Love On the Run

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  The cool water made Jared gasp. “Cassi?” he shouted.

  “Right here.” She was in the water too, struggling to reach Sampson, who floated face upwards, saved by his life jacket.

  A hand closed on Jared’s arm. Jared pushed it off, but the hand kept coming. It pulled him under the water. He tore away from the grasping hand and swam to where he had last seen Cassi. When he hit the surface, he could see that she was still clinging to the canoe a short way off. Jared’s attacker was nowhere to be seen. Had he given up? Or had he drowned? Guilt assaulted Jared and he wanted to vomit. Why, why, why? he kept asking. There was no answer.

  “Jared?” Cassi’s voice sounded frightened.

  “I’m here.”

  “Is he . . .?”

  “He’s gone.”

  She threw something at him. A life jacket from the boat. Jared treaded water while he put it on. Immediately it was easier to stay afloat, and he let himself rest for a few moments.

  Sampson began thrashing in his sleep, as though trying to wake. “We need to get him in the canoe,” Cassi said. “Help me try to turn it over.”

  After four unsuccessful attempts, they gave up trying to right the canoe. Both were too tired to manage much effort. “We’ve lost the paddles anyway,” Cassi told him. “Even if we could climb inside, we’d be stuck. We’ll have to swim.”

  Jared had learned that in the case of capsizing, one should always stay with the boat. But the breeze that had begun earlier was blowing them back in the direction of the cabin—not a good idea. The other shore was far away, but reachable if they let the canoe go and took turns towing Sampson. “Let’s swim for it,” he said to Cassi.

  She thought a moment and then let go. “Maybe they’ll find the canoe and think we drowned.”

  “We can always hope.”

  Jared pulled Sampson first, hoping the cold water wouldn’t cause further damage to him. At least the night was warm, despite the breeze. Sampson occasionally thrashed his arms and legs, and once he yelled out something Jared didn’t understand. He prayed for strength.

  They would have been lost without the life jackets. At times they had to rest on their backs, floating and staring up at the dark sky, where only a smattering of stars shone through the clouds. In the peace and near stillness of the water, Jared could almost believe none of it had happened, but a glance at Sampson’s inert form made it all too real.

  His muscles ached by the time they arrived at the far shore. He and Cassi wearily carried Sampson up the bank and laid him in the knee-high grass. They were too tired to do more than take off their life jackets and soggy sweaters and huddle on either side of the boy for warmth.

  “We have to get out of here,” Cassi said. “They’ll be searching for us. Even if they find the boat and think we’ve drowned, that won’t keep them for long. They’ll expect to find some trace of us.” She smoothed the hair on Sampson’s head that now hung in short, wavy mounds. “I’m worried about him. That man in the cabin tried to kill him, and would have if Brohaugh hadn’t stepped in the way. Whoever these men are, they want us alive. But they don’t seem to care much about Sampson.”

  “They could be the ones who killed Holbrooke.”

  She nodded, her eyes luminous in the dim light. Her short dark hair curled in hundreds of tiny ringlets. “I think you’re right. Brohaugh was not a good man, but he loved Sampson.” Cassi began to weep softly, and Jared wanted to cry himself. His insides felt shaky, his body exhausted. He held her as tightly as he could with Sampson between them, noting that she spoke of Brohaugh in the past tense, as though she too had seen the death in his eyes.

  “The darts were meant for us,” she said, gulping back her tears. “Maybe there’s too much drug in it for Sampson. He’s not that big. It could kill him.”

  “Let’s try to get him to wake up.” He heaved his aching body to his feet.

  Cassi seemed to understand what he meant. They had both seen the movies where someone had taken an overdose of sleeping pills, and their friends made them walk and take cold showers until help arrived. Well, Sampson had taken the equivalent of many cold showers, and he had been somewhat aware during the swim. But since they had brought him to shore, he had been utterly still.

  On either side of the boy, they hauled him to his feet and began to walk. “Wake up, Sampson.” Cassi rubbed his cheek.

  Jared slapped his back. “Sampson, come on, boy.”

  There was no response. Not even an eyelid flickered. “Come back to us, Sampson,” Cassi pleaded. “We can’t let them win.”

  Nothing.

  They kept trying until Cassi slumped to the ground. “I can’t do it anymore. It’s not working.”

  Jared knew they had to find help—now.

  “Let’s make a bed of this grass and some leaves, enough to keep you and Sampson a little warmer. Then I’ll go find someone to help.”

  He saw that she wanted to protest the separation, but knew it was the only way. Though Sampson was just a boy, in their weakened condition they couldn’t carry him for long—their attempt to wake him had proven that. And who knew how long they would have to walk? They didn’t even know in which direction to begin.

  “Okay,” she said. “But let’s make it between those trees.” She pointed to the side of the small clearing. “That way we can hide if anyone comes.”

  They worked quickly and quietly, forcing already overtaxed muscles to comply. Then they carried Sampson to the grass bed. “I’ll rub his arms and legs,” Cassi said. “That will help keep his circulation going.”

  Jared took her in his arms, kissing her deeply. Her touch sent warmth through him as the exertion of making the bed of grass hadn’t. “I love you so much.” He knew his voice was rough with emotion.

  “Just come back to me, Jared.”

  “I will.” What they had between them was good and right. A-once-in-a-lifetime kind of love. They needed each other. They kissed again, neither seeming to want the moment to end. At last, Jared pulled gently away and walked into the night, feeling her eyes upon him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NO NEWS WAS SUPPOSED TO be good news, but Fred felt uneasy. He wished he knew for sure that Jared and Cassi were safe. The FBI agents with them were required to check in once daily with their Legat office in London, using the personal satellite telephone Worthington carried in a pocket. Only if something happened would he make an extra call.

  What really bothered him was Brooke’s continued disappearance. He had selfishly put Justin back on her case and worked on it as much as possible himself. With all the resources of the FBI, they would find out who the real Brooke was.

  Justin came into the room, looking jubilant. “I’ve found her parents. We called just about every Erickson in the phone book, but we’ve found her.”

  “Are you sure they’re the right ones?” Fred felt stupid asking the question. Of course Justin was sure. He didn’t make such mistakes.

  “They live in Indiana,” Justin said. “Apparently, Brooke, their daughter, moved to Utah a year ago. They knew she worked at a newspaper. In fact, they think she’s still there.”

  “You have a positive ID?”

  “I sent them the drawing of Brooke that our artist made up. It’s Brooke, all right. But her parents are as puzzled as we are at her disappearance. They have no idea what she’s doing in San Diego. Or where she’s staying.”

  “Someone in this city has to know.” Ideas began to churn in Fred’s mind. “What if we check out all of the job applications sent to the San Diego Union-Tribune? Let’s just see how close our Brooke came to working there. Maybe we’ll find a piece of truth in her lies.”

  “There is good news,” Justin said. “According to her parents, she’s not married.”

  Fred grimaced. “What about the hospitals?”

  “Only one Jane Doe. Estimated age around fifty.”

  “Not Brooke.” Fred sighed inwardly. He regretted ever letting her become involved at all. Maybe it was his fault she was missi
ng.

  But she lied, he told himself. Could there be an explanation? He didn’t think so.

  “Why the ring?” he said aloud.

  “To keep the creeps away.”

  Fred shook his head. “Maybe she’s involved with one of our suspects. Maybe with Brohaugh.”

  “Her and Brohaugh? I don’t think so. But if you’re determined to go along those lines, Donelli’s nephew would be a better candidate, don’t you think?”

  Fred had to admit that the man had charisma and dark good looks that women seemed to find attractive. “Let’s find some reason to search Donelli’s. Something, anything. If Brooke’s there, whether willingly or not, we’ll find some trace.”

  “I’ll get right on it. But there is also another avenue we might try.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was thinking of the plants that were authorized six months ago. Didn’t we put one in Donelli’s organization?”

  Fred and his superiors had tried to place an operative in every suspect organization that the budget would allow. Donelli’s name had been on the list, but Fred hadn’t heard anything come of it. “You might be right.”

  “I’ll check it out on my way to get the search warrant.”

  * * *

  BROOKE STUDIED HERSELF IN THE mirror. Behind her several paces hovered the hairdresser, waiting for approval. The doctor was also in the background, an ever-constant annoying presence. Like a buzzing fly.

  She brought a hand to her hair. Now she looked more as she remembered, like the face in the video. Her pale blond locks were sleek and smooth, curled slightly under at the ends. Though shorter than on the video, the overall image was perfect. Her face wore a considerable layer of expensive makeup that made her cheekbones more prominent and her lips slightly thinner. The lips were now painted a bright red like her long nails. Daggers. She smiled. That was what Jared had called them.

  The biggest change was her eyes. She hadn’t remembered wearing contacts before, but the bright green color was right, not the pale blue the green contacts hid. Those had been too innocent. Green—the color of money, the color of power and passion—was meant for her.

  Brooke put on another coat of lipstick. Then, not of her own volition, she opened the empty vanity drawer. Her hand shook for a moment as though writing with a pen on the wood inside. A silly show of weakness that she must not let the doctor see. Without capping the lipstick, she dropped it in the drawer and slammed it shut.

  The voice inside her protested. You may need it later. It was the first thing the inner voice had said that she agreed with.

  Brooke removed the lipstick, capped it firmly and said, “I want this with the clothes I picked out.” She chose other items from the hairdresser’s assortment—base, blush, shadow, eyeliner, several more lipsticks, face cream, and cleanser—and set them in a neat pile on the desk. “And these.”

  She arose and turned from the mirror, smoothing the tight-fitting green evening gown over her shapely figure. Not fat, but fuller in certain places than she remembered from the video. “You may go,” she told the hairdresser. Obediently, the matronly woman picked up the remainder of her equipment and left. I will use her again, thought Brooke. She’s not much to look at, but she knows her work and her place.

  Brooke crossed the room toward the doctor, swaying rhythmically in her high heels. The carpet in this room made it more difficult to walk, but it was only a matter of technique. “I am ready.”

  “Almost.” The doctor’s sharp, seemingly colorless eyes watched her carefully. Too carefully. It was annoying. If he pushed her too far . . .

  “We will leave in a little while,” he said. “Then we will continue to work on the plane. We have a few more days.”

  “I am ready now.” Brooke kept her voice even and smooth, convincing. “I don’t need any more work.”

  “It’s too soon. You’ve been ill.”

  Brooke glared at him. “I’m sick of hearing about how ill I’ve been! I feel fine. I look fine.” She stepped closer, until their faces were an inch apart. “Don’t I look fine?”

  The doctor backed away, paling. “You’re beautiful.” She knew he meant the words. “But there is that other voice,” he continued. “Has it disappeared completely?”

  Brooke knew he was right. What was that voice deep in her head that protested nearly everything she did?

  The doctor nodded. “See? You aren’t quite ready. And you need sleep. You haven’t slept in over thirty hours, since I arrived. It’s only the drugs I’ve given you that have sustained you this long. You need rest.”

  “I’m not tired.” But as she said it, exhaustion fell over Brooke. The odd voice inside her head clamored even louder. Run, it said. Find Fred!

  Who was Fred?

  The doctor approached her again with a needle. Brooke stepped backward. “It will help you sleep.” His voice was soothing, reasonable. “On the plane we will work again. You are almost ready.” Still she hesitated. Then he said, “This will silence the voice.”

  Brooke let him inject the substance into her veins. How many times had he done this? Too many, she knew. Her arms were riddled with the tracks. In her mind, she recalled a faint memory of protesting the first few injections. That had been yesterday. But what bothered her more was that she remembered nothing beyond that faint protest, except for the memories the doctor recalled for her. She knew his words were true because she’d seen herself on the video talking about them, but why couldn’t she remember? Perhaps she really had been ill.

  Jared.

  That name had been foremost in the doctor’s recounting of her lost memories, and also in the video. Jared was a man who had scorned her cruelly instead of falling under her spell. Her relationship with him was the only time she had not been in control. Oh, how she craved control!

  Where was Jared now? With that other woman? The doctor said they were married. An overwhelming anger built in Brooke’s chest. I will crush them both!

  To her horror, the voice inside began to pray. Pray? Her? Laranda? No, I don’t believe. That’s for Jared and other fools. The sooner that idiotic voice was silenced, the better for her.

  The drug began to take effect, and Brooke felt the doctor leading her to a bed she didn’t remember being in the room. Once lying down, she was vaguely aware of the sensation of movement.

  “Take her to the plane,” someone said.

  The voice inside kicked and struggled to get out of the corner where the drug had restrained it. For an instant, Brooke was one with the voice, and a terrible fear consumed her. Nothing was under her control. She had to get away!

  The impression faded as the world around her went black.

  * * *

  “HERE’S THE WARRANT.” JUSTIN SLAPPED it down on Fred’s desk.

  “What about our mole? What’s he saying?”

  “Well, that’s just it. He hasn’t contacted anyone in the department for a month. We don’t know if that means he’s dead or been caught, or that he simply hasn’t been able to call in. So it’s not something we can depend on.”

  Just Fred’s luck.

  What’s more, their suspicion that Donelli was smuggling drugs inside wine bottles was probably true, but they didn’t have enough evidence to make it stick in any court. At least it had been enough to give him a search warrant for Donelli’s properties. He planned to send his most trusted men to the various business establishments and residences, but would reserve the main house for himself and Justin.

  “The Union-Tribune also called on those job applications,” Justin informed him. “They found one for Brooke. I have the address she listed. I thought we could stop there on our way to Donelli’s.”

  “Well, at least she tried to work for them.” Fred still hated that she’d lied to him.

  At the small, dingy apartment building where Brooke was renting, it didn’t take long for them to convince the manager to give them access. Inside, the studio apartment was impossibly tiny, but neat for all its shabbiness. The cl
oset was full of clothes and the bed made. There was plenty of food in the refrigerator.

  “Doesn’t look like she planned to go anywhere.” Justin pointed to several suitcases on the top shelf in the closet.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  There was nothing more to see, no secrets they could unravel here. Not even a computer to check out. “We’re wasting time.” Fred turned to the door, more sure than ever that Brooke wasn’t coming back. From the contents of the room, he was beginning to believe that she hadn’t left of her own free will. Of course, he could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Let’s get to Donelli’s.”

  Once at the mansion, he expected a delay, or threats at the minimum, but Donelli himself was absent, as was anyone else with any real authority. The butler read the court order and allowed them inside, obviously feeling there was nothing to hide. Fred wondered if the search was a waste of time.

  He had hoped at least to see Giorgio, to question him about Brooke. Were the two romantically involved? The idea made him uncomfortable. Why was it that Fred was always attracted to the wrong woman? The last woman he’d asked out had been Darla, the former secretary who betrayed him and nearly got him and Justin killed, not to mention Cassi and Jared. The healing gunshot wound in his right arm was a stark reminder of that.

  Fred and Justin began at the top of the mansion, sending the other two men to the bottom floor. Given the size of the house, they were going to be here some time. One room on the top floor aroused Fred’s curiosity. The room was small for the house and bare except for a straight-backed wooden chair and a large-screen television. Above the TV, there was a spotlight that shone down on the wooden chair. Not even carpet softened the austere decor.

  “An interrogation room?” Justin asked.

  Fred nodded. “It certainly has the look of it.”