Jack limped his way over to the other side of the car, feeling the entire time, as if he might pass out at any moment. He’d been shot in the side and in his left thigh; neither a fatal wound, both bullets having missed major organs or arteries. However, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain from the wounds, alone, was killing him.
Jack opened the door and fell into the front passenger seat. He closed his eyes, fighting off the dizziness that threatened to overtake him. Then he opened them, closed the door, and leaned over toward Annabelle’s side so that he could hot wire the car. Annabelle pumped the gas and it started on the second try.
Jack sat back in his seat and Annabelle slammed the gear into reverse, tearing out of the lot.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“This is bullshit,” Dylan crumpled up the piece of paper in his hands and threw the wad across the room. It struck the opposite wall and then bounced across the tiled kitchen floor. “Christ, it’s not even his handwriting.”
Everyone in the room watched him in silence. They’d all heard Sam tell him that the letter was his father’s “suicide note,” so they were well aware of the significance of the words he’d been reading.
They were also all aware that the words were out-and-out lies. After all, Max Anderson didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.
Clara cocked her head to one side, studying Dylan carefully before she stood up and went to him, gently placing her hand on his shoulder. “Wha’ did i’ say, then?” She asked softly. “Anythin’ useful?”
Dylan didn’t answer. He just shook his head, trying his best to hide his face from Clara. It was as if he wanted to accept the comfort she was offering, but at the same time, didn’t want her to know that he needed it.
“Of course no’, luv,” Beatrice offered, her voice and tone as gentle as her daughter’s. “It’s all going to be crap now, isn’t it?” She paused, taking her time, as if wading through dangerous waters. “Bu’ there mi’ be somethin’ in the note that Jackie can use; somethin’ the bad guys didn’t realize or know abou’. An’ it’s things like tha’ that give us an edge.”
Dylan wiped his eyes and looked across the room at the middle-aged woman. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, dear,” she answered with a shrug and a sympathetic smile. “But before you toss i’, why no’ let ‘im ‘ave a look at it?”
Dylan blinked and then glanced at the wadded up paper on the floor. He leaned his arm on the back of his chair and laid his forehead on it. “Fine,” he mumbled from the shelter of his shadow. “Whatever. I don’t care what you do with it, as long as you know it’s a lie. My father was not like that.”
“Oh, we know it’s a load of bunk, Dylan, trust me.” Cassie spoke up from where she was seated beside Beatrice. She stood and strode across the room to the paper, picked it up, and carefully unfolded it. “But Beatrice is right. There might be something in here that would lead us to the Colonel or even Osborne, himself. It doesn’t hurt to take a closer look.”
“Not you, maybe,” Dylan glanced up at her from behind his arm. “But I don’t ever want to see that piece of paper again.”
Cassie blinked at him and then took a slow, deep breath. She nodded. “Fair enough.” She took the paper back to the couch and once more sat down. She and Beatrice began reading the letter simultaneously.
It was a faxed copy of the original, hand-written note. They scanned the words once, then again.
“Shit, you’re right. This is utter crap.” Cassie shook her head. “They can’t even get depression right.”
“Jack said they were amateurs. He wasn’t kidding.” Sam finally spoke up from where he’d been standing against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest in his usual, casual fashion. He was always watching and almost never said anything. Cassie was beginning to get used to it, but if she hadn’t known Sam was on their side, the man would scare the shit out of her.
As she was contemplating this, something inside of Sam’s sports coat pocket began to beep long and low. At first, Cassie didn’t know what it was. Then Sam’s expression darkened, his brow furrowing into a decided frown. He pulled a cell phone out and quickly popped it open.
Everyone in the room could hear Jack’s distinctive voice on the other end. He spoke softly, but, in the stifled silence of the living room, he sounded through the speaker loud and clear. And what he said gave every one of them the chills.
“We’re coming in China Syndrome, Sam. Get the Band-Aids ready.”
When the Ford Mustang pulled up alongside the curb in front of the apartment complex, Sam and Cassie were waiting on the sidewalk to meet them. At once, Annabelle shoved the gear shift into park and Sam opened Jack’s door.
Annabelle hopped out of the driver’s side and ran around to help as they pulled Jack out of the car and got him into the building as quickly as possible. He leaned heavily on Sam as Cassie checked him over, even as they moved.
It was difficult to get a good look at him through the leather he wore, so Cassie urged Sam to move faster, and he shot her a mixed look of exasperation and fear. Sam was looking decidedly pale, himself, and Cassie was impressed to see the master assassin’s normally calm demeanor more than a little ruffled.
“Hang in there, buddy.”
“I’m… fine… Sam. But I’m gonna… kill… you.” Jack muttered the words under his breath, his eyes closed. He was barely conscious. Sam didn’t stop their progress up the side stairs of the building, and the unchanged expression on his face revealed that he wasn’t, in the least, taken aback by the statement.
Cassie noticed the odd exchange, as did Annabelle. The two glanced at one another. However, Annabelle was far too concerned with Jack’s well-being to give it much more thought. Whatever trouble it was that had suddenly developed between teacher and student, it was going to have to wait until Jack was a little more cognizant and a little less dying.
“Get him to the bed and help me get the clothes off.” Cassie gave the order and Sam and Annabelle rushed him into the apartment, through the fire escape door. Craig and Virginia met them in the mud room and Craig took Annabelle’s place under Jack’s left arm.
“What do we have?” Craig asked, almost as a physician working the emergency room would ask.
“Can’t tell yet,” Cassie answered.
“He’s been shot more than once,” Annabelle supplied.
“Oh, God, Jackie,” Beatrice took a step forward from where she stood in the hallway in front of them, and then, on second thought, she instead put her arm up to stop her daughter from running forward.
“Da!” Clara tried to pull free to join her father, but Beatrice pulled her back out of the way and the two cleared the hallway so that Sam and Craig could get Jack into the first bedroom and lay him on the bed.
Blood trailed down the hall after them. Clara caught sight of it and screamed, rushing once more toward the bedroom where her father lay.
Virginia and Beatrice held her back and Annabelle shut the door to the room, leaving Cassie, Craig and Sam to take care of Jack.
Then she moved forward, and, on overwhelming instinct, she pulled Clara into her arms for a hug. A few silent seconds passed. Tears streamed down both of their faces.
And then, in a moment of quiet, empathetic clarity, Clara Thane hugged her back. After all, there was no other woman in the world who loved her father more than Clara, herself, did. Except, maybe, for Annabelle Drake.
It was a full thirty minutes before anyone came out of the room where they tended to Jack. Annabelle hadn’t stopped pacing. Clara couldn’t stop hugging herself and trembling. Beatrice tried to comfort her daughter, but it was useless and they both knew it. The only thing that would bring solace to the child was knowing that her father was going to be all right.