Familiar Stranger (11 page)

Even though the room was in darkness, she saw enough of his expression to realize what he'd been trying not to say.

"Oh … my … God. Please tell me it's not what I'm thinking. Frank's dead … isn't he?"

His silence rocked the room.

She inhaled sharply. "What can you tell me?"

"Nothing that will make any sense."

Her gaze went straight to the scar on his shoulder. She touched it in disbelief.

"He did this, didn't he?"

David nodded.

She started to cry.

"We all tried to kill you, didn't we, darling? Deception. Lies. Betrayals. My God, you must have thought there was no one on your side. Not even me."

"Don't say that," he muttered, and took her in his arms. "I never once blamed you. You did what you had to do."

"I will forever blame my parents for the lies they told me about you."

"And they did what they thought was right, too. Let it go, Cara. I'm here now."

She buried her face against the curve of his neck. "I'm scared."

His arms tightened around her. "I'm scared, too, but not
of
Frank … only what he can do if he isn't stopped. You understand, don't you?"

Her voice was shaking, her face streaked with tears. "Yes, as much as I hate to admit it, I do. I promise I won't talk about this again. We have now and we have each other. And when you come back, we'll have the rest of our lives."

Now David felt like crying. Instead, he laid her down and began to kiss her. Gently at first and then with desperation, until they were lost in the passion.

* * *

After a day of traveling in his new disguise, Frank Wilson was comfortable in his skin as he tossed a handful of bills onto the counter, picked up the sacks containing his new wardrobe and sauntered out of the Denver, Colorado store. The day was almost balmy. One of those clear, robin's-egg blue skies that made a man feel as if he could take on the world. He paused at the curb before swaggering down the street. More than one woman gave him a second look as he passed, and in spite of his scars, and his long ponytail wig, he knew it was not in disgust. There was a bad-boy air of danger about him that never failed to attract the women. Granted, they were always the wrong kind of women, not like his beloved Martha, but they were always there just the same.

He stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the red light to change, and thought of what he had lost. His identity was unimportant. He'd lived so long in the shadows that another assumed name would be a small price to pay for peace of mind. After his confrontation with David was over, maybe he'd find himself a good woman and settle down again. Despite the fact that his sixtieth birthday had come and gone, he had the body and constitution of a much younger man, and he knew it. It wasn't too late to make a new life for himself. He would have the time, and he already had the money.

The light changed, and he started across the street, losing himself in the crowd of pedestrians. By the time he got back to his hotel, he'd made up his mind to head south after he rid himself of David. Maybe the Florida Keys. He liked the sun. It was why he'd settled in Australia, but he'd had enough of the outback. This time, he wanted to be where there was water. A whole lot of water.

Inside his room, he tossed the bags with his purchases onto the bed and began to go through them, searching for certain items. A few minutes later, he had changed into khaki-colored cotton shorts and a navy blue T-shirt. He put on a baseball cap with the Denver Broncos logo and then transferred a number of items into a medium-size fanny pack, patted his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and room key, as well as some other identification, and headed out the door. He had an appointment he didn't want to miss.

A half hour later, a cab dropped him off at a public firing range. He sauntered inside as if he owned the place.

The clerk at the front desk looked up. "Can I help you?" he asked.

Frank nodded, flashing a badge. "Detective Ferraro out of New York City. I'm here on vacation. Thought I'd get in some target practice while the little woman spends all my money."

The clerk grinned. "Yeah, I can identify with that, buddy," he said. "Sign in here. I'll get an escort to take you into the range. He'll get you all set up."

"Great," Frank said, signing his fake name with a flourish.

A few minutes later, he stood within his cubicle, safety glasses and headphones on, his 9mm Glock loaded and waiting for the first target to appear. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

"Are you ready, sir?"

Frank nodded, took aim and waited. About fifty feet in front of him, a paper target appeared. He squeezed off a couple of rounds, taking satisfaction in the weapon's kick against the palms of his hands. The muffled sounds of gunfire, the smell of burning gunpowder, the surge of adrenaline—everything combined within his senses and sent his memory into overdrive. David's face suddenly appeared on the target, taunting him like the ghost that he'd become, and when it did, Frank snapped, emptying his gun into the target. Moving in robotlike motions, he ejected the empty clip and slipped a full one in place before pressing the button on the wall beside him to bring the paper target up close.

Yanking it from the wire, he grunted in satisfaction. Every shot he'd fired had hit within a three-inch radius of where a man's heart would be. He dropped it onto the floor beside him, hit the switch, then adjusted his safety glasses as he waited for a new target to appear. He'd done fine, just fine. But he could do better.

He set the distance on the new target at fifty feet farther back than before and took aim. Again, David's face appeared before him. He squeezed the trigger in rapid succession again, this time peppering the head until there was nothing left of the target above the shoulders and no bullets left in the clip.

Muscles in his healing shoulder protested, but he ignored the painful twinges as he took off the headphones and goggles, then mopped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief.

A passing attendant glanced into Frank's cubicle and whistled softly.

"Good job, sir. Whoever he is, he's definitely dead."

Frank turned abruptly, still holding his weapon and making sure that he'd never seen him before. Luckily for the attendant, he was a stranger to Frank, or he might never have lived to see another sunrise. Then Frank smiled, pulling the scarred side of his mouth into a grimace.

"Yeah … he's that, all right," Frank said, and headed for the exit.

* * *

Morning dawned on a gray, overcast day. It looked like rain. David stood at the living room windows staring out into the yard, but he wasn't looking at the view. His thoughts had gone inward, mentally plotting out a course of action. The scent of coffee still permeated the air from their breakfast. Cara had scooted David out of the kitchen, claiming she was making him a surprise. Then she'd argued he should be resting in bed and he'd retaliated by ignoring her.

Now, although they were but a room away from each other, the distance between them couldn't have been further. He wasn't thinking like David. He'd become Jonah again—planning the best way to trap and dispose of a killer.

Happy with the pie she was baking, Cara never knew when David went out the front door and checked the contents of his trunk. He needed to check in with his agents and the powers that be again. If God had been listening to his prayers, maybe they'd already fished Frank's body out of the East River, but he wasn't betting his future on that. At least not yet.

He looked at the house. He wasn't in the mood to go to the lake, but no way was he ever going to destroy the sanctity of that home by bringing any part of his old life into it. Anxious to get things in motion, he set the bag in the front seat of the car and ran into the house.

Cara heard the front door slam, then the sound of running footsteps. She turned just as David entered the kitchen.

"What's the hurry?"

He hesitated. "Something smells good."

She frowned. "David. I raised three children and I've heard just about every excuse in the book. That's not what you came here to tell me."

He grinned. "Damn, you're good."

"Yes, and don't you forget it," she muttered. "So, what's up?"

"I'm going to take another little drive. I won't be gone long, okay?"

Her fingers tightened around the handle of the knife she was holding. It was the only outward sign of her unease.

"Okay. If you get as far as Chiltingham, would you mind bringing back a gallon of milk?"

His eyes widened, then a genuine smile spread across his face. He hadn't done anything that ordinary since before he'd left for Vietnam.

"No, I don't mind. I don't mind at all," he said, and then suddenly swooped, swinging her up in his arms and dancing her across the kitchen with her feet dangling above the floor.

"Be careful of your stitches," she cried.

"To hell with the stitches. I'm going to kiss you."

Cara laughed from the joy in his eyes and from the silliness of it all. By the time he stopped moving, she was dizzy from all the spinning.

"You're a crazy man," she said, and planted a hard kiss in the center of his mouth.

"That kind of behavior will make a man crazy," he muttered, and kissed her back. Then he turned her loose with a reluctant groan. "I won't be long," he said.

She eyed him cautiously, afraid to say what was in her heart, but David read the expression on her face.

"I swear I'll be back," he said softly.

"I knew that," Cara said. "Now get. This pie won't be ready in time for supper if I don't get it in the oven."

But David didn't move and he wouldn't turn her loose.

"Cara…"

"Yes?"

"I love you very much."

Quick tears blurred his face. It had been forty years since she'd heard him say those words and yet her heart still skipped a beat. She cupped his face with her hands, fingering the silver strands of hair above his ears and then smiling.

"Thank you, my darling. I love you, too."

He laughed and then hugged her fiercely before bolting out of the house. Only after Cara could no longer hear the sound of the car's engine did she sit down and cry.

Still riding on an emotional high, David drove with focus, searching for the same road that he'd taken before. The radio was on, but turned down low, little more than background noise for bigger plans. But when he heard the disc jockey giving a brief update on a breaking story, he turned it up, then began to frown. Another business had been robbed, presumably by the same three thieves who'd been terrorizing the area.

"They'll make a mistake," he muttered. "They're getting too cocky."

A few miles down the road, he saw the cutoff he was looking for and swerved. The car bumped and bounced along the graveled road before he had a chance to slow down. Just like before, no one was anywhere in sight, not even on the water.

A few minutes later, he was set up and running. As he dialed the first number, he felt himself slipping back into the Jonah mind-set, and as he did, realized that it felt uncomfortable. Just these few days with Cara were easing forty years of scars from his military service. Seconds later, his call was answered. He gave a one-word code, which instantly connected him to another line, then another. Finally, his call reached its final destination.

"Hello, Jonah, this is the President. How have you been?"

"Better, sir," David said briefly. "Has there been any word on our quarry?"

"No, I'm sorry to say there has not. It looks like your assumptions were correct after all."

David slumped in disappointment and was glad the President couldn't see his face.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, too, sir."

"Is there anything you need?"

"Not at the moment, sir. I'll let you know when it's over."

"Thank you, Jonah. I appreciate that."

"Oh … sir?"

"Yes?"

"About looking for my replacement."

"Yes?"

"I suggest you start the process."

"It's your call," the President said, and then added, "I hope you know how much I regret it had to come to this."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, but it was inevitable. We don't last forever in this job."

The President's chuckle rumbled in David's ear. "Longer than I do in mine, I can assure you."

David grinned. "Yes, sir." Then he added quickly, "I'll be in touch."

The line went dead in his ear. Satisfied that was done, he dialed another number. Seconds later, a woman's voice answered.

"MailBin, Birmingham branch, Jennifer speaking."

"Hello, Jennifer, this is David Wilson."

"Oh, hi, Mr. Wilson. Long time, no talkie," she said, and then giggled at the joke she'd just made.

"Yes, it has been a while," David said. "I need you to do something for me."

"Are we forwarding your stuff again?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Okeydoke. Even though I recognize your voice, I need your password."

"Fourth of July," he said.

"All righty, then. Where do you want your stuff sent this time?"

"I'll be in Washington D.C. by Monday. Please send the contents of the box to the Wardman Park Hotel. Here's the address."

A couple of minutes later, he hung up again, satisfied that whatever mail had been accumulating for him would be awaiting his arrival at the hotel. Then he dialed another number, checked upon the situation at the Texas/Mexico border and deployed another agent to help the one already on-site, then sent another agent to assist the two in Illinois who were investigating the death threats on the President.

Once he'd finished with the business of SPEAR, he dialed one more number, this time his last.

"Marriott Wardman Park, how can I direct your call?"

"Reservations, please," David said. "One moment, sir."

A couple of rings later, David was connected.

"Reservations, how may I help you?"

"This is David L. Wilson. Number fifty-one. I will be arriving Sunday afternoon."

The moment the name was typed into the hotel computer, it automatically opened into a security file with a predestined room ready at his disposal.