“You can help me, and you do, just by loving me.”
And Sam Dundee could help her. He could provide what Julian could not, the protection she so desperately needed. Now, after six long years, she would see him again—the man who haunted her dreams and possessed a part of her soul, the man whose power over her she feared far more than she feared Maynard Reeves.
SAM DUNDEE LOOSENED his black-and-gray silk tie, then flipped through the stack of newspaper articles piled on top of his desk. Jeannie Alverson stared up at him from the black-and-white photograph some determined reporter had snapped of her as she was leaving her home several days ago. Hell! The woman had become front-page news across the country.
They were calling her a miracle worker. A healer. A psychic. An empath with unlimited powers.
A tremor shook Sam’s shoulders. For six years he’d told himself that he had imagined what happened on that beach, when an angel of mercy held him in her arms. He had pretended he’d been delusional, that she had not drawn his pain from him. He had not wanted to believe she had delved into his mind and eased the torment he had felt—still felt—knowing he’d been responsible for the deaths of others. But here the truth was—in print. Or was it the truth? Hell, it couldn’t be. No one possessed those kinds of powers.
Sam picked up the remote control, switching on the videotape of the newscasts from the past several days—the ones dealing with the Mississippi empath who had once been touted throughout the south as a child healer.
He froze the picture the moment the camera zoomed in for a close-up shot of Jeannie. Jeannie. She was as hauntingly lovely as her name. Even though Sam knew the woman’s strength, had experienced it firsthand, he saw the sadness in her eyes, the vulnerability in that soft, endearing face.
Jeannie Alverson had somehow bewitched him six years ago, leaving him unable to forget her. He owed her his life. There was no doubt about it. He had felt compelled to see her after his release from the hospital, to find out if what he remembered had really happened. But once he looked into her hypnotic brown eyes, all he’d wanted was to get away from her before it was too late. His gut instincts had warned him that if he ever became involved with Jeannie, he would never be able to escape.
Sam stopped the VCR tape. Damn, what was he doing to himself? Jeannie was a part of his past, a part of that dark, devastating misery he had endured in Biloxi. He could not remember Jeannie without remembering all the rest. Perhaps that was his punishment, never being able to put the past behind him.
Several quick taps on his closed office door brought Sam’s head up and focused his vision on the opening door. His secretary peeped in.
“I’m leaving early, Sam.” Gertie Saunders waved her ring-clad fingers at her boss. “Everybody’s out except J.T. He said to tell you he’ll bring in some sandwiches for the two of you in about five minutes.”
“Thanks, Gert. Have a nice dinner.”
“I will,” the attractive grandmother of three said, a flirtatious smile on her face. “My gentleman friend is taking me somewhere special.”
“Well, in that case, feel free to come in late tomorrow morning.”
Gertie had worked for Sam since he’d opened his Atlanta office, nearly six years ago. A recent widow, with two sons in college, she hadn’t worked outside the home in twenty-five years, but hiring her was the smartest thing Sam had ever done. She ran his office like a well-oiled machine, and she knew how to keep him and his partners in line. No one intimidated Gertie Saunders, not even J. T. Blackwood, and J.T. could intimidate the devil.
The telephone rang just as Gertie was closing the door. “You want me to get that?” she asked.
“No, I’ll get it,” Sam said. “You don’t want to keep your gentleman friend waiting.”
Sam picked up the receiver. “Dundee Private Security. Dundee speaking. How may I help you?”
“Sam?”
Every nerve in his body froze instantly. He hadn’t heard that voice in over six years, but he would never forget it. He heard it in his dreams, whispering his name, comforting him, reassuring him.
“Jeannie? Jeannie Alverson?”
“I suppose you’ve read about me in the newspapers and seen the stories on television.”
“You’re headline news.”
“My whole world is topsy-turvy. My life’s a mess. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without being followed by reporters, and people begging me to heal them, and now…”
“And now what?” She wasn’t calling him to discuss the details of her life that he’d seen on television for the past few days. No, there had to be something wrong, terribly wrong, for Jeannie Alverson to contact him.
“There’s a man named Maynard Reeves. He’s the minister of a group who call themselves the Righteous Light Church.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s based in New Orleans, but he has a congregation in Biloxi,” Jeannie said. “He’s claiming I received my powers from Satan, and he’s threatened to destroy me. I believe he’s fanatical enough to kill me if he has to.”
“Are you calling to ask for my help?” No, don’t ask me to come back to Biloxi. Don’t ask me to face the demons that have haunted me for six years. Don’t ask me to become personally involved in your life.
“Yes. Julian and I agree that I need a bodyguard until all this hullabaloo dies down and we are certain Reverend Reeves isn’t a real threat to me.”
“Who’s Julian?” Sam asked before he even thought, then suddenly remembered what he’d read about Jeannie having been raised by foster parents—Dr. and Mrs. Julian Howell.
“Julian is my father. My foster father.”
“So you and your father think you need a bodyguard.” But not me, Sam thought. I’ll send you my best man. I’ll make sure you’re safe, but I will not come back to Biloxi.
“Of course, we’ll pay you your regular fee. It isn’t a question of money.”
Sam swallowed hard. It wasn’t a question of money for him, either. It was a matter of preserving his sanity. If he went to Biloxi to guard Jeannie, he would have to come to terms with his past. Jeannie Alverson would probably want to help him. He didn’t want to be helped. He had become accustomed to living with the anger and guilt, had accepted it as his punishment.
“I’ll send J. T. Blackwood to Biloxi tomorrow. He’s one of my partners and the best at what he does.” Sam heard the indrawn breath, then the silence on the other end of the line. “I don’t take bodyguard assignments myself. Not anymore.”
“Oh, of course, I understand. By sending your best man here to guard me, you’ll still be keeping your promise to me.”
Why had he ever made that stupid promise? If you ever need me, all you have to do is ask. He supposed he’d thought she’d never need him. Hell, he’d prayed she’d never need him, that he’d never have to deal with what had happened between them.
“What difference does it make whether I come myself or I send someone just as capable?”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “I understand. Believe me, I do.”
“Ms. Alverson, I owe you my life.” Blowing out an aggravated breath, Sam clutched the telephone fiercely. “I want to repay you, but…Biloxi holds a lot of really bad memories for me.”
“You still haven’t forgiven yourself, have you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I need help, Sam Dundee. My life could be in danger. If you feel you can’t return to Biloxi, that you don’t have the strength to face your ghosts, then send Mr. Blackwood. But ask yourself one thing. Do you really want to put my life in another man’s hands?”
Bull’s-eye. She’d hit the mark. Jeannie Alverson knew that for any other man the assignment would be nothing more than a job, but for Sam it would be personal.
“When do you need me?”
“Now,” she said. “By tomorrow at the latest. I’m holding a press conference at the Howell School tomorrow, and I really need—”
“You’re doing what? Where?” Sam hollered at her.
“I’m holding a press conference at the Howell School, in the gymnasium.”
“What’s this Howell School and why the hell would you agree to hold a press conference there?”
“The Howell School was founded by Julian’s wife, Miriam, to help children with physical and mental challenges that make it difficult for them to receive the help they need in regular schools. I work at the school as a counselor. My degree is in psychology.” Pausing, Jeannie took a deep breath. “Julian and I decided to hold a press conference where I’ll have the opportunity to explain to everyone the exact limitations of my powers. We think it’s a wise course of action.”
“You’re crazy if you hold a press conference anywhere,” Sam said. “But especially in a school gymnasium. You’ll be too confined. It’s a stupid idea. Don’t do it.”
“I disagree,” Jeannie said. “The press conference is already set for ten tomorrow morning. Can you be here by then?”
What the hell was the matter with her reasoning? And with Julian Howell’s? Didn’t they realize that the press would eat her alive? “I’ll fly my Cessna down first thing in the morning and meet y’all at the Howell School.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I knew I could count on you.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Alverson.” Sam slammed down the telephone. “Dammit!”
J. T. BLACKWOOD stood in the doorway, holding two roast beef sandwiches in his hands. It looked like Sam was in rare form this evening.
His partner of over four years had become his best friend. Oddly enough, the two men had found they had a lot in common, despite the vast differences in their backgrounds and present lifestyles. J.T. admired Sam Dundee more than anyone he knew. Sam was a man you could trust with your life, a man you could count on to be a tower of strength.
Like J.T. himself, Sam didn’t make friends easily. Of course, he could be a mean bastard at times, but that was part of his charm. And one more thing the two of them had in common. In any fight, J.T. would want Sam on his side.
A lot of men disliked Sam, but J.T. didn’t know one smart man who wasn’t just a little bit afraid of Sam Dundee.
“Got a problem?” He walked into the office, laid the sandwiches on top of the stack of newspaper clippings and sat down on the edge of the desk.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Sam glanced at the sandwiches. “Roast beef?”
“What else?” J.T. eyed the coffee machine on the low shelf in the corner. “I take mine black.”
“What?”
“My coffee,” J.T. said. “I brought the sandwiches. I figured you’d fix the coffee.”
“That stuff’s been sitting there for a couple of hours. It’ll probably grow hair on your chest.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Sam scooted back his chair, walked across the room and poured two cups of strong, well-aged coffee. “Here.” He handed J.T. a bright red mug.
“So, are you going to tell me or not?” J.T. asked.
“I’ve got to fly to Biloxi in the morning. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. A week, two, maybe more.”
“Biloxi, huh?”
“Yeah, I know. I said I’d never go back there.”
“What changed your mind?” J.T. unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite, then washed it down with the coffee. “Jeannie Alverson.”
“Who’s Jeannie—? Hey, you mean the woman on the news, the healer who saved some kid’s life after she’d been wounded in a drive-by shooting?”
“Yeah, that Jeannie Alverson.”
“You’re taking a bodyguard assignment? You haven’t done that in years. Why now?”
Sam lifted his mug to his lips, tasted the bitter coffee and frowned. “I should have made us a fresh pot.”
“Is there something personal between you and this Jeannie Alverson?”
“Yeah, you could say that. She’s the woman who saved my life six years ago, when the DEA sting I was involved in went sour.”
“So you owe her.”
“Yeah, I owe her. I promised her that she could demand payment in full anytime she needed me.”
“And she’s called in your marker.”
“Something like that.”
There was more going on here, something Sam wasn’t telling. J.T. had known the man for nearly five years, he considered him his best friend, but there was a lot the two of them had never discussed. Oh, they shared old war stories… Sam’s days in the marines and the DEA… J.T.’s own stint in the army and his life as a Secret Service agent. He had explained to Sam why he wore the black eyepatch, had told him all about how he’d lost the vision in his left eye when an assassin’s bullet lodged in his head. But he’d never told Sam about his childhood, had never told him about his Navaho mother. J.T. twisted the silver-and-turquoise ring on the third finger of his right hand.
A man usually didn’t share the demons in his soul, those personal demons that kept him raw and bleeding inside, long after old wounds should have healed.
J.T. had known, when Sam told him the bare-bones details of his last DEA assignment, that something had happened during that time to change Sam’s life forever. J.T. wondered if that something had anything to do with Jeannie Alverson.
CHAPTER TWO
SWEAT COATED THE palms of Jeannie’s hands, beaded across her forehead and trickled between her breasts. Her heartbeat roared like a runaway train, the sound drumming in her ears, pounding in her chest. Her legs weakened. She gripped the curve of her wooden cane. Nausea rose in her throat, bitterness coating her tongue.
Why wouldn’t they leave her alone? She had tried to answer their questions, had tried to make them understand. But they circled her like vultures waiting for the moment of death. They shoved microphones in her face. They bombarded her with questions so personal her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Flashes of light from their cameras blinded her.
If only she could escape. But there was no escape from the media—from the frenzied crowd of reporters determined to get a story out of Jeannie Alverson. Nor did there seem to be any escape from Maynard Reeves and his followers. At least a dozen of the reverend’s disciples were there this Thursday morning, dispersed throughout the crowd, their Die Witch posters held high for everyone to see.
How could this have happened? She’d been so careful for the past fourteen years, revealing the truth to no one, using her abilities to only a limited degree, so that others would not suspect.
The day Cassie Mills was shot, how could Jeannie have known that by helping her, she would doom herself to a living hell? Poor Cassie, in all her childish innocence, had told the police exactly what had happened, and neither she nor the police had realized a snoopy reporter could hear their conversation at the hospital. Tory Gaines had not been content to exploit the present facts. No, he had dug into Jeannie’s past—a past she had prayed would never return to haunt her.
“When did you realize you possessed the ability to heal, Ms. Alverson—or should we call you Ms. Foley?”
“Do you claim to work miracles for God?”
“How much money did your mother and stepfather cheat people out of by passing you off as a faith healer?”
“What religion are you, Jeannie?”
“The people we’ve questioned who were present when you supposedly worked your magic on Cassie Mills claim that you seemed to go into shock, taking away the child’s pain and stopping the bleeding from her gunshot wound. Is that true?”
Dr. Julian Howell wrapped his arm around Jeannie’s shoulders. She desperately wanted to lean heavily on the man who had been her foster father since she was thirteen, but Julian was a very old man, and his health had been failing these last few years. Jeannie realized she had to be strong as much for him as for herself. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could endure the endless questions, the clamor, the noise, the bodies that pushed closer and closer.
Dear Lord in heaven, help me, she prayed. Agreeing to hold this press conference
had been a terrible mistake. She should have listened to Sam Dundee. He’d tried to warn her. Why, of all places, had she chosen the gymnasium of the Howell School as the location for this debacle? There was nowhere to run, and no one to help her and Julian.
Tory Gaines shoved his way through the throng of reporters, his tall, gangly frame towering over the others. His dark eyes focused on Jeannie.
“I understand that since the truth was revealed about you, Jeannie, you’ve been flooded with requests from terminally ill people begging you to heal them.”
“Is it true that a man you refused to help actually attacked you?” a red-haired TV news reporter asked.
“Please, listen to me.” Jeannie couldn’t bear the way they were looking at her, the way they were treating her. As if she were some freak, some alien creature. “I do not possess the power to heal people. I never have. I have certain… abilities…as an empath. I can feel the pain of others. What I do for people is temporary. That’s all—”
“You can’t only feel their pain, you can take it away.” Tory raked back a long strand of black hair that had fallen over his right eye. “You can remove both physical and psychological pain, can’t you, Jeannie?”
“I am not a true healer.” Jeannie glanced down at her wooden cane. “If I could heal others, why wouldn’t I heal myself?”
Julian’s arm, clasping her shoulder, trembled. Jeannie sensed her foster father’s frustration at not being able to protect her.
“I’m all right, Julian,” she whispered. “Please don’t worry. All this stress isn’t good for your heart.”
“We have answered every question we can,” Julian said, facing the crowd, his voice strong and authoritarian. “Jeannie has told you everything. There is no more. Please, allow us to leave.”
When Julian, aided by Marta McCorkle, the supervisor of the Howell School, tried to assist Jeannie through the crowd, the media closed in around them, pushing and shoving. Julian and Marta flanked Jeannie, slowing their pace to accommodate Jeannie’s hampered gait.
Witness Page 28
