Catch a Shadow (20 page)

Maybe he was giving Adams too much credit. Except he couldn't forget that C4 under Sam's sink. He sat there, his gaze roaming around the room again. Those working for Adams would be paid mercenaries, and there was usually something that set them apart from other people, no matter how much they tried to blend into the environment.

He listened to another song and glanced at his watch. They must be near the end of the set. He gulped down the weak bourbon and water, paid the bill, and headed toward the exit. He thought the musicians probably left by the side door.

“Don't like the music?” the guy at the door asked.

“I like it just fine,” Jake said. “Just got a text message that the friend I was meeting can't come, and it's been a long day. I imagine the music's ending soon.”

The man looked at his watch. “Another five minutes.”

“I'll be back. That sax player's damned good.”

The guy was looking at him. His gaze locked on the scar above Jake's ear. “You military?”

“Used to be.”

The guy grinned. “I can always tell. I was in Nam. Marines.”

He waited for Jake to declare his branch.

“Army,” Jake said.

“You come back again, and I won't charge you.”

“Thanks. I'll do that.”

“If I'm not at the door, just ask for Sarge. Everyone calls me that.”

Jake hesitated. “You see any other military here tonight?”

“None I recognized. Why?”

“Just wondered whether it might be a gathering place. Anyway, thanks, Sarge.”

Jake left without leaving his name or giving Sarge a chance to ask more questions. He didn't like lying to guys who'd served.

Once outside, he glanced around. Two valets were lounging against the wall. One straightened.

“I'll get it myself,” Jake said, handing the first one to reach him a five dollar bill. “I might be a few minutes. I have some messages to answer.”

“Take your time,” the valet said, “and thanks.”

Not very dutiful of the valets. He could be back there stealing the contents of cars.

He made his way down the alley that led to the parking lot. He quickly checked his car in an abundance of caution. He'd left it unlocked, but he'd also left a dark thread in the door and trunk door. They hadn't been disturbed.

He stepped inside and waited.

Before long he saw a man slip out the side door. Different clothes than those Sam wore, but obviously one of the other musicians. He carried a saxophone case and placed it in a van.

Then Sarge appeared at the same door and went to the van. He got in the driver's side and drove it to the side door. Jake's view was blocked for a moment, then he heard a van door slam shut. The van started moving again.

He had a gut feeling Sam was in the van.

The musician was smarter than Jake had given him credit for. Jake waited as the valets both appeared and picked up cars. He followed the second one out.

Sam had done well, and Jake sure as hell didn't want to spoil it. He turned toward downtown Atlanta rather than toward the hotel. The traffic was thin enough at this hour so that he soon realized that no one was following him.

He turned onto the expressway and headed toward the hotel.

Kirke woke to the ringing of the room telephone. She looked at the clock. It was two forty in the morning.

She rolled over to pick it up and winced at the eruption of pain in her arm.

Ignoring it, she picked up the receiver and waited.

“Kirke.”

Sam. Thank God
. “I'm here,” she said.

“Unlock the door between us.”

She pulled on a pair of shorts and went to the connecting door. Jake had left the light on in the bathroom and the door slightly open so she wouldn't be entirely in the dark.

She was grateful for that as she opened the connecting door and faced Sam.

He grinned. “I decided I have a knack for cloak-and-dagger,” he said. “Sarge helped me out. I think your friend was there. I didn't see him, but Sarge said he talked to someone who was obviously ex-military and who stayed only a few moments just before closing.

“He was worried about you.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“He was,” she insisted.

“Anything else happen?” He looked around the room suspiciously. He saw the food on the table and went over to what was left of the pizza. He grabbed a slice. It disappeared in two gulps.

She shook her head. “I talked to Robin. She's going to take care of Merlin for a few days. She said she would look after Spade as well if you want.”

“I want,” he said.

She hugged him. “I'm so glad to see you.”

His cat leaped from the bed and wound in and out of his legs, meowing plaintively. Sam leaned down and picked him up.

“Poor Spade,” Kirke said. “He's thoroughly confused.”

“When will Robin be here?”

“Around nine,” she said.

“And when will Kelly return?”

“I would think any minute.”

“How are you?”

“Tired. Confused. And I hurt.”

“Have you thought any more about going to the police?”

“Yes.”

He waited.

“I would be admitting to withholding evidence. I would also be admitting to breaking any number of rules.” She didn't add that she might also be sending Jake back to prison.

“Better than being dead,” he said.

She had no answer for that.

The growing silence was broken by the knock she'd been expecting. She opened the door, and Jake Kelly entered, filling the room again with his presence.

Sam glowered at him.

Jake ignored it. “You play a mean sax,” he said.

Kirke watched the conflicting emotions play across Sam's face.

He ignored the compliment. “What do we do now?” Sam asked.

“It depends on Kirke,” Jake said.

Kirke looked from one face to another. Neither man trusted the other for whatever reason. “Tell him everything you told me,” she said to Jake.

Sam perched on the table as Jake repeated his story. When he finished, Sam peered at him.

“You have no idea what the numbers mean?”

“No.”

“He knew you as Mitch Edwards, but someone on his behalf called Jake Kelly,” Sam said. “So why did he ask Kirke to give the letter to Mitch Edwards?”

That had been bothering Kirke as well.

“Maybe,” Sam continued, “because the numbers had something to do with the man he knew best as Mitch Edwards. Something that was said when you were together. He was trying to tell you something that only Edwards would know.”

Jake looked startled, then looked at Sam with new appreciation.

“I like puzzles,” Sam said defensively, and Kirke could vouch for that. He'd always loved crossword puzzles along with many other kinds of puzzles. It had always amused her the way he would stir himself Sunday morning to listen to a public radio program that featured different kinds of word puzzles. Sam had sent in answers several times.

But she was taken back at his new cooperation. Maybe Jake's observation about his playing had disarmed Sam. Then again, it might have been the puzzle presented to him.

Sam turned to her. “Are you sure he didn't say anything beyond what sounded like
Virginia
and
military
?”

Kirke went back to that day in her mind. She'd been through it so many times, but she'd been so tired earlier. There was something else!

“Dallas. He mentioned Dallas. He said, ‘Tell him … Dallas …' I should have remembered that … I was concentrating on the last part of what he said, the part just before he lost consciousness.”

She saw sudden recognition in Jake's eyes and knew it had meaning for him.

“You remember something?”

He nodded. “Maybe not without the other words. But combined with
military
and
Virginia
…”

He was silent, but she could see the wheels turning inside his head. Something was beginning to make sense to him. “Cox and I talked one night. He wasn't very communicative, but we had served in some of the same hot spots in the Middle East. Not together, but we had some common ground there. He got started on a bar near the Farm in Virginia. It's the not-very-secret training facility for the CIA. I underwent some specialized training there. He asked if I had gone to a bar called the Enigma.

“I had. It was after a grueling two weeks at the Farm, and a bunch of us from Special Forces were celebrating the fact we were through. A CIA instructor had recommended the bar. It was a spook hangout.”

“Spook?” Sam asked.

“It's what we call a CIA agent,” Jake explained. “Cox mentioned the manager. I think he really liked her. She looked after all the CIA recruits. Older ones, too. Word was she was the widow of a CIA guy who died early in Afghanistan.

“She was tough as nails,” he continued. “While I was there, some drunk CIA types started in on us. We'd bested them on a challenge at the Farm, and their pride was hurt. The manager simply glared them down and threatened to bar them forever.”

“Her name was Dallas, and it suited her. When she wasn't trying to restore order, she was warm and funny and had a southern accent that was pure honey. Cox appeared to have been smitten with her.”

“When was this?” she asked, feeling a twinge of jealousy. He seemed a bit too fond of this Dallas.

“Nine years ago,” he said.

Kirke didn't take any comfort in the memory. A bar in common? She couldn't stifle a yawn.

“And the numbers?” Sam contributed, now fully into the puzzle.

“I don't know,” Jake said. “But Dallas might.”

Kirke glanced at her watch. Three thirty.

They all needed sleep. Jake's face was lined with fatigue. She couldn't think any longer. Sam was a night person, but he, too, looked tired.

“I'm going to bed,” she said. “I think we all should. Maybe it will be clearer in the morning.”

Sam looked at her, then Jake.

“He going to stay here?”

“I am,” Jake said without hesitation.

“Where are you going to sleep?” Sam asked truculently.

“In the chair,” Jake said evenly, his gaze obviously weighing Sam.

She looked from Sam, the open, good-natured, musician who looked ten years younger than he was, to hard-edged Jake, whose enigmatic eyes sheltered every emotion.

Sam was being protective, just as she had been protective of him from time to time, but Jake didn't know that.

Awareness flickered across Sam's face. He raised an eyebrow, then picked up Spade and retreated to his room without another word. Despite Jake's suggestion, he closed the door, but she didn't hear it lock.

Jake turned to her. “You should go back to sleep.”

“I don't know if I can do that when you're here,” she said honestly.

“You won't know I'm here.”

But she would. Even with her eyes closed, she suspected she would be aware of his slightest movement.

“Did you really like Sam's band?” she asked.

“I don't say things I don't mean.”

She believed him. He had lied to her in the beginning, but she understood why. But small lies? She doubted it. He wouldn't care enough to do it.

She crawled back in bed and pulled the sheet over her. Her mind went over the conversation. Had Mark Cable included a clue in his few pained words? A clue that only Jake would understand?

Why not just tell her?

He hadn't known her, hadn't known what she would do. Perhaps he wanted no one except Jake Kelly to understand what he was trying to say. Maybe it was a Hail Mary pass on his part. He knew he was dying, and there was one last thing he had to do, but he didn't want whatever it was to fall into the wrong hands.

So what had he meant with those last words?

She snuggled between the sheets.

Maybe Dallas would offer another clue. A definitive one. With that thought, she closed her eyes and nearly instantly was asleep.

Jake sat in the chair he pulled next to the window. There were vehicles going by outside. In Atlanta, there were always vehicles going by. One car parked not far from the back entrance, and he watched as an obviously intoxicated couple stumbled inside.

They hadn't been found yet, but that meant little. Adams obviously had resources, probably even had them in the CIA. He'd managed to get himself assigned to that particular mission, which meant he probably had assistance.

How much had he taken away from that mission? If he'd been willing to betray his country and slaughter his companions, he wouldn't hesitate to sell government secrets and take up arms dealing himself. He knew the major players.

All that would disappear if the government discovered he was still alive.

Too much thinking. He glanced over at Kirke. She'd resisted sleep for a while. Now he heard her soft, regular breathing.

He went over to a bag he'd tucked behind the TV while she'd been in the restroom. He opened it and took out the gun. He checked to make sure it was still loaded and then tucked it next to his shooting hand.

Then he closed his eyes. Two or three hours' sleep would do wonders.

What had Del Cox meant to say? Why now? Why not in the past seven years, while he was wasting away in prison?

Perhaps they could sort it out tomorrow.

He suddenly realized he was thinking in terms of
we
rather than
I
. He hadn't done that in a very long time, not since two good friends had been killed years earlier.

Atlanta could be just as deadly now. The C-4 proved that.

And, God help him, this time innocents were involved, and he wasn't at all sure he could protect them any better than he'd protected Chet and Ramos.

CHAPTER 18

Kirke woke to daylight.

She tried to ignore it and buried her head in the pillows.

But the sun was filtering through the windows. She could feel it, and daylight always woke her.