Crossing the room, Jack rapped on the bedroom door. "Ellie? We want to talk to you."
The door swung open. She emerged from the bedroom wearing crisp linen slacks, a sleeveless turquoise top and a decided air of authority.
"I have a few things to say to you, too." She made a quick sweep of the room, nodding at Claire and Mackenzie. "Good, you're here. I won't have to repeat myself."
Moving to the center of the sitting room, she tucked her injured hands under her crossed arms.
"All right, listen up. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to finish my research into Josiah Kennett and coordinate the final report with my team. That should take twenty-four hours, less if I get right to it. Then I'll release the team's findings. Right here, in San Antonio. We'll gather the public forum Mackenzie hinted to Foster about and blow it up big.
Invite the media. The mayor. The city council. Influential members of the business community and country club set. Including," she announced grimly, "one Dan Foster."
"Oh, this is good," Mackenzie breathed. "Really good! Danny Boy will go ballistic when he gets the invite."
"We'll hold the reception here at the hotel," Ellie continued, directing her comments to the three men, daring them to object. "It's short notice, but we have to hope they can accommodate us. I'll work the crowd at the reception. I'll also contrive to get Foster alone at some point. You," she said, pinning Jack with a look that could have cut glass, "will come up with some scheme to get him to incriminate himself."
"I think I can manage that," he drawled.
"Good!" With the air of one who's firmly in charge, she surveyed the group. "Does anyone have any questions or comments?"
"Just one," Nick said in the short silence that followed.
Ellie braced herself for an argument. To her surprise, Jack stepped between her and the President's special envoy.
"We're doing this her way, Nick."
His firm, no-arguments tone had Ellie blinking. A few moments ago, he'd stated flatly that he wanted her out of San Antonio. She still hadn't quite recovered from the hurt of knowing he'd been following a political as well as a personal agenda all this time.
Now he was not only acknowledging her right to make her own decisions, it sounded as though he was fully prepared to sacrifice a second career for her. Thoroughly confused, she couldn't decide whether to whoop in delight or warn him to back off, fast.
Not that he would have listened. From the set to his jaw, it was obvious Jack had no intention of backing down.
"Ellie's had her baptism under fire," he told Jensen. "She's earned her spurs. We're doing this her way or not at all."
Once again, she was surprised. Instead of taking offense, Jensen merely nodded.
"You're in charge on this mission, Renegade. You call the shots. I was simply going to offer my restaurant as an alternative site for the big announcement. It will hold as many or more than the hotel's ballroom and give us better control over security."
Ellie blinked. ‘‘You own a restaurant?''
"Actually, I own several."
‘‘Try several dozen," Mackenzie muttered. "Ever hear of Nick's?"
"Good heavens, yes! There's one in Mexico City. In Acapulco, too, I think."
Mackenzie held up a hand and ticked off a few others. ‘‘And Paris and Rome and Hong Kong, New York, Vegas, Palm Springs. You'll find a Nick's about everywhere the rich and famous gather."
"And none of them," he commented with a glinting look in her direction, "serve sausage, double pepperoni and jalapeiio pizza."
"Too bad." She tossed the words back. "You won't get my business unless you diversify your menu."
"We'll have to talk about that. Along with the expanded operation role you've assumed on this mission."
"Uh-oh." Mackenzie's brows waggled. "This doesn't sound good."
"Let's go to my room, shall we? I had Mrs. Wells book one just in case I decided to stay." He gave the others a polite nod. "If you'll excuse us."
With the exaggerated air of a martyr about to meet her fate, Mackenzie preceded him to the door.
Chapter 13
Mrs. Wells hadn't just booked Lightning a room. She'd reserved the presidential suite. Of course.
The palatial five-room suite took up most of the top floor and gave stunning views of the Alamo. Ornate furnishings from a bygone era made Mackenzie feel as though she'd stepped into the bustling days of Texas before the turn of the century, when cattle was king and Judge Roy Bean's Lilhe Langtry thrilled audiences from coast to coast. The massive antique sideboard that housed a bar and entertainment center had been carved from some dark, brooding wood. So had the canopied four-poster she glimpsed in the bedroom. The thing looked like it could comfortably sleep six!
"Forget the ballroom and your restaurant," Mackenzie commented. "You could fit the mayor, the city council, the entire country club set and every news crew in Texas in this suite."
‘‘Let’s talk about a certain member of that country club set." Tossing his room key onto the sideboard, Nick leaned his hips against it and slid his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks. "You got pretty chummy with Foster at the bar the other night."
Airily she waved a hand. "All part of the job, chief."
‘‘But not part of your job. When I instructed you to put a tag on the man, I didn't say to do it yourself."
"You didn't say not to, either."
"Don't play games with me, Comm."
The whip in his voice brought her snapping to attention. ‘‘No, sir! I would never do that, sir!''
Nick eyed her for long moments. The coins in his pocket clinked as he jiggled them in one hand.
‘‘Did any of your Navy commanders ever consider a court-martial?"
"One or two." Grinning, she abandoned her exaggerated pose. "I was usually shipped out before matters reached that point."
"I may just ship you out this time, too."
"That's your option," she agreed breezily, refusing to admit this annoyed, unsmiling Nick was just a little bit intimidating. "But I was thinking our friend Foster might want a date for the big do. Someone who can give him an alibi when his hired gun shows up at the party."
"Why would he think Scarface will show?"
"Well, I sorta figured I'd tell him."
Lightning's eyes narrowed. The coins clinked again. Mackenzie held her breath until he broke the small silence.
"How?"
She was on her turf now. Confident, eager, she sketched her idea.
"We got a voiceprint on Scarface when Foster called him. It's not much. Only a few words. But we can digitize the sounds and run them through a phonetics databank, then use a synthesizer to imitate his exact intonation. Tweety Bird could chirp into the phone, and Foster would think it was his hired killer."
He didn't argue her skills. No one could. When it came to electronics, she was the best.
"Think about it, chief. Foster will want to attend the function to make sure the hit goes down before Ellie makes her announcement and releases her report to the media. But he'll need an alibi, someone who can swear he was otherwise engaged when it happens. I'll be that alibi. I'll also make sure we get our boy on tape when Renegade figures out how to get him to incriminate himself."
Lightning wasn't convinced. "There's a good chance Foster already paid for one death and is working on a second. I don't like the idea of my chief of communications turning up number three on his list"
"Aww. Are you worried about me, boss?"
"Worrying about OMEGA's operatives comes with the title of director, Blair, but you're adding a new dimension to the mix."
Mackenzie would have had all four incisors yanked without the benefit of anesthetic before she admitted to the thrill his sardonic reply gave her. Still, she couldn't hold back a smug little smile as she sashayed to the door.
"I'll get my folks at headquarters to work running the voiceprint through the phonetics database."
/> While Jack accompanied Nick to his San Antonio bistro to perform an initial security assessment, Ellie got to work. Her bandaged hands made things awkward, but she spent several hours engaged in a flurry of phone calls and e-mail exchanges with universities, libraries and genealogists. Finally, she tracked down the clerk of Kearnes County, Texas, where Josiah Kennett's family had reportedly homesteaded. After a hand search of county records, the clerk located an eighty-seven-year-old great-great granddaughter of Kennett's only sister.
Ellie got Dorinda Johnson's number from information. To her delight, the woman who identified herself as Dorrie answered the phone. She sounded frail but had no difficulty grasping Ellie's background and interest in the tumultuous events of 1836.
"I remember my great-granddad telling us about the Runaway Scrape," she said in a wavery, paper-thin voice. "That Generalissimo Santa Anna you mentioned came up with a plan to move foreign settlers to the interior, replace them with Mexicans and cut off all immigration. Said he was going to execute every foreigner who resisted. After the Alamo and the massacre at Goliad, I guess the American settlers round these parts figured he meant business. Every one of 'em, including my great-great-granddaddy, abandoned their land and skedaddled over the border to Louisiana."
If Ellie remembered correctly, the frantic scramble labeled the Runaway Scrape took place in early April, a month after the Alamo fell and just weeks after Colonel James Fannin and his force of four hundred Texians surrendered to Santa Anna. Under the mistaken impression they would simply be expelled from Mexico, the Tejanos were marched back to Go-had, where Santa Anna had them summarily shot.
Word of the massacre spread across Texas like prairie fire. Frightened settlers loaded everything they could into wagons and rushed helter-skelter for the U.S. border. Soldiers in Sam Houston's ragtag army abandoned ranks in droves to assist their fleeing families. Houston was left with only a little over nine hundred volunteers to face Santa Anna's well trained, well equipped and—until then—victorious army.
"Great-granddaddy said his grandpa's cabin was burned to the ground," Dorrie related, "but he came back and rebuilt after Houston beat the pants off Santa Anna at San Jacinto."
‘‘Did your great-grandfather ever mention a great-uncle named Josiah Kennett?"
"Seems like he did, but I don't recall much about him, 'cept he died at the Alamo."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, that's what we were always told. I've got some old family pictures and letters stashed in a trunk up in the attic. I think there's one in there that talks about Josiah. Might take me a while to get to it, though. Doc says this new hip of mine isn't ready for stairs yet."
"That's all right!" Ellie said hastily. "Please don't go up to the attic."
She did some quick thinking. Kearnes County was less than an hour's drive from San Antonio. She could get out there and back by late afternoon.
"Would you mind if I drove out to your place and took a look through that trunk?"
"You come right ahead, missy. I'd enjoy the company."
Snatching up a pen, Ellie jotted down directions to her place. "Thanks. I'll be there by two-thirty or so."
Trying to contain her excitement, she filled the time until Jack's return by negotiating a contract for the site restoration and drawing up a list of invitees for the reception.
Mackenzie pounded on her door just before noon, every bit as excited and even more impatient for Jack and Nick's return. They arrived at the Menger a while later. Ellie wasn't quite sure how the colonel had managed to become a permanent member of their little group, but the others seemed to have accepted his presence.
Plugging a microphone into a small gray box, Mackenzie claimed their immediate attention.
"Wait till you hear this."
Her eyes gleaming, she spoke a few phrases into the microphone. The synthesizer translated the words into a deep rasp. The result sounded so much like the man who'd attacked Ellie in the exhibit room that goose bumps raised on her arms.
When the raspy echo faded, Mackenzie looked across the mike at Ellie. "You're the only one of us who heard him live. What do you think?"
"I think it's amazing. And just a bit scary."
‘‘Good!'' Her glance went to Jack. ‘‘Want to make the call to Foster?"
"Let's work out the wording, then you can go for it."
A few minutes later, Mackenzie dialed Foster's private number. When an answering machine clicked on, she rasped out a brief message.
"Word on the street is our friend plans to release her report tomorrow night. I'll be there to make sure it doesn't happen."
Ellie knew it was a ploy. She was standing right there, had watched Mackenzie mouth the words. Yet the threat sounded so ominous that she had to work to match Mackenzie's smug grin when she cut the connection.
"There! That'll up Foster's pucker factor. I'll wait till he gets his invitation to the soiree to make the next call."
Recalled to her part in the drama, Ellie produced the list she'd worked on earlier. "Believe it or not, I convinced Dr. Smith to help me pull it together. The man's so eager to see me leave town—and so relieved that it looks like I'm not going to rewrite the history of his Alamo—that he actually volunteered the names of the high rollers who've contributed to the Alamo Restoration and Maintenance Fund."
She met Jack's glance.
"Foster's wife was one of the contributors."
A savage satisfaction glittered in his eyes. "That gives us the perfect rationale for including the bastard among the invitees. Think you can notify everyone on the list today?'' he asked Mackenzie.
"Consider it done. I'll zap the list to my people at headquarters. Given the short notice, they'll have to fax the invites. We'll make sure it looks as though they came from Dr. Alazar. As soon as they're out, I'll put in another call to Foster and offer myself as his date. Then," she announced, "I'm going shopping."
Jack hooked a brow. "Again?"
‘‘Again. The results of my last expedition seemed to impress Danny Boy. This time, I'll pull out all the stops and knock him off his feet. Literally."
"No, you won't."
Jack's reply came hard and fast, preempting Nick's.
"Foster's mine. All mine. No one knocks him off his feet but me."
Faced with his vocal opposition and Nick's tight frown, Mackenzie backpedaled. "Okay, okay. He's all yours. But I still need to go shopping. I didn't bring anything suitable for a black-tie affair. How about you, Claire? Ellie?''
The psychologist's gaze drifted around the small group. It didn't linger on Luis Esteban for more than an instant, but whatever she saw in his face caused her to incline her head in a graceful nod.
"I'll join you."
"Ellie?"
"I can't make it this afternoon. I want to drive down to visit a fourth-generation relative of one of the Alamo defenders."
The excitement she'd felt at the start of her project seeped into her veins. Her face eager, she turned to Jack.
"She lives in Kearnes County, less than an hour from San Antonio. She thinks she has some letters in her attic that contain information about Kennett. I'm also hoping I can talk her into providing a DNA sample. Will you go with me?"
The first real smile she'd seen in days crept into his eyes. "Try going anywhere without me."
The trip through the South Texas countryside was just what Ellie needed. After the stress of the past weeks and the sheer terror of the attack in the Alamo, the wide-open plains rolled by with soothing monotony.
Jack was at the wheel of the rented Cherokee. His eyes shielded behind mirrored sunglasses, he kept a close watch on the rearview mirror. They weren't followed this time. Nor did they engage in any highspeed chases. Gradually, even Jack relaxed.
They drove south on 181 for some forty miles, roughly paralleling the course of the San Antonio River as it meandered to the Gulf. Just past Hobson, they turned onto a two-lane county road that ran straight as an arrow
between fields fenced by barbed wire. Ellie consulted the directions she'd scribbled down earner.
"Donie said her place was three point four miles down this road."
Nodding, Jack took a fix on the odometer. Three point four miles later, a dented mailbox atop a weathered post proclaimed the Johnson place.
A dirt track led to the house, perched on a slight rise a quarter mile from the road. The Cherokee jounced over deep ruts. Dust swirled in a long plume behind, announcing their arrival long before they drove over a cattle guard and pulled into the yard.
The original structure must have been constructed in the early Texas dogtrot style, with separate sleeping, cooking and eating quarters on either side of a walk-through breezeway. Native stone walls enclosed the original sections, but succeeding generations had tacked on clapboard additions and enclosed the breezeway.
Leaning heavily on a walker, Dorrie Johnson hobbled out to greet them. Shaded by the tin roof that extended over the front porch, she was a tiny figure in a bright yellow blouse, denim jumper and sturdy sneakers. To Ellie's consternation, she'd prepared a small feast for her visitors.
"My molasses cookies won first prize at the county fair for near onto three decades," she announced smugly. Her walker thumping, she led Jack and Ellie into the front parlor and waved at them to have a seat. "The pecan crop wasn't all that good last year, though, so I baked up a sweet potato pie, too."
Jack didn't appear to find any fault with the pecans. He consumed a plateful of cookies, washing them down with sweetened iced tea, before tackling a hearty sampling of pie. Ellie was too enthralled by the memories Dorrie shared of her family to do more than nibble at the rich sweets.
"Salathiel Charles Kennett and his bride home-steaded this place in twenty-eight. Hauled everything they owned west in a covered wagon. Like I told you, they left in a hurry in thirty-six."
At Jack's questioning look, Ellie explained the Runaway Scrape.
"They came back, though," Dorrie continued complacently. "One of their offspring or another's been squatting on this patch of dirt ever since."
Texas Hero Page 14
