Bodyguard

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Josh charged him. Shaun thought he was ready for it, but the force pushed him backward, into the bike rack and over its top. He landed with a bone-jarring thud on the hard-packed dirt, grateful that Josh didn’t fall with him, grateful for the thick metal of the bike rack that now separated them.

  He was grateful, too, that Josh seemed content with the sight of Shaun sprawled in the dirt. Apparently that was enough to restore the ninth grader’s threatened manhood.

  Shaun watched the two boys swagger away as he straightened his glasses and checked to see how badly his elbow was bleeding.

  It was only slightly scraped.

  “Are you okay?” Mindy MacGregor, the tallest girl in the class, forty pounds overweight, with thick glasses that gave her the not-too-appealing look of a bubble-eyed fish, offered him a hand up.

  “Yeah.” Shaun let her haul him to his feet then dusted off the seat of his jeans. Funny, he was taller than giant Mindy MacGregor. When had that happened?

  She flashed her braces at him in a weirdly shy space alien-like smile. “I was kind of hoping you would kill them.”

  “Yeah, well, I was hoping they weren’t going to kill me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mindy told him.

  “Why? I survived. I’m considering it a victory.”

  “I was too afraid to come stand next to you. I saw what they were doing, and I knew I should help, but …”

  Ricky and Josh always called her “Fats MacBlubber” or “Mindy the Mountain.” Shaun had seen her more than once, rushing toward the girls’ room in tears.

  “It’s okay.” He forced a smile as he slipped on his backpack, wishing she would stop staring at him with those magnified eyes.

  “I was so amazed that you could just stand there smiling at them like that.”

  Shaun had been amazed, too. He smiled ruefully. Maybe he wasn’t as different from his father as he’d thought. Harry could talk his way out of anything.

  Mindy giggled. “They didn’t understand half of what you said.”

  “Good thing, or I probably would be dead.”

  “Together, you know, we could crush them.” A pinkish hue tinged her cheeks and she was giving him another of those weird smiles and …

  Oh, God, she liked him. Mindy the Mountain liked him. He froze, uncertain of what to say or do.

  “You’re really great, you know, your dance number. I’m in the talent show, too. I’m playing my French horn.”

  “Great,” he said unenthusiastically. He raised the kickstand of his bike and climbed on. Mindy liked him. But whenever he imagined his fighting sidekick, he conjured up a girl who looked more like something out of the X-Men comics than Mindy MacGregor. He conjured up a girl with long red hair, a killer figure in a tiny black bikini, and normal-size eyes that sparkled when she smiled.

  “Have you thought about getting contact lenses?” Mindy asked. “Mrs. Fisher told me not to wear glasses onstage, that the lights would reflect off them, so I’m going to the eye doctor as soon as my mom has the time and … Not that you look bad in glasses. You look … Well, I heard Heather Ullman say you would be one of the top ten cutest guys in the school if you didn’t wear glasses and … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you look bad in glasses. Personally, I think they’re … nice.” Mindy closed her gigantic eyes. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “I’m such a dweeb. Just kill me now.”

  Shaun knew he should tell her that she didn’t stand a chance, that he would never like her the way she liked him, not in a million, billion years. He knew all about false hopes and dashed expectations. He knew the longer hope was left alive, the bleaker and emptier it felt when its light finally burned out.

  But instead, he reached over and patted her awkwardly on her giant shoulder. “Thanks for helping me.”

  Her eyes flashed open and she smiled. She was almost pretty when she smiled. “I should’ve helped you crush ’em.”

  He forced another smile, cursing himself for being a coward. “Maybe next time.”

  Mindy nodded energetically, buoyant with hope. “Definitely next time.”

  Shaun slipped his feet into the pedal straps and rode away.

  Instead of being honest, he ran away. Instead of confronting the issue, he hid from it.

  Yeah, he was definitely more like his father than he’d thought.

  Alessandra stood in the living room, holding the telephone.

  Harry cleared his throat and she jumped.

  “Oh,” she said. “Harry. Hi.”

  He just looked at her.

  “I thought you went out to the store.”

  He didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle.

  She dropped the receiver into the cradle, and in one nervous motion, sat down on the couch, drawing up her knees and hugging them close to her chest. “I wasn’t calling him.”

  She looked nice today. Her hair hung shiny and smooth around her shoulders, her face carefully made up, her lipstick a work of art. She was wearing a blue sweater that was almost a perfect match for the color of her eyes, and a pair of jeans that were more expensive than most of the suits he wore to work.

  She looked like something you’d want to wrap in plastic—kind of the way his grandmother had covered the furniture in her living room because it was too good to actually use.

  “I promised you,” she told him earnestly. “And I … know you probably don’t believe this, but I keep my promises.”

  Harry sighed. He took a step farther into the room. “So who were you calling?”

  She bit her lip. “Look, I know I’m not supposed to make any phone calls—”

  “Then what the hell were you doing? And don’t tell me you couldn’t stand another day not talking to your pals on the Psychic Friends Hotline.”

  She was holding her knees so tightly, her knuckles were almost white. “I was going to call the Northshore Children’s Hospital.”

  He just waited for her to explain.

  “Jane had her final heart operation this morning,” Alessandra whispered. “I just … I need to know if she’s okay.”

  Jane? Who the hell was Jane? The answer came to him in a flash. Northshore Children’s Hospital. Jane was the baby that Alessandra had told him about. The one she’d wanted to adopt.

  “She’s had a … heart operation? Jesus, can babies have heart operations?”

  Alessandra nodded. “She was born with some kind of hole in her heart. They have this new method of going in and creating some kind of patch and—” She shook her head. “I just … wanted to find out if she … you know, survived.”

  “Oh, shit.” Harry started to pace.

  If this was some kind of story she was handing him, this woman should be given an Oscar. He turned to look back at her.

  Her face was so pale, her lips so tight.

  No way was she that good of an actress.

  “What was your connection with Northshore Children’s?” he asked. “Was it just some place you went when you decided to try to adopt?”

  “No. I did volunteer work there,” she told him. “Fund-raising. Why?”

  “And this was something people knew about?”

  “Yes.”

  Damn. “How about your connection to this baby? Did people know about that, too?”

  “I didn’t keep it a secret,” she said. “Why?”

  “I can’t let you call them,” Harry told her. “I’m sorry, but it’s too risky.”

  “Isn’t there any way we could find out?” Alessandra asked. “I just keep thinking of all the things that could’ve gone wrong, and … I just want to know if she’s okay.”

  Harry picked up the phone and dialed the New York City Bureau office, punched in Nicole Fenster’s extension.

  “Fenster.” Nicki sounded more and more like Joe Friday every day.

  “Nicki, it’s Harry O’Dell. I need you to call the Northshore Children’s Hospital out on the Island and find out the status of one Baby Jane Doe, who had a heart operation this morning.”

  Nicole sighed,
extremely exasperated. “Has it occurred to you that I might have better things to do with my time?”

  “This is one call you definitely don’t want us to make,” Harry said. “We need this information like an hour ago. This baby is special to Barbara Conway. Call me right back.”

  He hung up without waiting for Nic’s response.

  Alessandra had such hope in her eyes. “Will she really call back?”

  “Sure,” he said. There was a notebook, its top page filled with incredibly sloppy handwriting next to the telephone. He picked it up and read a description of sunlight on the ocean, the feel of the sand, and the smell of the beach. It wasn’t half bad. “What’s this?”

  Alessandra snatched it away from him. “That’s private.”

  “Did you write that?”

  She held it against her chest, obviously embarrassed.

  “It was good, but Jesus, who taught you penmanship?”

  “I have awful handwriting,” she admitted. “I was never very good at school.” She looked down at her notebook. “I don’t know why I even bother.”

  “Do you like to write?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, and he could see from her eyes that she was aware he was distracting her, trying to keep her from biting her nails to the quick until Nicole Fenster called back with news about Jane. “I don’t know,” she said. “Yeah. I guess. I mean … I’ve almost filled this entire notebook.”

  “Do you write stories?” he asked. “Or is it more stream of consciousness?”

  “Harry, I can’t stop thinking about how it might just be more merciful for Jane if she—” She couldn’t say it. “I mean, what’s her life going to be like? If they were considering me, that means they couldn’t even find a foster home for her.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But I don’t want her to die. You should see her smile. She’s got this great smile. But I can’t stop thinking that maybe my wanting her to live is just being selfish and—”

  “Shhh,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch and pulling her into his arms. He knew it was trouble to touch her, but how could he not? “It’s not being selfish, Al. Because as long as she’s alive, there’s a chance that someone will want her. Who knows? As long as she’s alive, there’s hope, you know?”

  Alessandra nodded. She knew.

  She was far too perfect to kiss. Harry didn’t want to mess up her lipstick, yet he couldn’t keep his gaze from dropping to her mouth.

  She was looking at his mouth, too. Oh, Christ, she wanted him to kiss her.

  Where the hell was George or Christine or Ed when Harry needed them? But the house was dead silent. Nothing moved. If any of the other agents were here, they were sound asleep.

  Alessandra nervously moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and …

  The phone rang, and Harry let go of Alessandra as he nearly went through the roof.

  On his way back down, he scooped up the phone. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. Sweet God, that had been close. He moved farther away from Alessandra, who was still on the couch. She was watching him intently, her focus on the phone call, the fact that she’d nearly kissed him again was completely forgotten.

  “O’Dell?” It was Nicole. “The patient Jane Doe is in recovery, doing fine.”

  He repeated her words to Alessandra, who burst into tears. “Thank God,” she whispered and ran from the room.

  “Thanks, Nic,” he said, watching Alessandra head up the stairs toward the privacy of her bedroom.

  There was no way in hell he was following her.

  No way.

  Eight

  “THIS DOESN’T MAKE me happy.” Harry stood by the front door with George, waiting for Alessandra to do God knows what in the bathroom. She’d come downstairs after lunch with her makeup perfectly applied, her hair already gorgeous.

  “It’s a good setup,” George reminded him. “The yard’s completely clear. We know none of Trotta’s men have gotten past us. If they’re going to shoot, it’s going to be from back beyond the tree line.”

  “They could be set up anywhere from here all the way into town.” Harry adjusted his jacket over the heavy weight of his body armor. As if wearing a bullet-proof vest was going to do any good. If he were a mob hitman, he’d be perched in some church tower with a high-powered rifle and a scope. He’d wait until Alessandra’s car approached, and he’d take ’em all out, aiming for their heads, right through the car roof.

  “I’m hating this,” Harry murmured to George as Alessandra finally emerged. “I want her in a vest, too.”

  “Believe me, it wouldn’t work under that shirt.”

  Alessandra was wearing tight-fitting black jeans and a snug black T-shirt that showed off her perfect body. Her hair was pulled back from her face in some kind of fancy braid thing. Her made-up face was as flawless as fine porcelain, her lips were the color of wine, and her eyelashes were darkly, artistically enhanced.

  He liked her better in baggy pajamas, with a faint smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

  She stopped directly in front of him. Her high heels made her exactly his height and put her eyes exactly on his level. They were cool, distant, detached. She was in Princess Alessandra mode.

  Harry wanted to shake her, to bring her back to life. But on the other hand, he couldn’t blame her. He was the one who’d spent the past few days avoiding her. Ever since she’d tripped over him in the hallway and he’d touched her arm, ever since she’d looked at him as if she wanted him to kiss her, he’d kept at least a room length between them. Ever since they’d sat in the living room and she’d told him about baby Jane, he’d only given yes/no responses to her questions. He didn’t want her to tell him her secrets, didn’t want to tell her his. He didn’t want to see the heat from his touch reflected in her eyes.

  But, Christ, he hated the way she was looking at him now. “Are we going to Hartford so I can call Michael Trotta today?” It was a yes/no question. She’d obviously been paying attention.

  “No. I still haven’t gotten approval for that.” It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t gotten approval. However, he knew he wasn’t going to get approval. Nicole didn’t want to give Trotta any false clues, and she’d nixed the idea completely, at least for the short term.

  As for the long term …

  Hopefully there wasn’t going to be a long term. After four days, Harry was bouncing off the walls. He’d finally reached Marge, but she was uncommunicative and cool when he’d asked where the hell they’d been. She’d told him she’d taken Shaun and Emily to the beach, to California, the way she did every spring vacation. They’d had a lovely time, thank you very much.

  She’d refused to talk about the letter from the lawyers requesting custody, only telling him that he needed to come out there. This could not be discussed over the phone. It had to be dealt with face to face. She’d gotten even more stiff on him then, telling him she’d thought he would at least have come for Shaun’s performance.

  Harry’s kid had had a lead role in the school musical, and nobody had bothered to tell him about it. Of course, with his schedule, it would’ve been near impossible to fit in a trip west. Even now, with this personal crisis nearing an eruption point, best case scenario didn’t have him catching a flight to Colorado for another few weeks.

  George held the front door shut, keeping Alessandra from going out into the yard. “No trips to Hartford today. You’ll have to be happy going only as far as the local library and the grocery store. Think you can handle the thrill?”

  Alessandra granted him a small smile. “Actually, you can’t imagine how excited I am at the thought of going to the library.”

  Every day for the past four days, Harry had sent either Chris McFall or Ed Bach to the library to pick up books for Alessandra to read. She wasn’t a fan of daytime TV. In fact, she wasn’t a fan of TV at all. But books … She was a voracious reader. She read constantly—when she wasn’t scribbling in her notebook. She read or wrote during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All day and quit
e possibly most of the night, too. She read anything and everything. Cover to cover. If it had words on a page, Alessandra read it.

  George looked over at Harry. “Are we ready to go?”

  No. He wasn’t ready. And Alessandra wasn’t ready either. She had absolutely no clue that bad guys might start shooting at her, hoping to kill her, the moment she stepped out into the yard.

  “Do me a favor,” he said to her, “and stay close to me at all times. If I tell you to get down or to run like hell, you do it. No questions, you just do it, you got that?”

  A small furrow creased her perfect brow. “I thought I was safe in this town.”

  “You are.” George shot Harry a what-are-you-doing look behind Alessandra’s back.

  Harry ignored him. “Humor me,” he told her. “Please? I know you don’t believe this, but Trotta’s a son of a bitch, and he’s known for his persistence.”

  George opened the door. “Harry just wants an excuse to put his arm around you.”

  Alessandra glanced quickly at Harry, surprise lighting her eyes. Surprise and something else. Something as hot and electric as lightning. It brought her to life so completely and made her exquisitely beautiful despite the heavy makeup.

  But as instantly as it appeared, it was gone. Quaffed and shoved back inside. Somewhere down the line she’d learned to hide any excitement, any life, any passion. Someone hadn’t wanted her to be anything more than a pretty bauble. A decorative but unobtrusive piece of art.

  George closed the door. “If you want, I’ll turn around and you two can kiss.”

  Harry eviscerated George with his eyes. “George imagines there’s some kind of weird attraction thing between us, Al. But George is wrong. George is dead wrong.” He muttered under his breath, “In fact, George is dead.” He looked at Alessandra. “I’m sorry if he offended you.”

  “He didn’t. I’m aware that you’re not … that we’re not … I’m aware.”

  “Still, that was completely inappropriate.” Harry looked at George again, who was totally amused. “Stupendously, asshole-ishly inappropriate.”

  “I think we’re all a little punchy.” The icy princess had been replaced by someone softer, someone less certain. Someone he had far more trouble resisting. Someone he did want to kiss.