Mourning Dove (28 page)

“Mr. Farrell, stop pacing
and come sit down,” Robert demanded over his shoulder.

Matthew turned from the
window and returned to the desk chair. “Sorry, I think better on my feet. A
piece of the puzzle is missing here.”

“What puzzle?” she asked.

“When I’ve worked it out,
I’ll let you know. Robert, what did you want to discuss in private?” He sat
down and crossed an ankle to knee.

“I was asked by my CFO to
cooperate with the government in their investigation and to hire this lady in
whatever position she was most suited. Ironically this was not a request to
find a spare secretarial desk, but a highly visible position. I went out on a
limb, moved a perfectly competent comptroller out to the west coast, and lost
him to an automobile accident. I know there were other issues there,” Robert
waved his hand to forestall a rebuttal on his opinion of Ross Gordon, “but the
point is I’ve made a lot of accommodations for Mrs. Stafford.”

“Sir, I don’t understand
why you would consider such a bizarre request from someone who works under
you,” Sara finally stated.

“Jonathon is a friend. He
was also a former bureau chief with a federal organization. He tells me he’s
occasionally asked to help out in this capacity. I trust him.”

Matthew put both feet on
the floor and leaned forward, “Then Pierce asked you to take me on to cover
while he was away, correct?”

“Just what is your
assignment, Mr. Farrell?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,
sir. I can tell you though that I’m also guarding Mrs. Stafford, and I will
continue in that capacity throughout my investigation. She’s in danger because
of something she either saw or heard. The trail of evidence keeps looping back
to Starr Shine Communications.”

“Because I work at Starr
Shine? Maybe I
should
resign to protect the company. You were right,
Robert. As soon as the conference is over I’ll turn in my resignation.”

“Hold on, little lady.
What if the loop back to the company is coincidental to your working here?
Wouldn’t it be to our benefit to maintain status quo? You’re still an excellent
accountant.
And
, it would be very difficult to explain your resignation
to my wife.”

Even wrapped in Matt’s
arms swaying to the rhythm of a slow dance, Sara couldn’t turn off the facts
floating around in her head. Someone close to her was responsible for Carl’s
death. She knew it on a gut level. She just didn’t know who. Too many clues
went nowhere.

“A penny for your
thoughts?” he asked. His fingertips created trails up and down her back, their
slowness a counterpoint to her rapid heartbeat.

Staring into his gray
eyes, she shook her head in denial. “Why do you want to spoil a romantic
moment?”

“I don’t like
experiencing romantic moments alone. By its very nature romance insinuates two
people sharing special time together. Your body is in my arms, Sara, but your
mind is elsewhere.”  He tilted her chin upward. “Share your thoughts. Lighten
your load.”

“The spider’s web is
getting far too complex. I don’t know who to trust.”

“Do you trust me, Sara?”

“I think so.”

“Not a whole lot of
confidence in that statement, is there?”

“I’m confused. How can a
punk I never knew be actively trying to destroy me?”

“It probably has nothing
to do with you.” He glanced over her head to the crowd at the bar on the other
side of the room. “You’re probably collateral damage to him. He’ll do or say
anything to get out of the jam he’s in.”

“What about his
connection to the Nazi cult? Although my heart still can’t believe Carl was
involved with them, I have the evidence. Now I’m caught up in a drug deal with
a punk who also has ties to the group. What am I suppose to do?”

“Just do your job. Let me
worry about the cult.”

“You said some of the
clues come back to Starr Shine. I’m right in the thick of it, aren’t I?”

“Love, you need a
diversion. Let’s get out of here. The rest of the crew won’t miss us at this
point.”

“Well, the barracuda
might.”

“Not at the moment. She’s
distracted with the R & D chief. I think he might get lucky tonight.”

“That’s crude.”

“It’s a fact of life.
Come on; let’s find a place less crowded.” He turned her toward the exit with
his hands on her shoulders.

In minutes they were back
at the Michigan Avenue entrance to the hotel.  He whispered in her ear, “My
room or yours?”

“I would feel more
comfortable in mine.”

The street seemed
unusually empty. Only one man was visible, standing at the end of the block. 
He was watching them. “Matthew, isn’t that the man you ran into the other day?”

“Where?” He craned his
head to the left.

“No, one block on the
right.”

Before he could narrow in
on him, the elderly man turned down the block.

“I didn’t see him. What
did he look like?”

“White hair and glasses,
he was staring at us and leaning on a black umbrella.”

“He’s gone now. Do you
want me to go after him?”

“No, I don’t want
anything else to happen to you.”

“You don’t have much
faith in my talents.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just
jittery. Let’s go up. Maybe I do need a distraction.”

“Always glad to oblige,
milady.”

In the elevator he pulled
her into his arms and she could feel herself melting into the comfort he gave.
“This feels far too good, Matt. It makes me wish this was real.”

“It is real, Sara.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a
fantasy and when I wake in the morning it will be gone, just like a dream.”

“It doesn’t have to be.
Not with me.”

“With everything that’s
happened since my son died, it would be cruel to promise something that can’t
be.”

“What makes you think a
relationship with me can’t be?”

“You’re an agent for the
federal government chasing bad guys wherever they hide. I want consistency in
my life. I need to trust that the man I love will come home every night; that
our travels won’t be tied to some drug bust or a search for weapons of mass
destruction. And, I think you’re probably too young for me. I’ll grow old and
you’ll still be knocking the sweet young girls over with your smile. Not to
mention that I’m still tied to another man, a man who doesn’t want to let me go
even if he did ignore my presence when I lived with him.”

“I’ll tell you a little
secret,” he whispered into her ear. “I won’t ever ignore you and eight years is
not an issue from where I stand. Just so you know, I’ve put twenty years into
this job and I’ve decided this is my last assignment. I want to do something
fun for the rest of my life. I can’t think of anyone I would rather share that
fun with than you.”

“If this is a proposal, I
think you...”

He stopped her denial
with a simple kiss. The elevators opened onto her floor. His hand in the middle
of her back steered her down the hall toward her room. Sara turned toward him
and placed a stalling hand on his chest. “This conversation isn’t over. We need
to understand each other. I can’t make promises, not now.”

“I’m not asking for any.
I’m just stating facts as I see them. It’s what I do best: establish a goal,
discover the facts, determine the problems, and plot the solution.”

“I don’t think I have a
rebuttal for that.”

“Good. Give me your card
key and I’ll open your door.”

“This isn’t the 19
^th
century. I can open my own door.”

“Of course you can. I
still want to enter the room first to make sure there’re no surprises. Give me
your key and let me do my job.”

She offered the card and
they missed the handoff. The card fluttered to the floor and they both bent to
pick it up, colliding in mid-descent.

From the floor he pushed
himself up against the door jam. “I think we’ve done this before,” he said and
pulled her into his lap. “Are you okay, Sara?” He kissed the collision spot on
her forehead.

“And this is another thing.
We are so klutzy together; we would be detrimental to each other’s health.”

“Shush and stay put for a
moment.”

“Matt, we’re in the
hallway. Anyone could come by. What if a reporter comes out of the elevator? 
How would I explain
that
to Robert?”

“I banged my arm trying
to block your fall. Wait just a minute ‘til the throbbing stops.”

“Oh my God! Let me see
it.”

“Stop squirming. When we
get inside you can play Florence Nightingale.”

Just then the elevator
bell rang to signal a door opening. “Get up, Matt. I don’t want to be found
like this.”

He pushed Sara upright,
stood behind her, and swiped the card in the lock. The elevator door opened and
they looked toward it. A couple decked out from a night at the theatre emerged
and turned down the opposite way lost in their own conversation. Sara and
Matthew finally moved into her room.

“You stay here beside the
door; I’ll sweep the room.”

After a careful
inspection he gave her a thumbs-up then slid out of his jacket and unbuttoned
his shirtsleeve.

“It doesn’t look like you
tore your stitches. There’s no bleeding, but it’s red around the wound.” Sara
gently touched the redness with her fingertips checking for fever around the
cut. “There’s no heat.”

When she looked up he had
a silly grin on his face. “Now why are you smiling?”

“You must have been a
wonderful mother.” The grin disappeared from his face. “I am so truly sorry.”

Tears blurred her vision
as the knot in her chest reappeared. She turned toward the bathroom in search
of a tissue. A moment later, she felt his strength around her again. He leaned
his cheek on top of her head and rocked her in his embrace. “Sara, I would have
taken his place to save you this,” he whispered into her hair. “I wasn’t there.
I’m sorry.”

***

The nightmare was back
but something was different. This time she wasn’t watching; she
was
Carl. Sara felt what he felt, saw what he saw, and smelled the salt spray in
the fog.

A gray mist blanketed
the coast this night. The fog horn in the channel sounded its warning.  He left
his car parked beyond the rocky sea wall, climbed over the first two ridges of
granite and walked the path by memory alone. Years of family picnics, romantic
interludes and peaceful isolated contemplation kept him on course. He crunched
a clam shell abandoned by scavenging sea gulls beneath his boot. He shifted the
weight of his backpack to his right shoulder and leaped over the rock wall
marking the edge of the park. He stopped to get his bearings and heard a
footfall behind him. He pick up speed and cut across the winding path heading
for two bunkers that once housed WW II cannon installed to protect the
northeast coast and the navel shipyard in the channel.

When he came to a
picnic table he walked around it. Maybe a hundred yards beyond it he heard a
thump and a whispered curse behind him. He’d set his trap. It was all he could
do now. They knew his identity.

Counting his steps he
veered right and found the old pine marking the split in the trail. He ducked
the first two branches and squeezed in beside the damp concrete guardian of the
coastline. His breathing slowed as he waited. The fog horn bleated its call of
warning once, twice, and again. He could hear no sound from his tracker. After
five more blasts from the channel he heard another sound in the distance. He smiled
at his pursuer’s heavy breathing. The man was heading in the wrong direction.

He climbed to the top
of the hill behind the bunker then beyond it. Slowly, feeling his way through
the brush, he came to a concrete base and set his pack down behind its damp
surface. It was slick with sea mist and ice. He held his breath and unzipped
the canvas pack. Waiting for sounds of the tracker, he heard only the measure
of time from the channel. When his breathing slowed he took out a length of
cord, a cylinder the size of a cigar, two five-inch long stainless steel rods,
and a disk. He pulled off an insulated glove, and quietly slipped the cylinder
into the glove until it stiffened the middle finger smiling at the appropriate
gesture to the game he played. He made a noose with the cord and looped it
around the wrist of the glove, pulling tight. When he reached inside the
plugged air shaft he gently lifted out a collection of leaf debris. Deep
inside, he wrapped his fingers around the buried treasure of his childhood, smiled
because it was still here, and placed it beside his pack.

Holding the end of the
cord under his boot, he eased the tethered glove into the shaft. He fashioned a
cross out of the rods, reached down into the shaft with his chest pressed to
the wet exterior and lodged the crossed rods where they would go no further. By
his estimation the cylinder was another ten feet down the hole.

Sliding down behind
the air shaft he leaned back and picked up the piece of oiled canvas wrapped
around his childhood treasure. When he opened it in the darkness he felt the
round of his marble cat’s eye, the rough of the piece of iron pyrite his father
told him was fool’s gold, and the sharp edge of a flint arrowhead.

Sara felt the arrowhead
slice into her finger and instinctively sucked on the cut to ease the pain. The
mist pulled her back into the dream.

One more task then
he’d lead his enemy away from the cache. He slipped the disk from its case,
listened to the sounds of silence around him then scraped the disk across the rough
surface at a corner of the concrete base. He snapped it in two, then two again,
and dropped it into the shaft.

He rewrapped the
souvenirs of a time when he felt invincible and placed the memory on top of a
collection of leaf debris over the crossed rods in the hole. He layered another
handful of leaves above that, a hand length from the top.

His pursuer was
backtracking, breathing slower but walking like a rhino crashing through the
brush.

He grabbed a second
disk from his pack and slid it into his pocket. A home recording of The Doors,
just in case his pursuer got lucky. A third disk with the formula of a failed
attempt was in his bag. He’d scratched its surface with his knife in the car,
but it would keep them busy for months and lead them nowhere.

Now he would lead the
hound away from the fox. He slid the pack onto his back, retreated to the top
of the bunker, and climbed down the ocean side. Quickly, he leaped over icy
patches in the seaward path. Over the rocky ridge, he turned in toward the trail
where he last heard the footsteps.

Sara felt her heart
pounding against her chest wall and tried to wake. She was sucked back into the
dream.

He grabbed a twig and
broke it in two to guide the tracker in. It wouldn’t be long now. Behind a
large rock he held a sturdy branch, waiting. His enemy was breathing heavy
again. He was easy to track. Seconds became heartbeats and the foghorn blew as
the man came nearer to the trap, one footstep, then two. He swung the club into
the tracker’s back. The man screamed and fell over the rocky ledge. Carl
listened. The only sound then was that of  the waves crashing on the rocks
below and the timing of the channel horn.

It was far too easy.
In the morning, when he could see, he’d come back and look for the body. He
walked the rest of the path to the rocky breakwater and climbed out onto the
granite barrier. He was so very sick of this life. He stared out into the fog.
The channel horn his only companion.

Sara felt something
lifting her away from him.
Carl
was pushing her out.

The crash of the surf
masked the sound when he whispered, “Life sucks and then you die.” It echoed
once when the shot rang out.

“NO!
Carl!
NO!”
Sara sat up and tried to catch her breath. She pulled back the covers and
turned on the light. Fresh blood was smeared across her nightgown. A half inch
cut across the pad of her left index finger was bleeding.