by Paul Bagnell
Chapter 15: WAKE UP I’M DYING
Tom had to convince McBridle that it was absolutely necessary that he accompany her to this meeting tomorrow morning. It was getting late, almost midnight. He’d go home and get some sleep, but first he’d go back to her place and park the vehicle in her driveway. He’d give her a sob story and hope she’d glean pity on him; then he’d indiscreetly crawl out and take a cab home. The dashboard clock indicated the time to be 12:00 a.m. He wasn’t sure if she’d be waiting up so explaining the bad news would only take a few hurried minutes; then he’d be on his way.
Tonight’s game of Remmie Roulette was gnawing at the thinking meat between his waxy ears. He was really worried that someone could possibly identify him at the murder scene, especially that storekeeper who looked directly at him as he waited on the corner in front of those Asian grocery shops. Once the police started their investigation, they’d probably come up with a vehicle and a suspect description. As Remmie said, he had at least twenty-four hours to figure out what to do; but ultimately, he hoped that he wouldn’t be questioned for the killing.
McBridle’s car phone rang. Tom answered it, “Yeah, hello.”
“Hi, darling, it’s me. I just called to find out where you are and to tell you that I just got home a couple minutes ago.”
“Sorry I didn’t make it back; so did you grab a taxi home?” he asked.
“No big deal, Lankenbury drove me.”
“I should be at your place in a bit,” Tom loosely estimated.
“Good. I want to show you something I bought today.”
“What is it?”
“Just knock your socks off and get here soon,” McBridle said seductively and hung up.
A short time later, Tom parked in her dark driveway and entered the house through the side door. He couldn’t stop reliving Samuel’s horrible death, but he forced the eventful night from his stressed mind as he entered the backroom. With a pasty white complexion and mentally disconnected composure, he collapsed on the couch.
“Tom, whatever has gotten into you, isn’t good. You should have gone home and straight to bed,” McBridle said, as she noticed him slumped over in anguish.
He looked her in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I must have dozed off.”
“I know. That’s what I said. You should have gone straight to bed--none of this running around all hours of the night.”
“No, I don’t mean that.”
“What are you talking about?” She went to the kitchen to get him a cold drink.
“I’m sorry. I momentarily lost control of your vehicle and brushed up against a guardrail or a tree or something while I was returning from Stamp Line County. I badly messed up the car; but don’t worry. I’ll pay for any damages--no matter what the cost,” Tom apologised sincerely.
“Are you injured?” McBridle said with a worried look while standing at the sink rinsing a glass.
“No,” Tom replied, and tried to straighten up.
She sat down beside him, “No, no, stay put. Here--drink some water. It’ll help clear your mind,” she prescribed.
Tom guzzled its cool content as the water spilled out the ends of his mouth and splashed onto the leather upholstery.
“My concern isn’t the vehicle. That can be repaired; however, you’re a one-of-a-kind model, and I deeply care for you,” she said lovingly.
This was a huge surprise. Tom pictured her being more enraged than sympathetic when he told her about wrecking her expensive wheels. He stroked her delicate hair away from her fragile face. He was trapped between the good McBridle who cared that he wasn’t dead and the bad McBridle who, in his daydream, was hoarding a suitcase full of cash and making love to that mystery woman.
“I know you have feelings for me and that makes me very happy. That’s why I’m not angry with you for damaging my property,” she said, as she held his rough hand to her untroubled cheek.
Tom couldn’t move away; he was emotionally drained.
“I made some tea when I called you earlier,” she said, and jumped to her feet. She was winding him back into her web of deception. “Tom, I want you to get a good night sleep. There’s a meeting at Carravecky’s tomorrow so I’ll have to leave an hour or so earlier. If you want, stay the night; and I’ll drive you to the office in the morning.”
Tom straightened up his bent body. “What’s this meeting about?”
“It’s nothing; just get some rest.”
“Tell me; then I’ll sleep. If not, I’ll be walking the floors all night.”
She looked at him with big, worried eyes, “It concerns investments; some special investors want to discuss some special equipment contracts.”
“Doctor Carravecky, will be at this meeting?”
“Yeah, and I believe Robert and Samuel will also be there.” McBridle took the cup from Tom and placed it on the kitchen counter; then she helped him upstairs into the bedroom. She pushed him down on the bed and fell on top of him. She kissed his quiet lips and kneaded his chiselled chest. “I’ll be back so don’t cool off.”
After she stepped out of sight, he pulled the data hound and piece of paper from his pocket. The paper demanded his utmost attention as he flattened it out on his knee. It contained a sketchy yet detailed floor plan of Carravecky’s complex sub‑floor four. The diagram mapped out an alternative route on how to reach the main research and development computers where classified project information was housed. According to the map, reaching this site would be extremely easy for a team of professional terrorists.
“I’ll be out in two seconds so cover your eyes, my sweet,” McBridle said with a toying voice.
“Whenever, my darling, just give me a chance to blink,” he replied, taking little notice of her sudden nakedness in the walk-in closet mirror. He had to devise a plan. He had visited Carravecky’s twice so finding this area wouldn’t be all that difficult. His fingertips were intuitively sensitive to the letter quality paper, and they were telling him to flip the sheet over and to view the other side. The Pentagon’s official letterhead was visible at the top with INTERNAL MEMO printed below followed by the text--Sensitive: DESTROY IMMEDIATELY AFTER VIEWING.
From U.S. covert intelligence in Russia, it is confirmed that a Russian diplomatic team has discovered the American Government violated the Arms Race Weapons of Mass Destruction Agreement negotiated less than five-years ago.
Russian Central Command has begun to rearm their defensive forces and will threaten to retaliate with whatever measures they need to destroy this sky system--code name: The Carra-Messen Missile Skid.
The threat of a nuclear exchange is highly possible if the American Government does not back down from such unwarranted aggression and agrees to make a formal apology to the Russian people.
“No wonder Remmie Take’s seeking absolute control of this weapon system. He could be trying to defuse World War Three, but I strongly doubt that,” Tom mumbled, disconnected from his surroundings. He was screwed no matter what he did. He had a defective option--go along with Remmie’s sick plan or rot in prison.
Tom stuffed the items back into his pants pocket just in time to avoid explaining to McBridle what he was doing.
“Cover your eyes; don’t peek until I say so,” McBridle ordered; then she pranced into the room. “Get an eye full; and if you like what you see, take a big piece.”
Tom obeyed her sexual command and pulled her in close.
She was wearing a lace bra and panty set and very arousing to his manhood. “Do you like it?” she asked, her hands sliding over the contour of her silky skin.
“Yeah, it’s very appetizing,” he replied and lightly kissed her neck like a French lover.
“I bought it at lunchtime,” she said lustfully breathing, “so get a mouthful before it ends up on your head.” Her bare skin welcomed his roving handwork. She pressed her plump breasts forward. They were pushed way up in the skimpy bra like mouth-watering balls of juicy fruit, and he tasted every inch of her ripe desire.
McBridle slid into bed alongside of him. “You need to get away and relax some weekend where we can make blissful love,” she whispered temptingly in his ear and held him gently.
He kissed her again and again.
