Fear Familiar Bundle (14 page)

They'd finished dinner and were having coffee by the time Peter arrived, eager for an account of the evening's meeting.

"Eleanor was brilliant," Magdalena gushed. "She tried to make those rascals accountable for their conduct."

"I didn't," Eleanor protested. "I only asked a few questions. The place was, well, disreputable."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Meaning?"

"There wasn't even a single tree," she said, realizing she sounded ridiculous. "And the orangutan had these sores on her hands." She didn't want to get into the business about Vrenner.

"Electric shock?" he asked. When he saw Eleanor's startled look, he regretted his sudden question.

Magdalena nodded. Her green eyes were sharp as a cat's, he noted.

"How did you know?" Eleanor asked Peter.

"Standard operating procedure for some labs and other so-called training facilities." He shrugged it off.

"The Behavioral Institute," Magdalena said. "The cages were empty. I didn't get much of a chance to tour the place. Typical setup, mesh cages on top of each other, that type of thing."

"I know it only too well," Peter said, shaking his head. He stood up. "I'd better get you ladies home. It's late."

He assisted Magdalena to her feet. Outside the restaurant, a sheen of ice had touched the sidewalks. The wind sang around Eleanor's ears with a new bitterness as she slipped into the car. Something had transpired at the lab that she'd missed— something between Magdalena and Vrenner— and possibly Breck.

Magdalena made an issue of giving Peter her address as they moved into the traffic. Their eyes met and held in the rearview mirror for a moment.

"Hey, isn't that your friend from the university?" Peter pointed to the corner window seat.

Eleanor strained to catch a glimpse of the red-haired woman who sat at the table with Alva Rousel, but couldn't be certain if it was Betty or not. Traffic forced their car forward before Eleanor could get a good look.

"I couldn't tell if it was Betty, but I'm certain the man was Alva Rousel," Eleanor said, and for some reason the idea of the two of them dining together unnerved her. "I saw him earlier when I went to the ladies' room. He was hiding behind a newspaper, as if he'd been sent to tail me and needed a crummy disguise."

"Maybe he was just having dinner," Peter said. "That isn't an unreasonable assumption. Betty is an attractive woman, and from all I could gather, she's single."

"I suppose you're right," Eleanor agreed.

"But you don't like it, do you?" Magdalena asked from the back seat.

"No, I don't," Eleanor admitted, chuckling at her own irrationality. "And I don't know why."

"Woman's intuition," Magdalena said. "It's the best reason, and the only one you can't ever explain."

T
UESDAY MORNING
rain pelted Eleanor's bedroom window. She pulled the covers over her head and sighed. Only Familiar's insistent kneading convinced her that she had to get up. She checked the bedside clock and found that it was nearly nine.

"Ten days until Christmas," she said, awed by the reality. "I'd better do some serious shopping today."

Looking out the window, she knew she'd go instead to the university. She didn't have the fortitude to confront millions of shoppers on such a dreary day. She needed the comfort of her research, and she was dying to talk with Betty.

Peter had walked her to her door the night before, but she'd declined his offer to act as watchdog. There were things she needed to tell him, but last night hadn't been the proper occasion. She was still up in the air about her own feelings.

"I'll talk with Peter about it in a day or two," she told Familiar as she opened a can of salmon for him. "I owe him an explanation."

"Meoww!" Familiar answered, then tucked into the food.

Eleanor took her time selecting warm clothes and getting ready for work. She dressed casually, in a long, flowing wool skirt and a turtleneck sweater that accentuated her willowy grace. With her hair pulled back in a ribbon and the dark frames of her glasses, she looked very young and studious.

As she walked across the lobby to the desk, she recognized Alva Rousel sitting in one of the lobby chairs. Once again a newspaper concealed most of his face.

"You must be up on current events," she said, stopping in front of him.

"I try to keep alert," he said. His smile was boyish, charming. "Did you enjoy your dinner last night?"

"Very much."

"I can't say as much for the company you keep," he added, still smiling.

"Which one, the woman or the man?"

"Both," he said, then smiled again. "The CIA isn't interested in your romantic life. Is that the role Peter Curry is playing?"

"In a manner of speaking," Eleanor said, fighting her inclination to become defensive. "I have a few personal questions for you. Was that Betty Gillette you had dinner with?"

Rousel grinned, breaking the tension. "She's a fascinating woman."

"I couldn't agree more," Eleanor said. "Even if you haven't found a good reason to lock me up, at least you discovered a nice woman to date."

"Fate has a way of rewarding the deserving," he said. A worried frown replaced his smile. "I don't want you to have something you don't deserve happen to you."

Eleanor felt the rush of blood through her veins. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Your background. Your husband had a lot of irons in the fire. He was a man with many interests, and I'd guess at least ninety percent of them were illegal."

"I can't defend Carter, and I don't intend to try," Eleanor said. "But he's dead, and I wasn't responsible for what he did."

"When federal authorities asked you to testify against him, you refused. Isn't that correct?"

Eleanor's anger moved up a notch. "Yes, that's true. I was married to him, and whether you understand it or not, I took my vows seriously. For better or worse, in sickness and in health. Those little words meant everything to me. I couldn't testify against my husband. Even if I wanted to, I didn't know anything about Code One Orange until you told me. I didn't even believe you until yesterday, when I talked with his old friend."

"I'm not always at liberty to reveal details." Rousel's blue eyes hardened. "Who did you talk with?"

"Rayburn Smith. Carter's best pal."

"He's still alive?"

"Very much. He wasn't involved in the Central American thing. Rayburn was a petty criminal. He had no ambitions like Carter."

"Few men had the ambitions of your husband," Rousel said. He folded the newspaper and held it in his lap. "Eleanor, is there any chance that Carter…might have survived his automobile wreck?"

The room seemed to dim slightly, and Eleanor saw her hand reach out and clutch the arm of Rousel's chair. He stood quickly and assisted her by grasping her elbow. Cool sweat covered her back and forehead, and she thought for a moment she might be physically ill. Rousel helped her into the chair.

"Was it something I said?" he asked, concern wrinkling his forehead.

"What makes you ask if Carter might be alive?" Her heart was pounding so violently against her ribs that she thought Rousel would surely see her distress. He was watching her eyes, after all.

"No real evidence, just a hunch."

"The officer who investigated Carter's accident had no reserve about declaring him dead. He said no one could have survived that crash. Why are you asking so many questions about Carter? What does he have to do with the break-in at a laboratory?" This was the link that completely eluded her. She was completely confused.

"If Carter was in that car," Rousel said, biting his lower lip. "If he was in that car…"

"He couldn't have escaped." She knew she was sounding desperate, but couldn't stop herself. "Nine years have passed. It doesn't make any sense that Carter would come around now. If there was the chance Carter was alive, don't you think he would have contacted his wife?"

"Maybe he did, Eleanor. Maybe he will again."

Eleanor's legs were steady, but her blood rushed from the surge of adrenaline Alva Rousel's words had created. Carter, alive! It wasn't possible. But a CIA agent had given the nightmare thought some daytime credence. There were so many questions. Why now, after all these years, would Carter suddenly reappear if he were alive? She stumbled out of the elevator and into the dank parking garage. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her, she felt an attack of fear.

She swept the garage with a long, slow gaze. The rows of cars seemed somehow sinister. The dark shadows and trapped fumes created a gruesome atmosphere straight from her childhood fantasies of hell. Taking a deep breath, she thought about getting back into the elevator and calling a cab to take her to the university.

"No," she said aloud. Carter Wells had effectively ruined her past. He wasn't going to get control of her present and future. If he was lurking around parking lots trying to scare her, she'd confront him. She'd ask him right out what he wanted. All of her obligations to him had been erased. She owed him nothing. She owed herself the courage to confront her past and end it, once and for all. She had to do it. For herself and for Peter. If her feelings for Peter were to grow and develop, Carter had to be laid to rest.

Her booted footsteps echoed in the empty garage as she walked down the line of cars. She could see the bumper of her own and walked toward it, never looking left or right. Her spine tingled as she listened for an unnatural sound, for some half-expected warning.

"I'm too old for such foolishness," she told herself. "I'm spooked like a silly teenager."

The walk seemed to take forever. With each step forward, she seemed to fall two steps back. The sensation was like a nightmare. The longer she moved toward the car, the farther away it seemed.

She picked up her pace, still refusing to look to either side.

Out of the darkness her nightmare was reborn. Behind her came the sound of footsteps.

Panic struggled to release itself in a scream, but she held it back. It wasn't Carter. It couldn't be. The talk with the CIA agent had simply rubbed her nerves raw. There were hundreds of cars in the garage. That meant hundreds of owners would be coming in and out, getting and parking their cars.

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Someone darted into the shadow of a column. Someone tall and masculine.

She started to run, fumbling in her purse for her keys. The footsteps came after her.

She knew better than to look back. The figure was gaining, drawing closer as she clumsily searched her purse and tried to run in the high-heeled boots. Her breath came in gasps, the fumes of the garage tearing at her throat and lungs.

She flung herself at the car, finally pulling the keys free of the purse. The doors were locked, and she cursed as she struggled to insert the key into the lock. She heard the footsteps behind her, coming at a steady but rapid pace.

At last the door lock clicked and she threw herself inside the car. Simultaneously pulling the door closed and cranking the motor, she jerked the car into Reverse and hit the gas. Cold, the motor stalled, then fell into gear with a roar. The car shot out of the parking spot.

"Hey!" the figure called to her. She heard a thud and punched the car into First. Whoever was behind her was flesh and blood! With a squeal of tires, she drove away. In the rearview mirror, she saw a man struggle up from the pavement.

She'd hit him! She'd actually struck a human being with her car! The panic began to clear and she slowed. The figure in the rearview mirror was standing upright and limping. He held up a hand to her, a hand of…pleading? Her hands gripping the steering wheel were numb, but her foot slid from the gas to the brake. The figure was coming toward her, one leg dragging. Whoever it was, it wasn't Carter!

She turned off the ignition, struggling with the key. Clumsy fingers fumbled again and again. It was as if all the messages from her brain had somehow been garbled. Time hung suspended.

"Dr. Duncan?" Joey Knight rapped on the window.

Eleanor's head snapped up. Her student was standing at the side of the car, pain etched across his young features.

"Are you okay, Dr. Duncan?" he asked.

"Joey!" She rolled down the window. "Joey, are you hurt?" Her voice shook. "What were you doing in the parking garage?" She opened the door and got out. A wet stain of blood was soaking through the leg of his jeans.

"I was worried about you after the break-in at your office. I came over to ride to the university with you. Some guy in the lobby said you'd just left. He said he thought you might be in the garage." The young man shrugged his shoulders. "When I got down here, I felt like a fool, so I started sneaking around behind you."

"Oh, Joey!" Eleanor helped him to the passenger side of the car and put him inside. "We're going to the hospital and have some X rays. Were you hit hard?"

"I sort of rolled over the back of the car and fell," he said. "I'm not hurt, I just scraped my leg. I thought for a moment that you were trying to kill me." His voice was shaky.

"Not you, Joey. I thought you were someone else."

"I guess I scared you, following you," he said.

Eleanor slipped behind the wheel and started out of the garage. "More than scared me. You terrified me."

"It wasn't such a bright idea, now that I think about it," he reflected ruefully.

"No, it wasn't bright. But that isn't important now. We'll get you fixed up at the hospital and see how bad the damage is."

"No hospital," he said. "It's only a scrape and a few bruises. I promise. If you'll take me back to my dorm room, I'll put some bandages on it and get some clean jeans."

Eleanor looked doubtfully at the red spot on Joey's thigh that was growing larger and larger. "I think you should see a doctor."

"No, I can't," Joey told her. "If my mom finds out about this, and she will, if I have to put it on the insurance, she'll have a fit. She'll call Dad and fight with him long-distance, and he'll be in trouble, because I was supposed to be with him over the holidays. I can't," he said. The misery on his face convinced Eleanor.