Pursuit

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  Superfluous now, he stepped back out of the way and set himself the task of discovering what had befallen her. Checking out the bathroom was tops on his list, so that’s where he headed.

  “She must have tried to get up,” another of the nurses said as he came back out of the bathroom, sure now that no one was in there. All he could see of the group huddled over Jessica was the tops of their heads as they crouched around her. Except for the security guards, who were standing back out of the way, frowning as they watched. “Maybe she was trying to get to the bathroom or something. It looks like she’s knocked herself out.”

  “She’s catheterized.”

  “Well, maybe she didn’t realize.”

  “Think she hit her head on a corner of the table?”

  “Possible. Or the floor.”

  “Yup, there’s a bump back here. No cut or anything. It’s swelling, though.”

  “Look, she pulled out her IV.”

  A round of tongue-clucking followed this discovery.

  “Help . . .”

  Faint and panicky, it was Jessica’s voice. Weak as it was, Mark recognized it instantly through the sea of chatter.

  Abandoning his quick turn around the perimeter of the room just to see if there could possibly be someone concealed in a corner somewhere that he could have missed—there wasn’t—Mark moved in closer to hear what she had to say.

  “It’s all right, you fell out of bed. We’ll just get you back up and . . .”

  “There was . . . a man. He tried to put something in my IV.”

  A brief silence greeted this. While Mark frowned—this was emphatically not what he wanted to hear—a couple of the nurses exchanged significant looks. It was clear from their expressions that they didn’t put much stock in what she was telling them.

  “I was in here earlier.” The orderly stood up. He was a skinny twentysomething in blue scrubs. Medium brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Traces of acne on his chin and cheeks. He held up both hands as if to deflect blame. “But I just checked the fluid level. I didn’t put anything in the bag.”

  “He had . . . a needle. He tried . . . to stab me with it.” Jessica’s voice was faint and shaky, and it was clear that speaking cost her considerable effort. But the urgency underlying it carried the ring of truth—as far as Mark was concerned, at least.

  Shit. Shit, no.

  “Well, that settles it. Definitely not me.” With a humor-the-poor-fool smile, the orderly shook his head.

  “I tried to run—I couldn’t move my legs.” Jessica’s voice was shriller now, and stronger. “Why can’t I move my legs?”

  Jesus, was she paralyzed?

  “You need to try to calm down.” The nurse’s tone was soothing. “Can you roll onto this? No?” There was the briefest of pauses and a kind of shuffling sound. “Okay, everyone, one, two, three.”

  A moment later, Jessica was lifted back onto the bed and positioned so that she lay flat on her back. She was shivering violently, Mark saw, as they straightened out her limbs. The green hospital gown covered her from her neck to mid-thigh. Her legs were slender and pale and well-shaped, and her feet were narrow with unpainted toes.

  As the orderly positioned her legs carefully side by side, she lifted her head a few inches off the mattress and looked down at them with obvious horror.

  “My legs aren’t working.”

  She sounded frightened. He couldn’t blame her.

  “Could you look straight at me, please? I need to check your pupils.”

  The blond nurse leaned over the bed, shining a penlight into each of Jessica’s eyes in turn. For a moment Jessica cooperated, seeming bemused as she stared into the light.

  “Looks fine,” the nurse said.

  “I need to sit up.” Jessica moved her head restlessly. “Please.”

  Someone pressed the remote control, and the head of the bed rose with a whirr until she was in a semireclining position.

  “Get her vitals.”

  The light was withdrawn, the bed rail snapped back into place, and she was situated more comfortably on the bed, the pillows adjusted under her head, the covers smoothed and tucked into place, all in a flurry of organized movements. As they finished, Jessica lay limply back against the big white pillows, looking absolutely exhausted and about as vigorous as a rag doll.

  “Why can’t I move my legs? Why doesn’t anyone care that somebody just attacked me? Are any of you even listening to what I’m saying?” Sounding both frightened and angry, she clenched her fists around folds of the blue blanket as if she was holding on to it for dear life.

  As her gaze swept her caretakers, Mark got his first real look at her face: squarish, with a high forehead, high cheekbones, and a determined jaw. A gash over her right eyebrow was closed by a neat line of perhaps six stitches. A purpling bruise darkened on her right cheekbone. Another one angled up her neck to her ear, also on the right side. Otherwise, her skin was white as chalk. A distraught expression widened her eyes. Her hair was chin-length, the color of chocolate syrup, and badly tangled on the right side, where most of her visible injuries were located. He recalled that she had been lying on her right side when he had found her. Disregarding the effects of the crash, he would describe her as kind of cute rather than pretty, not the type to attract looks in a bar or at a party or anywhere else. The generic kid-sister type, which might explain why she also seemed vaguely familiar. Freckles, which made her look way too young to be the lawyer Lowell claimed she was, dusted her nose and cheeks. She looked like a kid, like a teenager. What she definitely did not look like was a junkie, or a drug dealer, or anyone who had dealings with junkies or drug dealers.

  So what the hell was she doing with Mrs. Cooper?

  “You’re not helping yourself by getting hysterical.” The oldest of the nurses, the one with the short salt-and-pepper hair, sounded stern as she withdrew a thermometer from Jessica’s mouth and looked down at it. “Hopefully, some of this you’re experiencing is just the side effects of all the medication you’re on.”

  “My legs?” Jessica’s voice cracked.

  “You’ll have to speak to your doctor about that. I don’t want to say anything that might be wrong. But the hallucination is almost certainly from the medication.”

  “Not a hallucination! Someone attacked me.”

  It was then that Mark caught a glimpse of her left hand. The back of it was torn and bright red with oozing blood. It took him a second to realize that the wound had resulted from the IV being torn from her flesh. His gaze shifted to the tall silver pole resting cockeyed against the wall between the two beds, where it had clearly been shoved with some force.

  If what she claims is true, the evidence to prove it is right there.

  “One time when they had me on morphine after surgery I imagined I was surrounded by a pack of wolves,” the orderly said. “Scariest thing that ever happened to me.”

  Mark was on the move. His target was the bag of fluid that still hung from the IV pole. And the tubing that was attached to it. Whatever had happened in that room, those items would tell the tale. But even if she was right on the money and there had been a man in her room—in other words, if an attempt on her life really had been made—he couldn’t let anyone outside of their own small group know it. It was something he meant to explore—and deal with, if it proved to be true—privately.

  But he didn’t think it was true. In his judgment, such a thing was almost impossible.

  “Him! It was him!” Jessica’s voice, high-pitched and panicky, made him turn his head sharply. She had apparently been giving him a once-over, because her gaze flew up his body to his face even as he looked at her. Luckily, because every eye in the room was instantly trained on him, the bag and tubing were now stowed safely out of sight in his jacket pocket.

  She meant him, Mark realized with some surprise. She was staring at him, fear plain in her face.

  7

  You’re wrong, you know.” Keeping his tone deliberately gentle, Mark
moved to stand beside the bed, one hand curling around the cold silver bed rail while the other steadied the squishy, half-full bag of fluid stuffed in his pocket. Her eyes were a clear greenish hazel framed by a thick sweep of black lashes, he saw, as they bored into his. Her brows were straight dark brown slashes that at the moment nearly met over her nose because of the intensity of her frown. “It wasn’t me. I was outside in the hall heading for your room when I heard you scream. My name’s Mark Ryan. I’m a Secret Service agent. I was there at the crash site, remember? I found you.”

  Her shoulders, which had been rigid with tension, slumped. Her features softened fractionally as some of the fear that had sharpened them seemed to ease. She blinked and collapsed back against the pillows, although her gaze didn’t leave his face and she still frowned.

  “I remember.”

  “We all saw him running down the hall while you were screaming,” said the nurse who’d been pushing the security button as he had blown past her. She was of Asian descent, with short, smooth hair and a shapely figure. Using a gauze pad, she wiped the blood from Jessica’s hand as she spoke. The scent of alcohol hit Mark’s nostrils, and he made a face at the strength of it. It had to sting, but if it did she wasn’t reacting. The tear wasn’t long, and it didn’t look deep. But it was jagged and still oozed blood.

  For whatever reason, the IV needle had definitely parted from her flesh in a violent fashion.

  “Yeah, he couldn’t have been in here doing bad things to your IV,” the orderly agreed, passing a blue plastic ice pack to the oldest nurse, who with a quiet word to Jessica applied it to the back of her head. “I saw him, too. I think that means he’s got a quadruple alibi.”

  “What made you think it was me?” Mark eyed her curiously. Did he have a twin running around somewhere that he didn’t know about? Or had it really been just a hallucination after all, with maybe her subconscious plugging in his face because he had found her and she therefore associated him with the crash?

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes seemed unfocused suddenly, as if she were no longer really seeing him, although she continued to look right at him. After a long moment she inhaled deeply, then winced as if breathing in like that had hurt. Her eyes regained their awareness, narrowing on his face, and her body tensed. Her hands clenched tight around the blanket she still gripped.

  “Mrs. Cooper?” Her voice was scarcely louder than a whisper.

  Mark hesitated. His instinct was not to add to her distress by giving her more bad news so soon, but the impression he got was that she knew the answer even as she asked the question. What exactly had she seen? Why was Mrs. Cooper—why were any of them—in that car? He needed to know the answers like yesterday, so backing off was not an option, whether he wanted to or not. This was the perfect opening—his cue to find out how much she knew about the circumstances surrounding the First Lady’s death, and to shut her up if the answers weren’t what they should be. What she knew would determine what he did about it, of course. Buying her silence was always an option, and pointing out to her how unpleasant things could get for an up-and-coming lawyer who stepped on the toes of some of the most powerful people in the country was the unfortunate corollary to that, the stick to the carrot, as it were. A job, a really good job paying really good money, could be found for her locally or far from Washington, whatever and wherever she wanted. He was in the position to grant her a number of things. All she needed to do was “forget” whatever she knew, if indeed she knew anything at all, and refuse to talk to the press. The Coopers and their loyalists had many ways of rewarding those whom they considered their friends—and just as many ways of punishing their enemies.

  Which was the part that was bothering him.

  Under the circumstances, though, he really didn’t think that was what was going on here. He couldn’t believe anybody in the Texas mafia, as the President’s mostly homegrown ring of closest advisers was informally known, would resort to trying to have her killed. To conceal the First Lady’s drug addiction, which would certainly be embarrassing and hurtful to the family if revealed but would probably, ultimately, win sympathy for the President who had tried to deal with it? Nah. Anyway, at this point, this girl just wasn’t a threat: Nobody had a clue whether she was aware of Annette Cooper’s problems at all. And even if she was, he was ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that buying her off would be the solution of choice. The fact that Jessica had thought he was her attacker boded well for the hallucination theory. Anyway, Lowell at least hadn’t sent anyone to kill her, because if so he wouldn’t also have sent Mark to deal with her. As Lowell was well aware, Mark was many things, but he wasn’t one to condone a cold-blooded murder, especially when it happened practically under his nose. And he didn’t go in for violence against women under any circumstances.

  “Could you give us a minute here, please?” he asked, sweeping a meaningful look around the room. The implication was that he simply wanted privacy in which to break the bad news about Mrs. Cooper’s death—which in a way he did, although that wasn’t all of it, and he didn’t think what he had to say was going to come as a surprise to her.

  Jessica’s eyes widened, and for a moment he thought she meant to protest. Mark realized that she was probably alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with him, which, if she really thought he’d tried to put something in her IV, he could certainly understand.

  “You don’t have to worry; you’re safe with me,” he told her in his best reassuring tone, to head her off before she could protest. “I’m on your side. I’m here strictly to make sure you’re taken care of.”

  She looked at him hard, but she didn’t object.

  “Well . . .” The oldest nurse frowned at him. So did the blond one, looking across the bed at him as, with a loud zip of releasing Velcro, she unwrapped the blood-pressure cuff she had applied to Jessica’s arm a moment before. The security guards shuffled uneasily. Mark had the feeling that if he hadn’t been Secret Service, there was no way in hell he would have gotten her alone. As it was, though, it was clear that none of them quite had the guts to come right out and say no.

  “It’s all right.” Jessica clenched the matter.

  “We’ll be right outside the door,” the oldest nurse promised. With a glance at Jessica, the blond nurse stepped away from the bed. Then all of them, security guards included, left the room. There was a soft whoosh and then a click as the door closed behind them.

  Mark looked at Jessica.

  “Well?” Her voice was flat. Her eyes held his. She looked small and fragile lying there. She also looked kind of like she’d been hit by a Mack truck, which when he thought about it wasn’t too far from what had actually happened to her. Mind-boggling that this nondescript girl, rather than the First Lady of the United States, or fit, strong Will Prescott, or even the adult male driver, had survived. Either she was a lot tougher than she looked or lucky as hell, and he didn’t think she was very tough. What surprised him, though, was how calm and in control of herself she seemed. Pretty remarkable, he reckoned, under the circumstances. She had already suffered a lot both physically and emotionally, and she was probably in pain.

  But still she had the moxie to scowl at him.

  “The First Lady was killed in the crash,” he said. There was no way to sugarcoat it, so best just get it out there.

  Her eyes flickered, and she glanced down and away. Her lips shook, then firmed, as if she was refusing to let the emotion she was clearly feeling gain the upper hand. She took a breath, carefully shallower than before. Then, as he weighed what to say next, she was suddenly looking straight at him again. Her eyes blazed.

  “Where the hell were you?” There was accusation in her voice.

  “What?” She’d taken him by surprise. He almost blinked at her.

  “I know you—you’re the SAIC of the First Lady’s security detail. Why weren’t you there with her at the hotel? Or why wasn’t somebody? Why was she alone? If you’d done what you were supposed to do, none of this would hav
e happened.”

  “She was at a hotel?”

  He latched on to the one piece of solid information and ignored the rest. He had to, because the guilt that her accusation stirred up was something he couldn’t deal with right now. The thing that killed him was, she was right. One hundred percent totally correct.

  “Isn’t it your job to know that?”

  Now she was starting to bug him. Whatever he’d been expecting, to have his balls busted by this girl who didn’t look much older than his daughter wasn’t it.

  Anger bubbled. It was fueled by guilt, he knew. Mark told himself to chill.

  “What do you know about my job?” He kept his voice even and his gaze level on her face. “For that matter, how do you know who I am?”

  She didn’t ease up. “I’m an associate with Davenport, Kelly, and Bascomb, Mr. Ryan. Mrs. Cooper has been to our offices on several occasions, and you’ve been with her. And I’ve seen you at the White House, when I delivered some papers to her.”

  It was all Mark could do not to blatantly look her over again, which he figured would not be politic. The thing was, he didn’t remember ever seeing her, not in Davenport’s office and not in the White House. Not that he meant to say so.

  “That’s right,” he said, as if he recalled the occasions perfectly. “So, would you mind telling me what hotel Mrs. Cooper was in, and what she was doing there?”

  “Are you asking out of idle curiosity, or in an official capacity?”

  Keep it cool, keep it easy. “Part of my job.”

  A beat passed. Then she said, almost sulkily, “It was the Harrington. And I have no idea why she was there.”

  “So why were you there?”

  “Mr. Davenport sent me to meet Mrs. Cooper there because he couldn’t go himself.”

  “The First Lady was meeting Davenport at a hotel?”

  “In the bar. Apparently, she called him and asked to meet, but he couldn’t make it. He sent me instead.”

  “Why?” He couldn’t fathom a circumstance in which the First Lady’s close friend and trusted confidant would need to meet her in a bar, or would send a stranger—and he was as sure as it was possible to be under the circumstances that Mrs. Cooper hadn’t known Jessica from Adam before tonight—to meet with her in his stead. Unless, as Lowell had speculated, a drug deal of some sort was involved. Or maybe the heading off of one.