasn't made
a move."

Jenny shook her head and smiled. "You live in a Harlequin
world of make believe."

"Come off it," Trish snapped before taking a quick
sip of coffee. "Don't tell me you never gave him a second thought. Steve
has got to be the nicest-looking guy on staff at the University and he is not
married." She raised her arms. "So why haven't you encouraged
him?"

"I refuse to mix my personal life with the people I work
with. Besides, there could never be anyone to replace John."

"Don't give me that crap. If I had a boss that looked
that good, I wouldn't give it a second thought."

"I couldn't cheat on John." Jenny shook her head.
"No way."

"You and Benjamin go out together all the time."

"That's different. He and John are best friends."

"Well why does he hang around here so much?"

"Remember, I'm not the only one living here."

Trish rolled her eyes and then snapped. "Don't talk like
that, it gives me the willies." She turned to Jenny. "You don't
actually think he's coming around because of me?"

"It certainly isn't me."

Trish had a faraway look in her eye, and then smiled.
"Sometimes, when he's painting so intensely, he's cute. I catch him just
staring at his work, forgetting I'm even in the room."

Jenny set the cup down. She turned and walked into the bedroom
to get ready for work. Still, she could not put the thought of John out of her
mind. It would be a long day. It always was, and the passing of time did not
make it any easier for her to accept the bitter loneliness.

* * *

Rotary blades beat at the hot humid air, sending downdrafts
over the jungle floor as it hovered, causing the underbrush to wave in
jubilation. The pounding in Gideon's ears only got worse as beads of
perspiration formed on a fevered forehead. He was near exhaustion, but there
was no escaping the heat or humidity. Gideon struggled through the thick green
undergrowth. His nostrils stung from the raunchy smell of decay mixed with the
sweet scents of tropical flowers. He swung the machete, cutting through the
thick growth. Still he had difficulty pulling himself through the dense
foliage.

In the distance there was the pop, pop of gunfire. The thick
verdant growth was alive with movement, as the rustling of underbrush got
closer. His heart pounding, Gideon crouched in the dirt while fear encompassed
his being. Suddenly, grenades exploded and men screamed in ghastly pain. Gideon
was engulfed in self-preservation.

Gideon woke. The ceiling fan swept air around the room in a
swish-swish reverberation that made his eardrums want to pop. The smell of
disinfectant hung heavy in the small enclosure. Gideon focused his eyes, trying
desperately to remember where he was. Finally he stared at the twirling blades
above and rolled toward the shelves of white linen and cleaning materials. He
looked around as he rested his head back on the pillow. His breathing was
labored; the cold room sent chills down his spine. Gideon sat up, reached for
his wallet, and then thumbed through the pictures quickly. He pulled out the
sketch of the woman. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and
stared at the vision before him. She was the only thing that ever calmed him
after a flashback. So much about that time was wiped from his memory, yet not
enough for him to forget.

After what seemed like an hour but in actuality was only a few
minutes, Gideon finally gained control. His breathing grew less labored, his
eyes mesmerized by what he saw. Her smile warmed him and all he wanted was to
touch the hair that flowed flawlessly over the young woman's shoulders. It was
the smile that always brought him back, warmed his heart, and made him feel all
was right in the world.

Suddenly the door opened. The overpowering figure just stood
there in the light. Gideon stared at the large frame in front of him. He took a
deep breath.

"Thought I'd find you here," Thelma said, flipping
on the switch.

Gideon shielded his eyes. "What time is it?" he
asked, trying to focus.

"Almost noon."

"I've been here for seven hours?" he asked,
disbelieving.

"Don't worry. I told them not to disturb you."

Gideon got up. His wallet fell to the floor. The picture
stared back at him.

"Is she your wife?" Thelma bent down, quickly picked
up the wallet, and handed it to Gideon.

"No," Gideon replied, not giving an explanation. How
could he, there was so much even he did not know. "How is Delaney
doing?"

"Who?" Thelma asked, puzzled by the name.

"I guess he's registered under John Hamilton."

"They're just now bringing him out of recovery. I wanted
to let you know."

"Thanks," Gideon said as he ran his hand through his
thick curly hair.

"You look like you could use a shower and shave."
Thelma eyed Gideon from head to toe. She shook her head, laughing to herself.

Gideon felt his chin. It had been a couple of days since he
showered or shaved last. From the looks of things, it would be a while before
there would be time for either.

"What room is he in?"

"Seven fifty-three, but you don't have to worry, there's
a guard stationed outside his door, and another man keeping an eye on the
nurse's station, if you know what I mean?"

"Police or the FBI?" Gideon asked.

Thelma shrugged. "My friend said men would be on duty
twenty-four hours a day."

"That's great!" Gideon snapped sarcastically.

"Which one are you with?"

"Neither."

"Independent?"

"No," Gideon said, shaking his head. He turned to
Thelma as if she were an old friend. "I don't really trust any of those
guys to do the job right. That's why Hamilton, correction, Delaney, is here in
the first place. If I had my way, he wouldn't have been allowed to pull off that
little charade this morning."

"I don't really care about any of this. I just came to
tell you they took him to his room."

Gideon turned to Thelma. "How's the Ambassador?"

"Flesh wound, that's all. But they're keeping him here
for observation."

"Great," Gideon smirked.

"I know. The nurses just love all the flatfoots hanging
around, not to mention the press."

"Don't let anyone know I'm here."

"I don't even know your name." Thelma replied. She
did not know why she bothered, but the man in front of her seemed different
from all the rest. There was a concern in his eyes for the man brought in,
almost like he really cared.

"Thanks, Thelma, I owe you one.”

Gideon walked out of the room. He slowly walked down the hall
to the nurse's station and into the lunchroom which was just off the waiting
room. There was a world in motion, but all he could think about was a caffeine
fix before he did anything else.