Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  “Back peddling? From what?”

  “With all due respect, Commander, I don’t know,” he said, shoulders shrugged in exasperation from the third-degree blistering he was getting from Marshall. Nodding his head toward the stretcher, he added, “We were just getting ready to pack her out.”

  Marshall looked at the stretcher with the open straps and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “God! You idiots! After everything this woman has been through, you should have known better than to think she would have no aversion to the thought of being restrained,” Marshall ranted.

  “Sorry, Boss, it’s standard procedure. I didn’t know.”

  “Ahh,” he said, waving his hand in a gesture to say forget it. “Which way did she go?”

  “Up the mountainside. She’s pretty weak. I doubtshe’ll get very far.”

  “Oh yeah? Well that’s the same mistake some of SPOF’s toughest characters made. They greatly underestimated this woman’s desire to be free,” Marshall snorted.

  “No, you don’t understand, Sir. She’s only got about a half a dose of the painkiller in her. It’s new. Experimental—”

  “You’re experimenting on her?”

  Shrugging, “Uncle Sam issued it to me for use on our guys, so I figured if it was good enough for them—”

  “Fine. Tell me more about this drug.”

  “Uh, it’s very potent and lasts up to twenty-four hours. Actually gives patients a buzz rather than making them drowsy. Doesn’t cause constipation....”

  Marshall scowled, folded his arms over his chest.

  Wilson continued, “The only side effect discovered so far is, for some people, a partial dose may only act as a mild sedative. But for others....”

  “Yes, yes, for others what?” Marshall dropped his arms to his sides, eyes piercing, leaned in closer to Wilson.

  Swallowing hard, “For others, it can be a super hallucinogen.”

  “Dammit!” Marshall fumed, taking off at a full sprint up the mountainside.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  AS THE CROW FLIES about eight miles from SPOF, in the rundown cabin searched out years ago as an emergency safe house of sorts, Tank glanced down at his watch: 0415 hours. Couldn’t sleep. Despite the early hour, like a caged wolf on the sexual prowl, he paced the dirt floor of the tiny four-hundred square foot wooden shack. Occasionally he stopped to perform several dozen chin-ups on the wooden four-by-four beam spanning the width of the cabin. The beam looked like it might have been installed to keep the side walls of the shanty from caving in, or maybe the beginnings of a loft. Regardless, it creaked under the weight of his hulking three-hundred-twenty-five pounds with each chin-up.

  As he counted off chin-ups, Tank thought about his defection from SPOF. He had no intention of rendezvousing with the three losers he had used to orchestrate his escape. No doubt, the Commander would hunt them down and, as usual, the men would end up dead with FBI Special Agent Theodore Hines in the limelight ... once again the darling of the media and touted as the super hero of law enforcement.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Hines’ MO: mastermind havoc, bribe the criminally minded—stooges as he called them—to perpetrate the orchestrated mayhem, then use those same stooges to effectuate a crime for his own personal gain. Once his personal agenda had been fulfilled, Hines turned against them. Killed everyone involved. Tank recognized Hines for what he was: a cunning, leave-no-loose-ends, take-no-prisoners, cold-hearted bastard who hid behind the respected shield of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  The moment Hines’ agenda turned personal—nabbing Julia Andrasy—Tank knew Hines was preparing to take down SPOF. But Tank wasn’t the average stooge Hines had been accustomed to manipulating and wouldn’t be caught in his deadly trap of betrayal. Subsequently, the reason for his so-called defection.

  There was no doubt in Tank’s mind, since Hines probably had possession of Jewels, everyone left at SPOF was dead and the compound was crawling with FBI.

  Therefore, he’d sit tight for a few days. Maybe a week. Then sign on as a temporary hand to one of those fishing vessels the rich use as a shuttle to Alaska where he would retire in the wilderness, never to return to the lower forty-eight states again. Become a mountain man, like Davey Crockett. Imagine that, an African-American mountain man. The thought cracked a smile.

  Halting the chin-up reps, he rubbed the gash on his cheek. Visions of Jewels filled his mind. Weird, but he had gone from hating her to admiring her. Could it be he was beginning to like her? Maybe even have feelings for her?

  Certainly, she wasn’t an ordinary woman. A man who had a woman like her under his control could really go places, not only because of her money and intelligence, but because of her incredible inner will and extraordinary spunk. Even if she didn’t make the best wife in the world, at the very least with the body she had, she’d probably be a great fuck. A guy would probably never get bored with her.

  Tank stretched out on the dusty cot, lacing his hands behind his neck. Staring at the rickety plank ceiling, he allowed his mind to imagine what he would do to her, with her, should the opportunity present itself. Of course, the odds of a close encounter with Julia Andrasy were pretty slim, if nonexistent. If she happened to survive Hines’ cleansing surgery, the devil-only-knows-what he’d do to her after that before he surely killed her.

  Yet, he fantasized about the possibility of keeping her as a play thing, not only for sex, but for companionship. When she no longer pleased him, it was a given he’d have to kill her.

  • • •

  Jewels felt spacey. Her body was hyped, as if from caffeine overload and seemed impervious to pain. After wandering aimlessly in the dark for what seemed hours, it was fortunate she had stumbled upon the cave, remnants of a massive fissure in the earth, probably created when dinosaurs ruled.

  The nook was vaguely familiar. Reminded her of the little storage closet she hid in at SPOF. Just like the rock walls at SPOF, the walls of nature’s closet were stone-lined, but instead of stacked rocks, these walls were created by massive boulders. Otherwise, just like her SPOF hideout, this mountain sanctuary was cool, damp, and smelled like wet soil.

  Leaning her shoulder against the chilled boulder of her safe haven, she relaxed enough to review her options. Sort out her feelings. Decide who was worthy of her trust.

  In hindsight, she concluded the rescuers who came with Marshall Watters were probably not involved in some diabolical scheme to keep her in captivity. Hanging her head, Jewels was angry and felt embarrassed. “You totally overreacted,” she scolded aloud. “And now Marshall must think you’re a complete flake! I mean, what kind of a lunatic would go running barefoot and half naked through the remote wilderness in the middle of the night by herself without any weapons or survival provisions?

  “The Julia Andrasy variety,” she said, answering her own question. Bundling up in the blanket she had liberated from the rescue team, the painkiller masked the misery she would have otherwise been enduring. “The logical thing to do is to return to the rescue sight. Apologize. Tell them you overreacted and that will be that,” she said aloud.

  Pushing herself off the boulder, staggering, she rubbed her head which felt like it was full of helium, ready to float off her body. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked herself. In a tone to mock General Cooman, “So let it be written, so let it be done.” Giggling, she stumbled out of the cave like a woman who had smoked way too much weed.

  • • •

  SUNDAY, 0512 HOURS. “Jewels! Julia!” Marshall shouted into the blackness.

  “Sir, we’ve been searching for hours now and there’s no sign of Miz Andrasy. Maybe we should—”

  “Give up! Is that what you want to do, Mister Bradshaw?” Marshall boomed, jaw tight, temples pulsating with checked anger.

  “Come on, Marshall,” Warren Bradshaw calmly said, patting him on the back. “What’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you so ... uptight.”

  Marshall shrugged, r
ubbed his temple.

  Warren studied him. They had been good friends for years and he knew what made Marshall tick. Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh my God! You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you?”

  Marshall stared at the ground, massaged the back of his neck.

  “For chrissake, Marshall! Since when have you started running ops with your dick?”

  “I’m in love with her.”

  Thrusting his hands on his hips, “First Hines. Then Dyson. Now you? What’s the dame got that’s so damned appealing?” he spouted, turning his back to Marshall in disgust, then quickly turning back around, “I’ll tell you what she is, a fucking man-eater who casts her alluring spell, captures your heart, devours it, then moves onto the next unsuspecting guy.”

  “She’s not like that....”

  Warren threw his hands in the air, stomping away. After pacing the mountainside for a moment, he returned to Marshall’s side, rested his hand on his shoulder. Calmly: “Okay. Fine. I won’t argue her enchanting qualities, but Marshall, you’ve got to put your personal feelings aside. You’ve got to treat this like any other case.”

  “I am.”

  “Bullshit! Look me in the eyes and tell me if this were any other case you wouldn’t have called off the ground search hours ago. Tell me you wouldn’t be waiting for the winds to fade so the chopper could scan the mountain with FLIR.”

  “Fuck FLIR! We shot her up with an experimental drug, Warren. A drug that produces wild side effects, like hallucinations. What if she imagines she can fly and leaps off a cliff or—”

  “You’re absolutely right, Marshall. We screwed up. But you’ve got a team of five men you’re responsible for. They need to rest. Daylight will be breaking within the hour. You’re pushing too hard. You gotta back off or they’re really gonna make mistakes. This isn’t Hell Week, you know.”

  Marshall hung his head. Of course, he knew his best friend and second in command, Warren Bradshaw, was right. Especially the part about if this were any other case. But the fact was, it wasn’t just any other case.

  For the first time in Marshall’s thirty-six years of life he had found a woman who he believed he could love with all his heart. A woman for whom he would take an early retirement from his prestigious job if she asked. A woman who could very well be his eternal soulmate.

  But the harsh reality was, Warren was right. No matter what the circumstances, running his highly trained team around in the dark woods, even with NVGs, was not a smart use of resources.

  “Tell you what,” Marshall said, returning the friendly pat on the back to Warren. “You’re right. Let’s call it a night. I’ll stay here at the rescue site just in case she decides to return. We’ll fire up FLIR at dawn.”

  “Now you’re talkin’ like the Marshall I know.”

  • • •

  0630 HOURS. Daylight spilled a brilliant rosy stream across the sky, illuminating the dark woods. Jewels had been drifting about the woods for nearly three hours, giggling and talking to an imaginary golden retriever, Boo-Boo Two, named after her beloved Boo-Boo. Even tossed a twig or two for Boo-Boo Two to retrieve.

  Mentally she was out of it. Lack of sleep. Stress from traumatic events. Dehydration. And the injection of an experimental painkilling drug with hallucinogenic side effects had wickedly combined to create a state of denial heavily seasoned with outrageous silliness.

  But she was not doing too well on the physical front, either. The soles of her feet were bloody and dirty, ripe for infection. Wrists and ankles swollen and bruised. Back scored with cuts, welts and punctures. Body in dire need of water and food. Tear-streaked, her face was littered with dark brown forest dirt. And her hair was a mess, with needles and leaves tangled throughout. The once sexy vanilla hair that freely flowed about her face, had been replaced by an unruly mop of a hairdo not even a cave woman would have sported. Yet thanks to the drug, her battered body seemed unstoppable.

  “Come on, Boo-Boo Two,” she called to her imaginary pet, waving her arm up over her head as a gesture for it to follow. “Look, there’s a beautiful little meadow just ahead.” Roaming into the meadow, a tiny building on the far side of the field caught her eye. “Look, Boo-Boo Two! Pappy Clark’s house. Let’s go visit him.”

  In reality, Pappy Clark had been dead for nearly thirty years and his house was located in Pennsylvania, not the remote wilderness of Utah.

  Operating in the drug-induced silly, little girl mode, she felt compelled to shed the FBI jacket to use it as a hand-held cape, simply because she thought it would be fun. Dumping the blanket, she removed the jacket.

  After a few moments of running through the meadow like superheroine Batwoman, her imaginary dog at her side, she allowed the jacket to blow through her fingertips. A gust of wind caught it, lifting it off the earth like a tailless kite. After about fifty feet, the jacket glided to the ground. The big yellow FBI letters face up; a bull’s-eye in the middle of the meadow.

  Retrieving the blanket she had moments ago discarded, she tied it around her shoulders and though the blanket looked like a cape, Jewels ceased her cape-crusading antics and drifted into a state of carefree ecstasy. The full effects of the drug were peaking in her system, continuing to block the pain of her bleeding bare feet, welts on her back, and the throbbing of her ankles and wrists. The painkiller had done its intended job. And much more.

  Skipping lightheartedly through the tall grass of the meadow toward the shanty, she merrily sang a song from her childhood. “Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man? Do you know the muffin man that lives something lane-o,” she sang to no particular tune, giggling uncontrollably at the something lane-o part. She had forgotten the words which struck her as incredibly funny.

  • • •

  “Where do you want to start the search?” the helicopter pilot asked Marshall.

  “Let’s begin at the rescue point, then move up the mountain,” he said, pointing in the direction the pilot should fly.

  “You got it,” the pilot responded, maneuvering the helicopter in the direction Marshall indicated.

  • • •

  RAP-RAP! “Yoo-hoo, Pappy, are you in there?”

  Tank leaped straight up from a dead sleep, his eyes blinking wildly as he gathered his senses and focused on the door.

  RAP-RAP! “Come on, Pappy. Open up.”

  Eyeing his watch: 0717 hours. Someone was trying to get into his hideaway. And not just anyone, but a woman! There was something familiar about her voice. Made him uncomfortable.

  RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP! “Pappy, I want you to meet Boo-Boo Two. I know you’ll just love her,” the woman’s voice called, raising an octave as her impatience escalated.

  “Boo-Boo Two,” Tank whispered, rubbing his forehead in puzzlement.

  “Oh well, Pappy, no Sweet Cheeks today,” the female voice called in a tone brimming with personal rejection.

  The voice. Boo-Boo. Sweet Cheeks. It could only be one person, “Julia Andrasy,” Tank mumbled, finally making the connection. But she sounded very different. More than that, what the hell was she doing way out here, miles from any distinguishable road, SPOF or even Hines’ cabin? And, Hines. Shouldn’t he have taken possession and cleansed her by now? Had she escaped? Granted, the woman had a knack for launching daring escape attempts, but could she really have gotten away from Theodore Hines? If so, he’d sure as hell like to know how.

  “Come on. Pappy, is that you?” the woman anxiously called through the closed door.

  A Cheshire cat grin germinated on his face. If this was Julia Andrasy and she had escaped from Hines, he could capture her, return her to Hines ... no, capture her and keep her for his own.

  Ironically, just a few hours ago he had been thinking about Julia and what he might do if they ever crossed paths in the future ... and out of the blue, their paths were crossing, right now.

  Padding to the door, he removed the two-by-four barring the door. Flung it open. Sure enough, it was Julia Andrasy. His mouth widened as he eyed her
. A thin gray blanket tied around her shoulders covered skimpy white underwear. No other clothing. No shoes. Long blonde hair a tangled mess. Face, arms, legs and feet smudged with dirt. “Fuckin’ train wreck,” he muttered to himself.

  Stretching her neck to peer around his body to see inside the cabin, “Where’s Pappy?” she asked with a look of genuine concern.

  Shit! Something wasn’t right. Taking a step outside, Tank urgently scanned the meadow, seeking something that might explain this odd encounter. Seeing nothing, he grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her hard into the cabin, slamming the door shut.

  Twisting her arm free from his hold and frowning, “Hey, you’re playing rough. I’m gonna tell Pappy,” she threatened. Nudging her elbow into Tank’s gut to get around him, she sauntered over to the cot, plopped onto it. Obviously making herself right at home.

  Suspicious bewilderment washed Tank’s face. Cautiously, he approached the bed. Bending over, latching onto her chin with his thumb and forefinger, he roughly titled her head upward, stared.

  Her big blue eyes were unnaturally wide. Pupils dilated. Eyelids blinked in exaggerated slow motion.

  Wrinkling his forehead, “What the hell are you high on?” he asked with the tone of a concerned father.

  “High?” she innocently echoed, expanding her eyes even wider.

  Tank was positive she was high on something, especially since she didn’t seem to recognize him. If she wasn’t drugged, surely she would be terrified of him. In a half squat position, he parked his hands on his thighs, eyed her. “Julia, tell me what happened. How did you get here?”

  “Just out for a walk and stopped by to see Pappy,” she said with nonchalance. Enthusiastically she patted the cot next to her. “Come Boo-Boo Two ... that’s it, good girl.”