Catch a Shadow

by Potter, Patricia;

His hand accidentally brushed the bandage on her arm, and he heard the swift intake of breath.

  It was like a splash of icy water. He moved away with a sudden jerk.

  He rose. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t go.”

  “I hurt you. Again.”

  “You haven’t hurt me at all.”

  He shook his head. “None of this would have happened if I hadn’t come to Atlanta.”

  “Yes, it would. Your Mr. Adams would still have tried to kill that man, and I still would have taken the envelope. I just wouldn’t have anyone standing between him and me.” She blinked rapidly, though, and he knew she must be far more tired than she wanted to admit. She still wore the bloodied uniform shirt, which meant she probably hadn’t washed yet, either. Her arm had to be burning from that gunshot wound. She’d ignored it all, but apparently it was catching up with her.

  He stood and found the pain pills that had apparently been prescribed after yesterday’s injuries. He handed one to her, along with a soda, and watched as she swallowed it.

  “Here,” he said, handing her another piece of pizza. “You need some food with that.”

  Kirke obediently took several bites. Her eyes were obviously struggling to stay open.

  “I didn’t see any night stuff at your house,” he said.

  “That’s because I wear T-shirts at night,” she replied.

  He went over to her suitcase and found a large T-shirt. It had been on the list she’d given him. He put it on the bed, then went into the bathroom. When he returned, he had two wet washcloths and a towel.

  He turned back the sheet and cover.

  “Lie down,” he ordered and was surprised when she did. It said a lot about how tired she must be. He helped her off with her uniform shirt. She wore a bra underneath, and it, too, had bloodstains on it.

  He’d soaped one of the washcloths, and he ran it over her skin. He took his time washing her, returning frequently to the bathroom to get a fresh washcloth or rinse one out. When he’d finished the upper part of her body, he helped her pull on the T-shirt.

  His cell phone rang. He looked at the number, then handed it to her.

  “Sam,” she said fuzzily. “I’m fine. Jake got a pizza.”

  She listened for a moment. “Okay. Here’s Jake,” she said after he made a gesture with his hand.

  He took it and asked, “When will you be leaving the club?”

  “Around two a.m.,” Sam replied.

  “When you arrive, the connecting door will be locked,” Jake said. “You can call to open it.”

  There was a pause. Sam obviously wanted to say something, probably something obscene, but he resisted and just hung up.

  Jake went back to the bathroom. More hot water. More bath as he carefully avoided the bandages covering cuts from the purse snatcher. He cursed under his breath. By the time he had finished, her eyes were closed.

  He turned off all but the bathroom light and left that door partially open, then he dragged the chair over to the window. He could see the back parking lot from here, though not the front, and the hallway was accessible from both the parking lot and the lobby.

  He looked back at her. The bruise around her eyes was growing more colorful. Her injured arm was outside the sheet. She looked the ultimate innocent. He’d wanted to kill Gene Adams before but never as much as he did at this moment.

  Jake glanced at his watch. Eleven p.m.

  He would snatch an hour’s sleep, then drive to the club where Sam was playing. He had a bad feeling about that. Adams was good at exploiting weaknesses, and he might know that Sam was one of Kirke’s weaknesses. When Jake made sure both were safe tonight, then he would try to work with Kirke on those numbers that Del Cox had passed to her. Maybe she would remember something else.

  Merlin watched him as he opened the plastic container of fruit. He offered the parrot some grapefruit. The bird had been unusually silent, as if he sensed that not all was right with his world.

  When Merlin finished his treat, Jake put the cover over his cage, grabbed a piece of cold pizza, and sat back at the window.

  The parking lot was quiet. He closed his eyes. An hour’s sleep, and he would be okay for another day.

  Kirke jerked awake.

  For a moment she panicked. Where was she?

  Then she remembered. Remembered the sniper. The purse snatcher. Dear God, the plastique.

  She remembered the feel of Jake Kelly’s hands.

  She’d never felt anything as sensuous as when he washed her. Sensuous and yet oddly gentle. She shivered deliciously as she relived those few moments. Perhaps it was the gentleness that stirred so many sensations and emotions.

  She moved and saw his form in a chair at the window. He was sleeping, and yet she suspected at any second he would detect her small movements. He needed sleep as well, and she enjoyed watching him, even though she felt partially drugged by sleep and her reaction to the events of yesterday.

  What time was it? What had wakened her?

  She turned to look at the clock, and in that moment he woke. No sudden movement, just a quietness that she recognized. He rose slowly with an athletic grace that sent another set of shivers along her back.

  “I’m glad you’re awake,” he said in a low voice. He walked over to her and sat down. “I’m going to Sam’s club to make sure he makes it back here.”

  “You’re afraid he won’t?”

  “Adams probably knows where Sam plays, and he can lead them to you. I don’t want to take more chances.”

  His words sobered her. She had to remember why she was here, not drift back to those hands, to the tenderness in them.

  He took her hand. “Promise me you will stay here. Don’t open the door until you hear my knock. Not for anyone. Not for room service or a repairman or someone from the desk. Not even for Sam. I’ve locked the connecting door. If he wants in, he can call.”

  She nodded, her eyes intent on his face. Not quite as hard now. Yet she thought she saw more lines.

  “The signal?” he asked.

  “Three knocks, pause, then two more,” she recited.

  He nodded. “And if someone tries to get in, urge Merlin to make that siren sound of his.”

  “Merlin never does what he’s told.”

  “Well, do something that makes him think it’s his idea,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “Okay,” she said, snuggling back down in the bed. She didn’t want him to go. She felt infinitely safer with him at her side. But he was right about Sam.

  He picked up the clock and set it for three. “If we’re not back by the time the alarm goes off, call the police. Tell them everything you know.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I hate to do it to you, but get up and fasten all the locks on the door after I leave. Then go back to sleep.”

  Then he was gone.

  Despite his order, she got up out of bed and padded to the window. She stood near the corner and watched him walk to his car. There was an alertness to his movements that reassured her. For a moment, she wondered about him. She’d never asked if he had a wife. Had children. Had other family.

  What if he had all three?

  She watched as he drove out of the parking lot.

  Then she went back to bed, but she knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep. She coaxed Spade up on the bed.

  Something alive. She needed that.

  But she really wished Jake was back. He and those gentle hands that had soothed and comforted and, for a while, chased away the cold shadows.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jake used his map to find the nightclub in downtown Atlanta.

  Once he arrived, he drove around the block. There seemed to be no private parking, only valet service.

  He wore a light blue, long-sleeved shirt he purchased earlier in the day. Still, he wasn’t sure he could get inside the club with blue jeans until he saw two jean-clad men enter.

  Well, he hadn’t gone to a club in fifteen years or so
.

  He gave the valet twenty dollars and asked to park his own car.

  The young man in a tie didn’t blink. Just gave him directions on where to park.

  Jake drove through a narrow alley into the back. He almost instantly saw Sam’s car. He parked and looked around. No one. He stepped out of the car and inspected Sam’s.

  No explosives. Jake heard the crunch of pebbles as a car was being driven in. He stood and brushed dirt off his new shirt as he strode down the driveway toward the front entrance. He noted a side door that was probably used by employees.

  He went inside, paid an exorbitant cover charge, and wandered over to the bar where he could see the small stage. Sam was playing sax with four other musicians. Jazz, and very good jazz at that.

  Some couples were dancing, Others were sitting back and listening. The lights were dim, and he doubted Sam could see him.

  Jake ordered a drink. He was one of the few patrons sitting by himself. The rest were mostly couples.

  Maybe he was giving Adams too much credit. Except he couldn’t forget that C4 under Sam’s sink. He sat there, his gaze roaming around the room again. Those working for Adams would be paid mercenaries, and there was usually something that set them apart from other people, no matter how much they tried to blend into the environment.

  He listened to another song and glanced at his watch. They must be near the end of the set. He gulped down the weak bourbon and water, paid the bill, and headed toward the exit. He thought the musicians probably left by the side door.

  “Don’t like the music?” the guy at the door asked.

  “I like it just fine,” Jake said. “Just got a text message that the friend I was meeting can’t come, and it’s been a long day. I imagine the music’s ending soon.”

  The man looked at his watch. “Another five minutes.”

  “I’ll be back. That sax player’s damned good.”

  The guy was looking at him. His gaze locked on the scar above Jake’s ear. “You military?”

  “Used to be.”

  The guy grinned. “I can always tell. I was in Nam. Marines.”

  He waited for Jake to declare his branch.

  “Army,” Jake said.

  “You come back again, and I won’t charge you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  “If I’m not at the door, just ask for Sarge. Everyone calls me that.”

  Jake hesitated. “You see any other military here tonight?”

  “None I recognized. Why?”

  “Just wondered whether it might be a gathering place. Anyway, thanks, Sarge.”

  Jake left without leaving his name or giving Sarge a chance to ask more questions. He didn’t like lying to guys who’d served.

  Once outside, he glanced around. Two valets were lounging against the wall. One straightened.

  “I’ll get it myself,” Jake said, handing the first one to reach him a five dollar bill. “I might be a few minutes. I have some messages to answer.”

  “Take your time,” the valet said, “and thanks.”

  Not very dutiful of the valets. He could be back there stealing the contents of cars.

  He made his way down the alley that led to the parking lot. He quickly checked his car in an abundance of caution. He’d left it unlocked, but he’d also left a dark thread in the door and trunk door. They hadn’t been disturbed.

  He stepped inside and waited.

  Before long he saw a man slip out the side door. Different clothes than those Sam wore, but obviously one of the other musicians. He carried a saxophone case and placed it in a van.

  Then Sarge appeared at the same door and went to the van. He got in the driver’s side and drove it to the side door. Jake’s view was blocked for a moment, then he heard a van door slam shut. The van started moving again.

  He had a gut feeling Sam was in the van.

  The musician was smarter than Jake had given him credit for. Jake waited as the valets both appeared and picked up cars. He followed the second one out.

  Sam had done well, and Jake sure as hell didn’t want to spoil it. He turned toward downtown Atlanta rather than toward the hotel. The traffic was thin enough at this hour so that he soon realized that no one was following him.

  He turned onto the expressway and headed toward the hotel.

  Kirke woke to the ringing of the room telephone. She looked at the clock. It was two forty in the morning.

  She rolled over to pick it up and winced at the eruption of pain in her arm.

  Ignoring it, she picked up the receiver and waited.

  “Kirke.”

  Sam. Thank God. “I’m here,” she said.

  “Unlock the door between us.”

  She pulled on a pair of shorts and went to the connecting door. Jake had left the light on in the bathroom and the door slightly open so she wouldn’t be entirely in the dark.

  She was grateful for that as she opened the connecting door and faced Sam.

  He grinned. “I decided I have a knack for cloak-and-dagger,” he said. “Sarge helped me out. I think your friend was there. I didn’t see him, but Sarge said he talked to someone who was obviously ex-military and who stayed only a few moments just before closing.

  “He was worried about you.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow.

  “He was,” she insisted.

  “Anything else happen?” He looked around the room suspiciously. He saw the food on the table and went over to what was left of the pizza. He grabbed a slice. It disappeared in two gulps.

  She shook her head. “I talked to Robin. She’s going to take care of Merlin for a few days. She said she would look after Spade as well if you want.”

  “I want,” he said.

  She hugged him. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  His cat leaped from the bed and wound in and out of his legs, meowing plaintively. Sam leaned down and picked him up.

  “Poor Spade,” Kirke said. “He’s thoroughly confused.”

  “When will Robin be here?”

  “Around nine,” she said.

  “And when will Kelly return?”

  “I would think any minute.”

  “How are you?”

  “Tired. Confused. And I hurt.”

  “Have you thought any more about going to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited.

  “I would be admitting to withholding evidence. I would also be admitting to breaking any number of rules.” She didn’t add that she might also be sending Jake back to prison.

  “Better than being dead,” he said.

  She had no answer for that.

  The growing silence was broken by the knock she’d been expecting. She opened the door, and Jake Kelly entered, filling the room again with his presence.

  Sam glowered at him.

  Jake ignored it. “You play a mean sax,” he said.

  Kirke watched the conflicting emotions play across Sam’s face.

  He ignored the compliment. “What do we do now?” Sam asked.

  “It depends on Kirke,” Jake said.

  Kirke looked from one face to another. Neither man trusted the other for whatever reason. “Tell him everything you told me,” she said to Jake.

  Sam perched on the table as Jake repeated his story. When he finished, Sam peered at him.

  “You have no idea what the numbers mean?”

  “No.”

  “He knew you as Mitch Edwards, but someone on his behalf called Jake Kelly,” Sam said. “So why did he ask Kirke to give the letter to Mitch Edwards?”

  That had been bothering Kirke as well.

  “Maybe,” Sam continued, “because the numbers had something to do with the man he knew best as Mitch Edwards. Something that was said when you were together. He was trying to tell you something that only Edwards would know.”

  Jake looked startled, then looked at Sam with new appreciation.

  “I like puzzles,” Sam said defensively, and Kirke could vouch for that
. He’d always loved crossword puzzles along with many other kinds of puzzles. It had always amused her the way he would stir himself Sunday morning to listen to a public radio program that featured different kinds of word puzzles. Sam had sent in answers several times.

  But she was taken back at his new cooperation. Maybe Jake’s observation about his playing had disarmed Sam. Then again, it might have been the puzzle presented to him.

  Sam turned to her. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything beyond what sounded like Virginia and military?”

  Kirke went back to that day in her mind. She’d been through it so many times, but she’d been so tired earlier. There was something else!

  “Dallas. He mentioned Dallas. He said, ‘Tell him … Dallas …’ I should have remembered that … I was concentrating on the last part of what he said, the part just before he lost consciousness.”

  She saw sudden recognition in Jake’s eyes and knew it had meaning for him.

  “You remember something?”

  He nodded. “Maybe not without the other words. But combined with military and Virginia …”

  He was silent, but she could see the wheels turning inside his head. Something was beginning to make sense to him. “Cox and I talked one night. He wasn’t very communicative, but we had served in some of the same hot spots in the Middle East. Not together, but we had some common ground there. He got started on a bar near the Farm in Virginia. It’s the not-very-secret training facility for the CIA. I underwent some specialized training there. He asked if I had gone to a bar called the Enigma.

  “I had. It was after a grueling two weeks at the Farm, and a bunch of us from Special Forces were celebrating the fact we were through. A CIA instructor had recommended the bar. It was a spook hangout.”

  “Spook?” Sam asked.

  “It’s what we call a CIA agent,” Jake explained. “Cox mentioned the manager. I think he really liked her. She looked after all the CIA recruits. Older ones, too. Word was she was the widow of a CIA guy who died early in Afghanistan.

  “She was tough as nails,” he continued. “While I was there, some drunk CIA types started in on us. We’d bested them on a challenge at the Farm, and their pride was hurt. The manager simply glared them down and threatened to bar them forever.”

  “Her name was Dallas, and it suited her. When she wasn’t trying to restore order, she was warm and funny and had a southern accent that was pure honey. Cox appeared to have been smitten with her.”