Jed let out a relieved sigh. What was going on? Where was their man? If he didn't show, that meant something had gone wrong. Had Booth found out he had a traitor in his organization? Or had the man simply chickened out at the last minute? Maybe he hadn't been able to get his hands on the documents. Anything was possible.
At one o'clock, Jed motioned to Grace and she nodded, then when the carousel finished that round, she got off, a briefcase in each hand. Jed took one briefcase from her, put his arm around her waist and led her toward the parking area.
"What happened?" she asked. "Where is he?"
"If he's lucky, he's still alive and just ran into a hitch of some kind. If that's what happened, he'll be back in touch with us," Jed told her. "But if he's not so lucky, then he's dead and Booth Fortier will make another move very soon."
"Another move against me," Grace said with utter certainty.
"And when he makes his move, I'll be right there with you, standing between you and whatever he sends your way."
"Oh, Jed, I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."
He tried not to react to her revealing statement. Didn't she realize that you didn't say something like that to a man unless he meant something special to you?
"I'm your bodyguard. It's my job to be in the line of fire."
"You're more than my bodyguard and we both know it."
Chapter 13
Charmaine pushed the food around on her plate, the prime rib unappetizing. Booth preferred his meat rare and everyone was forced to eat it the way he liked it or not eat at all. As she gazed at the thinly sliced, pink beef, surrounded by bloody juice, she barely controlled the overwhelming urge to vomit. Even if she were hungry, she'd find it difficult to chew with a swollen lip and bruised jaw. No one had mentioned her bruises, not even Ronnie; but they hadn't been alone all day. Either Booth or Curt or Aric had been around since she'd ventured from her room a little after two this afternoon.
Booth and Curt were laughing about something. Charmaine hadn't been paying attention, had tuned out their conversation. A trick she'd learned years ago. Sit there, look as pretty as possible, smile occasionally and always respond instantly when Booth spoke to her. A few times during the course of the meal, she'd stolen a quick glance at Ronnie, who remained silent unless responding to Booth. She liked that about Ronnie, that he was a man of few words. The strong, silent type. She loved Ronnie with all her heart, but she wasn't sure how much she could trust him. If it came down to the nitty-gritty, would he remain faithful to Booth? She wanted to tell Ronnie about her fears for Jaron, but what if Ronnie went to Booth?
Her brother had left the house early this morning and hadn't returned. She knew where he'd gone and what he'd intended doing. If he'd been successful, if his scheme had worked, why wasn't he home now? Her imagination had gone wild, producing several vividly gruesome scenarios. What if at the exchange site, the police had been waiting? Jaron could be in jail right now. If he was, did Booth know? And on the other hand, what if Booth had suspected Jaron? If that was the case, then Jaron was dead.
Charmaine barely managed to stifle a frightened whimper. Fear for Jaron's life, fear for her own consumed her thoughts. If Booth had ordered Jaron killed, then it was only a matter of time before he'd come to the conclusion that she had been involved in Jaron's plot. And then he would kill her, too-or worse. She knew only too well what he was capable of, knew what he'd done to his own sister.
Oh, God, Jaron, I begged you not to do it. You can't betray Booth and get away with it. Somehow, some way, he always knows… and he always takes revenge.
"What seems to be wrong, my dear?" Booth looked pointedly at Charmaine. "You don't look well."
"I-I'm afraid I don't feel well." Tears misted her eyes. Don't you dare cry, she told herself. Show him any weakness and he'll use it against you. "May I please be excused?"
"I'd be glad to see Mrs. Fortier to her room." Ronnie was halfway out of his chair when Booth motioned for him to sit down. He sat.
"You're excused." Booth's black gaze studied her, as if waiting for her to make a misstep where he could pounce on any small error. "You can make it to your room alone, can't you? There's no need to ruin Ronnie's meal just because you aren't feeling sociable this evening."
"I'll be quite all right alone." She laid her linen napkin on the table, shoved back her chair and stood. Although she was sore from Booth's brutal beating the night before and every movement was painful, she pretended otherwise.
When she reached the doorway leading from the dining room into the hall, she looked back at Booth and said, "When Jaron comes in, please, ask him to stop by my room and say good-night."
Booth cut a huge hunk of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. Bloody juice dripped down on either side. He dabbed his chin with his napkin, then chewed slowly. After he swallowed, he looked at her and grinned. Her heart sank.
"Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you, Jaron won't be home tonight," Booth said.
Stay calm. Don't overreact, she warned herself. "Why is that?"
"I sent Charlie to join Jaron this morning. They're attending to some important business for me. I don't expect either of them back for a while."
Charmaine swallowed, trying to control her distress. It was all she could do not to look at Ronnie, not to scream aloud that Booth had probably sent Charlie to kill Jaron.
Without another word, she turned and walked away. She almost made it to her bedroom before the tears overcame her. The minute she got behind closed doors, she threw herself across the bed and muffled her cries in a pillow.
She knew in her heart that Jaron was dead. It was only a matter of time before his body would show up somewhere and Booth would lay the blame on someone else.
Rafe wasn't in the habit of sticking his nose into other people's affairs, but he knew what it was like to be a kid in trouble, going down the wrong path, headed straight for a life of crime. Anybody who knew him would tell you that Rafe Devlin was a bad-ass, a guy who didn't take any guff from anybody, a man who minded his own business and expected others to do the same. But a few of his friends were aware of another side to Rafe and even suspected his one weakness. His Achilles' heel was kids in trouble. Looking back now, he realized that if Detective Roy Dutton of the Knoxville PD hadn't interceded in his life when he was eighteen, he'd probably be in the pen by now. Either that or dead.
Before hunting down Troy Leone in the apartment he shared with his twenty-six-year-old waitress girlfriend, Rafe had put in a call to Sawyer McNamara to okay it with him. After all, Rafe was on an assignment and Dundee 's wouldn't look kindly on him doing anything that screwed up his undercover work in St. Camille. And the Feds would hang him out to dry if he messed up their well-laid plans.
He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to have a talk with a boy he didn't even know. Hell, admit it, man, he told himself. It's because of the sister. Elsa Leone. And it really had nothing to do with the fact that he was attracted to the woman. After all, he'd probably never see her again. But knowing she had practically risked her life just to talk to her little brother, to try to persuade him his new high-paying job was a first-class ticket to the world of organized crime, reminded him of Sandy. His big sister had done her level best to help him, but all he'd given her was grief. God, what he'd give to be able to do that relationship all over again. But he'd never have the chance. He'd lost his only sibling just as he'd begun turning his life around.
Rafe parked two blocks away and strode through the rundown neighborhood on the east end of town. The citizenry was a mixture of black, white and Hispanic. 1212 East 7th Street was a two-story house, probably at least seventy-five years old, with peeling white paint on the exterior and a few cracked windows. From the row of mailboxes near the front entrance, Rafe surmised there were six apartments. Damn small apartments would be his guess just from looking at the building. The minute he entered the foyer, he smelled cabbage cooking, a none-too-pleasant odor. He checked the numbers on the three downstairs apartment doors. 121 2-E was, as he'd figured, upstairs. As he made his way up the rickety, scuffed staircase, he heard the loud shouts of a couple fighting in one of the downstairs apartments.