Under Cover Of Darkness

by Elizabeth White

  “Well, I—sure, I suppose so.”

  “Okay. I’m a border patrol officer, and if you put my name on that document, you’ll get me in serious trouble. If you want to check it out you can call this number.” Jack rattled off a phone number that Meg was too astonished to memorize.

  Jack was an undercover officer? Border patrol?

  She sagged against the wall.

  Once, when Meg was seven or so, her brother had told her she couldn’t ride his new ten-speed bike because she was too little. The minute he went into the house, she’d wheeled the bike out of the garage, mounted it from a patio chair and sailed down the driveway. After successfully navigating the first block, she got cocky and decided to experiment with those fascinating gears.

  A trip to the emergency room for eight stitches, another one to the dentist to replace a front tooth, and the forfeiture of six months’ allowance to pay for the repair of the bike, were enough to convince Meg that discretion was most definitely the better part of valor.

  Standing in this hospital corridor, Meg had something of the same feeling of finding herself in sudden face-hands-and-knees contact with a concrete sidewalk.

  All the pieces of information she’d collected about Jack crashed through her overloaded brain until she wanted to lean over and empty it all out again.

  The innate fineness that characterized him, in spite of his prison record and apparent contentment with living in a slum. The intent way he’d questioned her about her crew being busted. His insistence that she not report Manny and Tomás.

  She would bet there’d been something on Tomás’s video clip that would have clued her in had she bothered to translate it.

  And reeling through Meg’s brain went the few pieces of his past that Jack had let her have. Was every bit of it fiction? Could she believe anything he’d told her?

  Come to think of it, how did she know that what he’d just told the doctor was true? He could be covering some crime and planning to slip away before he was caught.

  Suddenly the door beside her swung open, and the doctor came out, mumbling into a voice dictation recorder. He passed her without a glance.

  What should she do? Confront Jack? Pretend she hadn’t heard?

  She laid her head back against the wall. “Lord, it’s me,” she whispered. “I feel stupid and betrayed, and I don’t know what this means. Please give me wisdom.”

  Taking a deep breath, Meg knocked on the door. When Jack called “Come in,” she peeked inside. Despite her anger and confusion, her heart clenched at the sight of all that vital masculinity confined to a wrinkled hospital gown and an IV drip. Fortunately, he’d thrown an arm across his eyes, giving Meg time to blink away her tears.

  She cleared her throat. “Jack.”

  He lowered his arm, his expression wary. “Hey, St. John. What are you doing here?”

  “I brought you some clothes.”

  Alarm flashed through his eyes. “I wondered who had my keys.” When she didn’t respond, he gestured toward the bedside chair. “You can sit down if you want to.”

  Meg shook her head and swallowed. As she continued to hover near the door, silence grew into an awkward blank.

  Jack’s brows drew together. “Come here, Meg.” His voice had that authoritative note she’d heard when he spoke to the doctor.

  A law officer’s authority. Drawn to him by his compelling eyes, Meg sidled closer.

  “How long were you standing outside the door just now?”

  Meg set the sack of clothes on the table. “You must think I’m an idiot,” she blurted.

  The heart monitor whirred softly in the silence. “I wasn’t trying to make a fool of you. I was doing my job.” Jack gave her a half-caressing, half-aggravated look that made her insides flip. “If it makes you feel any better, you and Dr. Guthrie are the first people to blow my cover in more than five years.”

  She didn’t know how she felt, but it certainly wasn’t better. “You weren’t going to tell me at all, were you? You’ve been using me to get information about my employer and my friends.”

  “If that’s how you want to look at it. But you only have to worry about your friends if they’re breaking the law.” He frowned. “Meg, when I’m undercover, I can’t tell anybody who I am.”

  “Well, I can’t un-know what I know!” She lifted her hands. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Simple. Just keep your mouth shut. You breathe so much as one word to anybody, and you’re under arrest.”

  Meg stared at him, tears of humiliation pricking the backs of her eyes. Evidently all the lazy, teasing and borderline admiring things he’d said to her had been part of his James Bond act.

  Stung, she lashed out. “Of all the condescending—”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said wearily. “But if my ID is compromised I could wind up in the morgue, not just in the hospital with a concussion.”

  Meg’s eyes widened. “Why? Do you think this wasn’t an accident?”

  “I don’t have any reason to think so at this point. But…” He hesitated. “The more I think about that break-in at your house, the more I’m afraid it was related to this whole deal.”

  Cold fear twisted a knot in her stomach. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “No. I told you, I’ve been watching out for you.” He sighed. “You can’t believe how this complicates things.”

  “What exactly are you trying to accomplish? Are you after somebody inside the company, or are you just trying to send home all the illegal aliens we hire?”

  “I can’t tell you anything else. Just leave me alone and let me do my job.”

  She flinched. “I thought we were friends.”

  “Everything’s different now—”

  Suddenly a brisk knock sounded on the door, and Meg’s father walked in.

  “Hi, Sweet Pea,” he said cheerfully. “How’s your guy feeling this morning?”

  Jack wished he could pull the sheet up over his head and go back to blessed unconsciousness. He’d said every wrong thing possible to Meg, and the hurt on her face made him want to throw something. No way to dig out with Papa Bear in the room.

  He played the sympathy card. “I feel like I got hit on the head with a twenty-foot oak tree,” he said, avoiding Meg’s eyes.

  Her father ambled over to stand at the foot of the bed. “I passed Dr. Guthrie in the hall. He said you’re ready to go home.”

  Jack looked at him blankly. “I guess I’ll have to call Sam—”

  “Nonsense.” Meg’s father unclipped the stuffed koala on his tie and stuck it in the pocket of his lab coat. “I’ve finished my morning rounds, so I’ll take you.”

  This was getting worse and worse. Jack needed to talk to Meg, but not in front of her father. “Thanks, but I’ll just—”

  “No problem. I’ll clear your paperwork and we’ll be on our way.” Dr. St. John disappeared, leaving Meg and Jack staring warily at one another.

  “Dad’s a good guy.”

  Jack could tell by the look on Meg’s face where her thoughts were leading.

  “He is, but you can’t tell him who I am. Let him think the worst. All the better for what I have to do.” Headache raging like a wild animal, he rubbed his eyes. “Meg, promise me.”

  “Of course I promise.” Meg’s expression was troubled. “You look terrible. Maybe you shouldn’t stay by yourself. Mom and Dad would be glad to—”

  “No! I mean it, Meg. You’re a sweet kid, but you’re out of your league on this one.”

  To Jack’s relief, Meg visibly drew herself together. She gave him a wobbly smile. “Well. Okay, then, I’d better get to work. Sam asked about you, so I’ll tell him you’re on your way home. Just—just call me—us, I mean, if you need anything.” She whisked out the door without looking back.

  Jack slowly sat up and reached for his clothes. He didn’t look forward to caring for himself alone in that motel room, but there was no other choice. If he was right in suspecting Warner had had s
omebody rig the belt on that truck, the stakes had just been raised exponentially. He couldn’t embroil Meg or her family in this mess any further.

  Even if she managed to keep her mouth shut, it was going to be tough to resist his growing desire to share everything with her. This new and insidious longing for a life partner had begun to overpower his instinct for self-preservation.

  Dangerous in the extreme.

  For thirty-six hours Jack lay in his scuzzy little hotel room, picturing Meg sorting through his T-shirts. He wished he could call her. If she’d bring him soup or sing some goofy song, or read to him or even smile at him, he’d feel like a new man.

  As it was, the only person he could call was Dennis Carmichael. The OIC advised Jack to lay low and take as little pain medication as possible.

  “You’re gonna need all your wits about you, boy. I’d come over and see to you, but they’re watching.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand,” Jack said, gripping his pillow as a wave of nausea rolled over him. When it passed, he continued, “I’ve got to get back to work and figure out what caused that strap to break.”

  “You do that. What about the doctor who treated you at the hospital? Any indication he turned in that report?”

  “No, he was cool after he understood what was going on.” Jack hadn’t mentioned his confrontation with Meg. He had her under control.

  Hopefully.

  “Good. So there’s no kinks in the plans for our little sting operation.”

  “No, sir. We’re good to go.”

  Carmichael grunted in acknowledgement. “Listen, I followed up on Vernon Rook. The guy’s nothing but a paper-pusher, but his record’s clean. He went to Presidio ten years ago, and stayed five years before transferring here. There’s no apparent connection to anybody involved in what happened to you and Valenzuela.”

  Jack closed his eyes, relief warring with disappointment. Things would have been a lot simpler if he could have nailed Warner’s accomplice without making the trek to the border himself. On the other hand, it would be terrible for Miss Dottie if her husband were on the take.

  Still…Rook had unexpectedly appeared in Jack’s territory twice. Jack’s instinct told him that wasn’t a coincidence. If he’d followed his instincts a year ago, Rico would still be alive.

  “All right, boss,” he said slowly. “But do me a favor and keep your ear to the ground. If Rook steps one toe out of line I want to know about it.”

  There was a brief pause. “You gonna be okay, son?” Carmichael asked. “I’ll send somebody out to check on you if—”

  “No, sir. I’m fine. I’ll check in with you after the doc clears me to go back to work.”

  When Carmichael hung up, Jack threw his arm across his eyes. The faulty air conditioner added to his discomfort.

  He groaned aloud when somebody banged on the door. Tomás was a good kid, but Jack wasn’t up to dealing with his high-energy conversation.

  Dragging himself to a sitting position, he let his head quit spinning before he tried to stagger to his feet. When he finally got the door open, he was glad he was leaning against the wall.

  Standing before him dressed in impeccable gray slacks and a striped golf shirt, black medical bag in one hand and an enormous picnic basket in the other, was Elliot Fairchild.

  “Lurch!” Jack said without thinking. “Dude, you missed the pediatric unit by a few miles.”

  Fairchild didn’t seem bothered by the pejorative nickname. He sighed. “Yeah, house calls in this neighborhood don’t pay real well.” He hefted the picnic basket. “Meg wanted me to check on you, and Connie Santos sent you some…uh, soup I think.”

  Jack’s nose had just zeroed in on the delicious smells issuing from the basket. Nausea disappearing, he backed away from the door to let the young physician in.

  Fairchild looked around and chose the pressboard dresser as a receptacle for his Meals on Wheels offering. He set his medical bag on Jack’s rickety table and took out a stethoscope. He gestured toward the chair. “Sit down and let’s see if you permanently dislodged anything. Do you feel as bad as you look?”

  Jack shook his head, but his knees buckled as he more or less fell into the chair. “I got a pretty hard head.” He submitted to the stethoscope, breathing deeply as instructed, and followed the light with only slightly blurry vision. “I don’t guess you have a Tylenol or something in that bag?”

  “Sure. You’re a little bigger than my usual patients,” Fairchild commented as he put away his instruments, “but it’s safe to say you’ll live. Now maybe Meg will leave me alone.”

  Jack felt himself sagging a bit with the effort of sitting upright. “A bit on the persistent side, isn’t she?”

  “That’s a euphemistic way to put it.” Fairchild nodded toward the bed. “Go lie down before I have to scrape you off the floor. Can you handle some soup?” Jack’s stomach gave a loud growl, and Fairchild laughed. “I’ll fix it before I go.”

  Jack lay on the bed wondering at God’s weird way of answering prayer. He felt cared for in a way he’d rarely experienced. Even though Meg wasn’t physically in the room, he sensed her presence in the doctor’s efficient movements, in the thick, warm chicken broth and noodles that filled his stomach, and in the get-well card that had been signed by half the membership of the church.

  If Jack couldn’t have Meg herself—and he couldn’t, not until justice for Rico was paid out—then he could tell himself the Holy Spirit worked this way. As Someone you couldn’t see, but Who made Himself known in a multitude of practical ways.

  Jack was almost asleep when Elliot Fairchild took the bowl out of his hands and told him to lie down again.

  “You’ll feel a lot better in the morning,” Fairchild said, picking up his bag, “but don’t try to go back to work this week. Oh, and one more thing.” He turned off the light and opened the door. “If you hurt Meg, it’ll take more than chicken soup and Tylenol to bring you back after I get through with you.”

  The door closed gently, and Jack began to laugh.

  Warner was in the middle of a cattle roundup when his cell phone vibrated against his hip.

  “I thought you were going to get him out of the way,” said the Wolf. “A simple accident—no problem, right? What happened?”

  A herd of longhorns thundered past, followed by a couple of whistling, shouting cowboys on horseback, and Warner choked on a cloud of manure-laden dust.

  “Wait a minute, I can’t hear you,” Warner said, coughing.

  Adjusting the earpiece of his cell phone, he took his son more firmly by the hand and pushed through the crowd of tourists lining Rodeo Street. Jeri was out of town on a cheerleading gig with Brittany, so Warner had agreed to chaperone Sean’s second-grade field trip to the Stockyards. He was already hot, dusty and irritated with the stench and the noise. Hearing from his annoying partner put the perfect cap on the day.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got a backup plan,” Warner said, pulling a whining Sean into the air-conditioned lobby of the Visitor’s Center. “Here’s some money, buddy. Go buy a souvenir.” He lowered his voice as his son ran toward a glass case full of tin badges and cap guns. “But Torres isn’t the entire problem. Herrera’s giving us trouble, too. He wants out after this run.”

  El Lobo grunted. “I hope you told him that ain’t gonna happen.”

  Warner watched the clerk give Sean a badge that said “U.S. Marshal.” Sean pinned it on his T-shirt. Warner could somewhat understand Herrera’s weariness with El Lobo’s constant demands. He hadn’t made nearly enough money to make up for all the headaches this business had caused. Maybe he’d make this his last run, too.

  “I’ll make sure Herrera knows how serious we are,” Warner said with more confidence than he felt. He hadn’t gone to college for six years to learn how to whack nosy border patrol agents or intimidate recalcitrant wetbacks. He supposed it was a skill one had to learn on the job.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Wednesday after Jack returned to work, M
eg knelt in the shady herb garden, enjoying a break from the day’s manic pace. The crew had worked like slaves for the last three days, leaving only the gazebo and a retaining wall to finish. If nothing else interfered, the Grover-Niles wedding would proceed as scheduled.

  Meg broke off a sprig of mint and sniffed it, enjoying the pungent scent. In her opinion, Jack was going at it too hard—sunup to sundown, barely stopping for lunch—and the other men followed his example. He only spoke to her long enough to get instructions for the next project, and then he didn’t meet her eyes.

  She’d found herself watching him anxiously. His color was back to normal, and he’d lost the gaunt look he’d had when he first came back. He’d thanked her for sending Elliot to see him, commented on Connie’s soup…and that was it.

  This morning Sam and Mr. Warner had come out to the site for a surprise inspection. When Warner insisted on tramping around the estate, dragging along the supervisory crew, Meg had sensed Jack’s presence behind her as potent as a physical touch. But when she glanced back, all she saw was her reflection in his sunglasses.

  At least, Meg thought with a shiver, Warner had kept his slimy eyes to himself. He’d spent most of his time firing questions at Sam, who answered with the patience of Job. Then, to Meg’s astonishment and rage, Warner had sent her off for an early lunch break while he stood in the open door of his car talking baseball with the men.

  The last thing she’d seen as she rounded the corner of the house was Jack giving her one of those under-the-chin Spanky waves behind Warner’s back. Cheered, she’d repaired to the herb garden to enjoy her burrito.

  Okay, so it wasn’t in the same league with “I came across time for you.” At least the man had a sense of humor.

  By Thursday, Jack was feeling like his normal self. Manny caught him as he was getting in the truck to move a load of field stones for a retaining wall that Meg wanted to build at the top of the steep hill above the creek.

  Jack looked around to make sure they were out of earshot of the crew, and found them along the slope passing the water jug as they waited for instructions. Meg sat in the cab of her truck at the bottom of the incline, going over blueprints and gnawing on a pencil.