Benny rolled her eyes. “I might have known. One day that’s going to get you in serious trouble.”
“And one day you’re going to make a great mother.”
“Since having children presupposes the existence of a husband, I seriously doubt it.”
Meg never made any headway on this particular argument, so she abandoned it. Besides, even if her roommate were actively looking for a husband, men were generally either blinded by her beauty or intimidated by an IQ in the 160s. It was hopeless.
“So anyway,” Benny persisted, dogged as a terrier after a rat, “what kept you so late?”
“A visit from INS. I had to leave the site for a couple of hours, and when I came back half my crew was gone.”
Benny frowned. “Oh, Meg, not again. I don’t like to think of you working for a company that hires illegal aliens.”
“They all do it. People complain about foreigners taking jobs, but Americans don’t want to work for the peanuts these guys earn.” Meg sighed, flopping onto her back, resting her head against the arm of the sofa. “It gives me a headache to think about it. You’ve got a good brain. Why don’t you go to work for the State Department and figure it out?”
Benny shuddered. “I’d rather be eaten by cannibals.”
“Which could happen,” Meg said darkly.
“Oh, please.” Benny laughed. “The people in Central America are poor, but they’re not interested in snacking on skinny Americans.”
“I guess you would be a pretty tough chew,” Meg teased.
“You bet. So you wound up with just Manny to finish that job?”
“No, Diego and Tomás were left—plus the Terminator.”
“The Terminator?”
“The new man, Jack Torres. Big tough-looking guy with an earring, a ponytail and Schwarzenegger glasses. Sam gave him to me to—” She sat up. She’d forgotten all about the new job.
“Sam gave him to you?”
“No, no, I meant Sam hired him for my new project. It’s a run-down historical estate called Silver Hill, and Benny, I get to design it!”
“Boy, you have had an eventful day.”
“You can say that again,” Meg sighed, curling her legs beneath her.
Benny tipped her head. “What’s the matter? I thought you were dying to get into the design office.”
“You should see this place…” Meg didn’t know where to begin to describe what she’d seen that afternoon. “I keep thinking about how God likes to send people into the wilderness.”
Benny smiled. “Don’t you think there’s a reason for that?”
Meg stared at her roommate. “I never thought about it. Maybe to teach them to trust Him.”
“Hah. Yes, and you’ll notice that He only does that with choice servants.”
Meg had to laugh. “Oh, Benny, I’m not any choice servant. I’m a spoiled rotten kid who’s pretty much had everything I ever asked for, and now I’m pouting because I’ve had to wait for a whole year to get the job I want. You’re the servant.” She pressed a sofa pillow to her face. This was the first time she’d admitted the humiliating truth aloud.
There was a long silence.
“Meg, put that pillow down and look at me.” Benny’s voice was firm and gentle. Meg reluctantly obeyed and found tears standing in her roommate’s eyes. “Listen. God’s brought me through some things that you can thank Him you’ll never have to see. But He’s got a reason for keeping you pure and sheltered, even though you may not see it for a long time. He wants you innocent in what’s evil and wise in what’s good. So listen to what the Lord’s telling you now. The challenge will make you stronger.”
Meg had no idea what to say, so she simply nodded.
“Good.” Benny rubbed her eyes, then looked at her damp fingers as though surprised. “I need to study some more before I go to bed, but let’s pray together first. Okay?”
“Okay,” Meg whispered and bowed her head.
Just after midnight, Jack pushed through the heavy outer door that had long ago replaced the traditional saloon doors of a dive known as the Electric Q. Located on Mule Alley in the Fort Worth Stockyards, it was not as cowboy-chic as the famous Billy Bob’s. It was, however, perfectly suited for Jack’s purpose.
He slipped into the smoke-filled room and paused inside the door, back to the wall. Steel guitars and the melancholy voice of Merle Haggard pulsed from an old jukebox in one corner, throwing out images that Jack used to find impossible to erase.
Once upon a time he’d relished any excuse to carry around a shot glass, a cigarette clipped between his fingers and a 9 mm Glock tucked under his armpit. Always on the job, inside the job, consumed with the job. Fresh out of the military and buzzed on freedom, he’d been eager to earn a reputation as the baddest border cop since Wyatt Earp.
Then Rico Valenzuela had shown him there was more to life than the job and its associated temptations. Jesus Christ had given value to his life. Once Jack grabbed on to that truth, the reputation didn’t matter.
Now the music pounded against his chest, but got no further.
Jack tapped a cigarette from the pack rolled into the tight sleeve of his T-shirt and lit it with a cheap lighter. About three years ago he’d ditched the habit, but the prop was important cover. He’d learned to pretend to smoke.
Just don’t inhale, Torres, he told himself with inward amusement.
Where was Carmichael? Jack hadn’t yet met his OIC—Officer in Charge—in person, but had been told to look for a white straw Stetson with a black silk band…and an amputated arm. Word was, thirty years or so ago, when border patrol agents were even more underfunded and underequipped than now, Carmichael had had an unfortunate run-in with a rusty knife. Nobody knew the particulars, but it must have been a nasty scene.
Jack bought a beer—another prop—and continued to survey the room, noting the mixture of cultures represented here. Carmichael, though stationed in the Dallas regional office, was familiar with the area and had chosen the Electric Q, a haven for working men of all races, as a place where they could both blend in.
Sliding around to the back of the bar, Jack sat alone at a table facing the crowded room. Idly he flicked ash off the end of the cigarette and occasionally lifted the bottle to his lips, pretending to drink.
Presently he intercepted the curious glance of a young woman seated on a stool at the bar. Dressed in tight clothes, she kept pushing a long fall of black hair over her shoulder. He looked away.
He couldn’t help comparing the woman’s overblown and underdressed figure to his little boss-lady. An image of Meg St. John’s dark-green eyes and elusive dimple had stayed with him despite his best efforts to ignore it. He could picture her supple movements and unflagging encouragement of the pitiful crew left to her today. She was as wholesome as your best friend’s little sister. Not at all his type.
To his relief, these disturbing thoughts were interrupted by a white hat appearing in the smoke by the door. Carmichael.
Jack stood as the tall, middle-aged man approached. He was over six feet, tightly packed with muscle, the empty left sleeve of his plaid western shirt pinned. His craggy face was etched by lines of responsibility and remembered pain, the mouth pulled down on one side as if by paralysis. The eyes hadn’t lost the far-seeing squint common in longtime border patrol officers.
Jack felt weighed by those eyes as he shook hands and sat down.
Carmichael leaned in immediately, speaking softly in a rolling West Texas drawl. “You’re in okay?”
Jack nodded. “The references were good.”
“First impressions?”
“Haven’t met Crowley or Warner yet. Thornton’s a good man. I’m on a crew that got busted today, run by some little girl with a degree and no common sense.” Well, that wasn’t true or fair, but it would do for Carmichael’s purposes. “The Mexicans I worked with today apparently have good documents.”
Carmichael caught a waitress’s eye and asked for a drink, then turned back to Jack. “We
brought you in from out-of-sector on purpose. You haven’t seen anybody you know, have you?”
“No, sir, and I’m not likely to. Besides, I’ve changed my looks significantly. I don’t think I’d be recognized.”
Carmichael studied him for a moment, a smile tugging the good side of those ruined lips. “I wouldn’t want to run into you in a dark alley myself.” He paid for his drink and set it on the table untouched. “Remember, though, this guy we’re tracking is a killer. Watch your back.”
Jack nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Carmichael hesitated, frowning. “You’re not carrying any ID. If you get in a jam—”
“I’ll improvise,” Jack assured him. “But I won’t get caught.”
On Monday morning, Meg braced herself for her first thorough inspection of Silver Hill. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she remembered it.
She’d spent most of Saturday going through the packet Sam had given her and marveling at the potential beauty of the estate. Besides the base map of the house, there were copies of faded black-and-white photos from the ’20s and ’30s; even a couple of interior shots of a beautiful woman in a bizarre hat and flowing dress, posed in front of the grand staircase in the foyer. Full color exteriors from the ’60s revealed a lush green lawn, pruned hedges and a breathtaking garden with a view of blooming trees in the distance.
Meg couldn’t wait to take those photos on-site and compare them to what was still in existence.
Dressed in a clean uniform, her hair in a neat French braid, she grabbed the packet and the digital camera her parents had given her the previous Christmas. Excitement in equal proportions to dread buzzed along her nerves as she drove to work.
She found Sam, standing in the shade of one of the nursery buildings. He was watching Manny, Torres and several other men load a flatbed truck with pallets of sod.
“Sam, I’m heading out to Silver Hill.”
“Just hold your horses, missy,” he said, arching his back as though it ached. “I’m going with you. That way I’ll have a better idea what you’re dealing with out there. You won’t need your crew yet—I’m sending them to work on a job in midtown—but Torres is coming with us.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. She’d been looking forward to exploring Silver Hill alone. She glanced at Torres, who was sliding a hundred-pound stack of grass squares onto the trailer as easily as if it were a basket full of plastic Easter eggs. He didn’t look any more civilized than the last time she’d seen him. In a faded red T-shirt that said “Take No Prisoners” and the same decrepit jeans he’d worn on Friday, he looked like a refugee from a Salvation Army yard sale. A blue bandanna was tied pirate-style around his head. “Torres, when are your uniforms supposed to come in?”
“Next week.” He shrugged. “They tried to find me something temporary, but everything in the uniform closet was too small.”
Meg’s gaze skimmed Torres’s long legs and the densely muscled shoulders. Flustered, she said, “You could have at least worn something with a few less holes.”
“So call the fashion police.”
“Ha-ha.” Conceding she might have sounded a tad critical, she sighed. “Never mind. What can I do to help?”
Silver Hill was as bad as she remembered it but, undaunted, Meg bounced out of the back seat of Sam’s truck armed with her camera, clipboard and Barol-Mirado #2 pencil, ready to go to war against weeds, faulty drainage and anachronistic plantings.
“If I had thirteen million dollars, I sure wouldn’t spend it on a dump like this,” growled Torres, shoving aside a bridal wreath spirea that had grown over the sidewalk. He held it for Meg to pass by. “After you, ma’am.”
She stopped and bowed. “No, please. After you.”
“Oh, no, I insist. You first.”
Meg loved Chip and Dale. She loved anything old and funny. What a kick to discover that Torres would indulge in an absurd moment. She laughed and passed under his arm, glancing up at his hard face. He looked tired.
“Hard weekend at the honky-tonk?” she asked lightly as they struggled through the bushes behind Sam.
He gave her an inscrutable smile. “Guess so.”
Disappointed, Meg stopped and thrust the plot plan into Torres’s hands. “Here, can you read a blueprint? Take charge of this while I draw and make notes.” Pulling her pencil from behind her ear, she held the clipboard like a shield.
He stared at her from behind those mirrored sunglasses. “I can read anything you want me to read.”
Sam hollered, “Hey, what’s goin’ on back there?”
“Coming, Sam.” Meg dragged her attention back to the business at hand.
Consulting the plot plan, the three of them tramped around the house, dodging briars and spider-infested hedges. Meg made rough sketches, marking the placement of the major trees left on the property.
The roof repair and interior remodeling had left a mélange of glass, broken green tiles and rotten shutters—among the more identifiable items—littering the ground. The crew would have at least a day’s job clearing away the trash.
But none of the mess could take away from the classic beauty of rounded double porches on either end of the house, the grand front entryway flanked by tall ionic columns and steeply pitched gables soaring above the second story. The old brick was a warm pink-brown, its deep gray mortar still in good shape. The windows, newly replaced, were dusty and streaked with paint, but Meg could imagine standing inside one of the front rooms, looking out on a lovely sweep of lawn.
If she could just find it.
She sighed and followed Sam’s limping gait around to the west side of the house, where a covered carriageway arched over the drive, ending in an ornamental brick wall. According to her notes, it had been constructed along with the free-standing carriage house sometime in the ’30s. Whole sections of the tile roof had tumbled inward, leaving dangerous protrusions of fallen beam and joist waiting to whack the unsuspecting soul on the head.
She stopped at a safe distance with her hands on her hips. “Can that be repaired?”
Sam shook his head. “I think there’s been a dogfight over it. The general contractor says it would be a waste of time, but Miz Grover-Niles keeps insisting the bride’s gotta have a place to make her grand entrance.”
“I think I’d like Mrs. Grover-Niles,” Meg declared.
“She’s an aggravating old biddy with too much time on her hands,” Sam muttered, stumping through the safest visible opening in the rubble.
Meg laughed and followed him.
The three of them returned to the office at five o’clock, covered from head to toe with pollen and dusty sweat. Mid-afternoon they’d run into a quarter-acre field of sunflowers that Meg insisted on inspecting just because she’d never seen so many in one place at one time. Sam’s dark brown skin had taken on a grayish cast, and Meg had sneezed until she nearly turned herself wrong side out. Still, Jack never heard her complain. Long days of heat and discomfort seemed to be right up her alley.
He had never seen such boundless energy and enthusiasm in one person. Rico had been hyper, for sure, but his had been the masculine, egocentric kind. Meg was sincerely interested in everything and everyone she came in contact with.
He knew she was curious about him, too, which left him feeling flattered and uneasy. He had no objection to flirtation, but in an undercover situation it could be dangerous.
He watched Meg teasing Sam, who tolerated her with the surly affection of an old German shepherd putting up with the antics of a puppy. She’d wrestled a sunflower stalk out of the ground and brought it back to the office, marching in with it as if it were a battle flag.
She poked her head in the door of the closet where the hourly workers were clocking out for the day. “Manny, remind me to bring filter masks tomorrow so we won’t all suffocate on pollen.”
“Sí, I will.” Looking at Meg, Manny cracked a smile.
Jack had to laugh, too. The top of Meg’s head was dark brown where her hat had been, but th
e rest of her hair and face was a nasty yellowish-taupe color. The sunflower waved above her head like a saffron-colored kite.
“What?” Her eyes sparkled in the dust.
“You are some sight to behold,” Jack said. He rubbed his finger down her nose and held it up for her to see.
“Hah. You should see yourself.” She sneezed again.
He looked down at his own filthy clothes. “Yeah, and ain’t it a shame I didn’t have on a new uniform so I could’ve ruined it instead?”
Meg grinned. “Touché. I’m going home to hose down. I’ll see y’all in the morning.”
The surge of disappointment that hit him when she left startled Jack. Maybe pollen had clogged his brain. He had no business getting emotionally attached to any of these people. He jammed his time card into the machine and moved aside for Herrera.
Twenty minutes later he was roaring down I-30, when he passed a powder-blue classic Mustang stopped on the side of the road with its emergency flashers blinking. He nearly wiped out when he saw a big yellow sunflower sticking out of the open window.
Taking the next exit, he circled back around and parked behind the Mustang. By now Meg had gotten out of the car and was bent over with her head under the raised hood.
He tucked his helmet under his arm and got off the bike.
“Fine spot for a picnic, St. John,” he said, peering into the bowels of the engine, “but maybe you could find a place with a little more ambience.”
She gave a startled squeak and banged her head on the hood. “Ow! Torres, will you quit sneaking up on me?” Traffic whizzed by, all but drowning out her words. She rubbed the back of her head. “I was just going to call my dad.”
“Want me to take a look?”
She shook her head. “It’s just a bump on the head.”
He laughed. “Not at you. The real patient.” He patted the slick fender of the car.
“Oh. I knew that. Sure, knock yourself out.”
Resisting the obvious comeback, Jack leaned over again to poke around. “Crank it and let me listen.”
A minute later he signaled for Meg to get out of the car again. “It’s an idler pulley,” he told her. “Locked up and threw off a belt. You know somebody who can tow it for you?”
Under Cover Of Darkness Page 4
