The Warrior (17 page)

“I like it, but I don't need it like you do, to wake up.”

Alicia shook her head. “Yikes! A morning person.”

“Guilty,” John said. “I'm also a very sweaty person. If you will excuse me, I'd better shower off before we continue this conversation. Oh…and when I come back, be ready to eat breakfast. I'm starved.”

“But I just had breakfast,” she said, pointing to the yogurt cup. “Remember?”

“That's sissy food,” John said. “You need to eat. I'll be right back.”

“But what if I'm not hungry for anything more?”

He pointed toward the desert. “Then I suggest you work up an appetite.”

“I'm not running, but I'll make a deal with you.”

“Like what?”

She pointed to his scars. “You tell me how come you're still alive after all that, and then I'll eat.”

He stared at her for a moment, trying to imagine what she would do if he told her the truth, then shook his head. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'll be back in a few. Oh…if you see or hear a plane of any kind, get back inside the house.”

Alicia followed him in, closing the door behind them. “After the dream I had, I don't think I want to stay out here without you anymore, now that you tell me that.”

John paused, then turned and looked at her. “You had a bad dream?”

“The worst,” she said, and shuddered in spite of herself.

“Tell me.”

She sighed. “Well, considering all that's been happening, it's no wonder. But it was like all dreams. Part of it made sense. Part of it didn't. But the gist of it was, I was running through smoke, and I was bleeding. People were chasing me, and I was looking for you but I couldn't find you. Then suddenly someone grabbed me by the hair and yanked me down. I was on my back and fighting someone on top of me. I could see his face, but not clearly at first. When I realized it was my father, he was trying to strangle me with his bare hands.”

John watched her, studying the trembling in her voice and the tension in her body, knowing she was reliving the nightmare during the telling. But he was an old friend of bad dreams. He knew that the more you kept them inside, the worse they got. Letting her spit it all out was the best thing he could do.

“Is that when you woke up?” John asked.

She shook her head. “No…it just kept getting worse. I think he knocked me out. When I came to, he cut my throat. I screamed your name, but knew I was dying.” Alicia subconsciously rubbed her fingers along her throat, reassuring herself that she was still in one piece. “Anyway, in the dream I think I died. I was standing back, watching everything from a distance as you came running. You pulled my father off my body and killed him with your bare hands, but it was too late. You were holding me and crying and telling me that you were sorry.”

She shuddered, then looked up at John and tried to grin. “Then I woke up. How's that for dreaming? I go all out, right down to weather, geography and dia
logue—a beginning, a middle and an end. Maybe I missed my calling. Maybe I should have been a writer.”

Bile rose at the back of John's throat, but he swallowed it down. He couldn't look at her—
wouldn't
look at her. He didn't know what this dream meant, but he knew dreams had their own meanings. Right now he was too shaken to delve into that nest of snakes.

He waved a hand, then walked out of the room without saying a word.

Alicia eyed his sexy backside, then shrugged and went to refill her coffee.

John's legs were shaking by the time he got in the shower, but he knew it had nothing to do with his morning run. Except for a few minor details, one of which being that he'd killed the person who attacked her, she could have been telling him about White Fawn's death.

He stood beneath the water, letting it beat down on his face until the worst of the memory was gone; then he grabbed a bar of soap and got down to business. A short while later he was back in the kitchen and digging through the refrigerator. He heard Alicia moving about within the house and knew she was probably exploring.

It didn't matter. There was nothing more here that would give him away than there had been at the house in Georgia. Still, it felt a little odd to know that he was sharing anything with a woman—even if it was nothing but breathing the same air.

 

Corbin Woodliff was on a mission. He'd made more than a dozen phone calls since his meeting with John
and Alicia, and the more he'd delved into Richard Ponte's life, the more convinced he'd become that Alicia was telling the truth. The man had homes in half a dozen countries. He had connections in governments around the world and, as best as Corbin could tell, had more money than Croesus. Which begged the question, if he was so wealthy, why risk it all for more? But that was often the way of men like Ponte. It wasn't about the money. It was about the power.

After some fast talking, he was now en route to Boston with two federal agents riding in the seat behind him. He'd made enough phone calls to learn that Jacob Carruthers was reported to be at home and hadn't been seen at his art gallery in more than two days. Called in sick, they said. Corbin's read on that was that, if Alicia Ponte's story was on the up-and-up, he was worse than sick.

He turned and glanced over the seat back at the agents behind him. One was asleep. The other was reading. He arched an eyebrow when he saw the title, then wisely turned back around and returned to minding his own business. Still, he couldn't get past the notion that a big nothing-but-the-facts guy like Morris Joshua was reading one of those books about psychics.

A couple of hours later, they were pulling up to the security gates leading to the Carruthers estate. Corbin leaned out the window and pressed the call button. A disembodied voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Corbin Woodliff to see Mr. Carruthers.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but—”

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Carruthers isn't taking visitors today.”

Corbin rolled his eyes and then pressed the button again.

“Yes?”

“The Federal Bureau of Investigation wishes a few moments of Mr. Carruthers' time.”

There was a long pause, then a question. “The FBI?”

“Yes, the FBI,” Corbin said.

The gates opened.

Corbin took his foot off the brake. “I knew I brought you two along for a reason,” he said.

“This better not be a wild-goose chase,” Agent Joshua said. “This is my day off.”

“I know,” Corbin said as he drove toward the house. “And I do appreciate the company. If I'm right, you'll be glad you came along.”

A few minutes later, they were in the foyer of the Carruthers mansion. There were footsteps on the grand staircase behind them. They turned as one. Jacob Carruthers was coming down the staircase with a look on his face that Corbin could only describe as looking like he'd seen a ghost.

 

The moment the butler told him the FBI was at the gate, Jacob's first instinct had been to throw up. When that didn't pan out, he tried to call Richard's cell, but to no avail. He didn't know what was happening, but it couldn't be good. Richard's secretary told him she hadn't heard from him but expected him in at any minute. None of that made sense. Richard's secretary always knew where he was. That was when he panicked. His first thought was that
Richard hadn't been able to stop Alicia from talking and had taken himself off to God knows where, leaving Jacob to face the questions. It wasn't like Richard not to let him know what was going down, but it was the first thing that popped into his head. Still, he didn't believe they could prove anything. All he had to do was stay calm and deny everything. He pasted a smile on his face and held out his hand in greeting as soon as his feet touched the floor.

“Why…Corbin Woodliff, I do believe. My man told me it was the FBI. How silly.”

Corbin smiled. “Yes, Carruthers, it's me. Haven't seen you since the President's Christmas Ball a couple of years back.” Then he moved aside and pointed to the men beside him. “I'd like to introduce my friends. Special Agent Joshua and Special Agent Morrow from the FBI.”

Jacob's belly rolled. Shit. It was the FBI after all.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked.

“We're going to be needing some privacy,” Corbin said. “Where do you suggest?”

Jacob felt the urge to pee. “How about the library?”

Corbin remembered Alicia Ponte telling him that her father's opinion of Carruthers was that the man had a tendency to panic. He decided to give him a push in that direction.

“Do the doors close?” Corbin asked.

Jacob froze momentarily, too shocked by the question to answer. Then he gathered himself and nodded.

“After you,” Corbin said.

Jacob led the way. All the way to the library, he couldn't help thinking this might be his last walk down this hall. His heart was pounding so fast he feared he
might have a heart attack on the spot, then that he wouldn't and would wind up in prison instead.

Corbin made a point of nodding to the agents as they sat, making sure Jacob knew they were completely involved. But Jacob wasn't as passive as Corbin hoped. As soon as they were all seated, he threw out the first question.

“So…forgive me if I'm a bit confused,” Jacob said. “Is this an interview or an inquisition?”

Special Agent Joshua took a notepad out of his pocket and clicked his pen.

“Depends on how you answer Mr. Woodliff's questions,” he said.

Jacob swallowed, but persevered. “I'm sorry. I'm just not following this. What are you talking about?”

Corbin began, using the voice he used when he was interviewed on-air to indicate the seriousness of the situation. “The reason I'm here and you're not already under arrest is because the information we were given was first presented to me rather than the authorities. The FBI has graciously allowed me to follow through because of my firsthand knowledge.”

“Knowledge of what…and from whom?” Jacob asked.

“It's like this,” Corbin said. “Alicia Ponte has informed us that you and her father are guilty of treason. That you have been selling weapons to the enemy with whom we are at war. She has firsthand information linking you and Richard Ponte to Osama bin Laden, to al Qaeda and to Mohammed al-Kazir, along with delivery dates.” He paused. “Stop me if any of this rings a bell.”

Jacob didn't know that his face had turned a faint shade of purple, but he did know he couldn't feel his feet. He had a flash of his entire life passing before his
eyes and knew, in that moment, that despite everything he might say, this run was over.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, then stood abruptly, pointing angrily to each of them in turn. “What I do know is that it seems you've taken the word of a woman who has recently suffered a mental breakdown. I don't believe a single thing you've just said. I know for a fact that Alicia Ponte was kidnapped, so you couldn't have spoken to her—unless you're the kidnapper! Is this true? Gentlemen…I urge you to look into Mr. Woodliff's wild claims and question his morals, not mine.”

“Sit down, Mr. Carruthers,” Agent Joshua said.

It was the tone of voice that got to him. Jacob dropped.

Corbin scooted to the edge of his seat. “I assure you, Alicia Ponte has not been kidnapped, and the woman I spoke to only yesterday had every one of her faculties securely in place. The one thing she was disturbed about was that her father is obviously trying to have her killed. There's already been one attempt on her life. I can also assure you that if you continue to maintain your innocence and something
does
happen to Miss Ponte and her father is responsible, you'll not only be tried for treason, but there will be an added charge of murder to go with it.”

“I don't know anything,” Jacob said. “All I know is what I heard during Richard's press conference. Do I need to call my lawyer?”

Corbin ignored his questions and threw out another of his own. “So you haven't spoken to Ponte since the press conference?”

“No, I have not.”

“Have you tried?”

Jacob's heart actually skipped several beats, and
when it picked back up, it was with a thud so hard it made him hiccup.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and got up and poured himself a drink. He downed the first shot of bourbon, looked at the trio and poured and downed a second.

“That's enough,” Agent Morrow said.

Corbin waved toward the chair Jacob had vacated. “Come sit back down and let's talk about this,” he said.

“Talk about what?” Jacob asked.

“How we're going to work this out. I have it on good authority that if you cooperate in helping us with bringing Ponte to justice, your death sentence will be commuted to life. It's a pretty damn good deal, considering. Otherwise, you'll both be tried as traitors and you'll both fry. What's it to be? Wanna help us put a traitor out of business and regain a measure of your dignity?”