Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (27 page)

She walked by, seemingly uninterested in the paper, which was mostly true. She had already read the article at home. Pausing, she smiled at Paula and said, “Do you remember that handsome
, young lawyer we found the house for up in The Woodlands? You remember the one… he seemed fascinated with my bosom.”

Paula grunted, “You’re going to have to do a l
ittle better than that, Maria. They’re all fascinated with your boobage.”

“Oh, you remember the one. He drove that fancy sports car… the silver one… a Porsche I think it was.”

“Ahhhh, yeah! I remember. His name was Steven… Steven Morrison I think. I also think he had a strong desire to attend an open house in your bedroom.”

Waving off the comment, Maria asked, “Could you see if you can find his number and make me an appointment? Don’t tell him why, but I think with Dusty raising hell all over the place, I might want to change back to my maiden name.”

“Why don’t you want me to tell him?”

“The young man was way, way too eager before. If he thinks I’m changing back to my maiden name, he’ll double his efforts.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting the change, although it doesn’t seem to be hurting business,” Paula replied, holding up a stack of messages.

“
It might be a while, but I don’t want to take the chance.”

She entered the inner sanctum, shuffling through the messages taken by Paula. There was nothing important or unusual that needed immediate attention. In reality, she wanted the lawyer for Eva, as she had no intention of changing her name.

That concept brought her around to the 25 million dollar reward. She knew exactly where Dusty was, could probably lure him out into the open where he could be arrested safely. She seriously pondered doing just that. Aside from the fact that Dusty was going to get himself killed, 25-large was a lot of money. She wondered if she could use part of the reward to pay for his legal bills, maybe get him off without jail time. That would be a good question for young Steven, if she could ever pry his attention from her chest.

There were other reason
s to consider turning him in. Dusty was the type of man who could never forgive himself if someone got killed. As she followed the newscasts closer than anyone knew, she was amazed at the extra steps he appeared to be taking in order to avoid ending some corrupt cop’s life. His luck couldn’t hold out forever, and if she ended this entire nightmare, it would be better for all involved in the long run. Besides, a sum of 25 followed by six zeros was a shit-pile of money.

Then there was
Anthony, their son. What chance would he have in life if his father became a mass murderer? She was sure Dusty hadn’t considered that before taking off on this rampage. It was just like him – riding off on a noble cause, just like a knight in shining armor, without a thought to the worried-sick family he’d left behind. Besides, 25-mill was airplane, “never work again” money.

Grunting, she came up with yet another reason to turn Dusty in. If she was sourly tempted by that huge pile of cash, every bounty hunter, adventurer and wannabe badass in the country was probably booking tickets for Houston at the moment. The city would be crawling with armed, dangerous men searching for poor Dusty. He’d probably be shot on sight. Besides, 25 with the “m” word was a ton of cash.

I wonder if Paula has found that lawyer’s number yet
, she pondered.

The jail’s matron attached Grace’s handcuffs to a metal loop securely bolted onto the conference room table. The woman assigned to deny the female
prisoner’s escape was close to 6 feet tall, no doubt tipping the scales at close to 200 pounds.

Grace, on the other hand, barely weighed 100 pounds, even with the shackles on her wrists. The routine of securing the smaller woman to the table was purely
for intimidation and discomfort, not security.

Monroe sat watching across the table, nodding his head in
acknowledgement at the jailer as she finished securing the feisty attorney.

“Orange isn’t your color,” the FBI man began, nodding at the ill-fitting jumpsuit issued to all detainees.

“I thought you might be gay,” replied Grace calmly. “A man that notices fashion and requires a woman half his size to be tied down like a dog while in the same room leaves little doubt.”

Ignoring the jab, Monroe pointed at the handcuffs, “That is purely procedure,
Ms. Kennedy. I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be, Agent Monroe, but not physically. You should be scared of losing your pension after I’m done with you and the bureau in court,” she countered.

Monroe sighed, “If I only had a dollar for every time a criminal threatened me with that line, I wouldn’t need my pension. But enough of this tit for tat, I want to talk about Mr. Durham Weathers.”

The look on Grace’s face actually expressed relief. The FBI wouldn’t want to talk about Durham if they had already captured him. “Having a little trouble corralling that cowboy, eh? I could have told you to save you
r energy – he’s a far better man than you, Mr. Monroe.”

“So you do know Weathers quite well?”

“He is a dear friend and a client, sir. Given attorney-client privilege, that’s all I can say.”

Monroe sat back in the seat, a pencil at his lips. The look on Grace’s face told him she was firm in her resolve to not provide any information about Mr. Weathers
. In fact, he didn’t believe she knew much if anything. Her attitude, however, pissed him off.

“Were you aware that he was developing a weapon of mass destruction?”

“My position as an officer of the court demands I not answer that question.”

Sighing, Monroe bore in. “I disagree
, Miss Kennedy. I too have a law degree, and as I recall, this privilege you keep spouting on about requires you to fully disclose any information regarding a pending crime. If you knew Weathers was building such a weapon, you’re just as liable as he is, client privilege or not.”

If she could have, Grace would have crossed her arms and smirked at his weak attempt to annoy her. As it was, she kept her bound hands flat on the table, her expression neutral.

“Ms. Kennedy, you’re sitting there thinking that we have little respect for you. I’m sure you believe that we have taken these actions without regard for your capabilities. Let me assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, your involvement in this case had motivated my associate over in the Department of Justice to up the ante as far as Weathers is concerned.”

Again, Grace didn’t react, her expression showing nothing.

The FBI agent grunted, “No matter. I do think you’ll be interested to know that the United States government has put a $25 million reward on Durham Weather’s head. My men at the airport have reported a virtual parade of bounty hunters, private investigators, and mercenaries arriving in town already. I wouldn’t want to be in Mr. Weather’s shoes.”

He watched her eyes dilate at the announcement, unsure if it was fear or anger. Still, she offered no other reaction, verbal or otherwise.

Folding his notepad and standing, Monroe took one last shot. “I thought 25 million might be of interest to you, Ms. Kennedy. That’s a lot of money. We’ve already picked up discussions by some of Weather’s other friends talking about just that topic. If you know where he is, you should be the first to fill us in. You can save his life, collect the money, and keep additional charges from piling up against him. I would think about it, ma’am. I would think real hard.”

And with that, Monroe walked out of the room.

A few minutes later, Grace was returned to her tiny cell, rubbing her wrists where the tight steel had chaffed her skin. She paced back and forth within the confines, trying to reconcile the reward being offered for Durham and what it meant.

Her dilemma was two-fold – a professional rejection of the government’s actions and a personal cloud of emotion generated by her feelings for Dusty. While she knew he was more than capable of handling himself in a crisis, a manhunt on the scale Monroe was hinting at was more than most people had experienced. She feared for his life.

She recalled an encounter with Durham, an afternoon almost two years ago when he had volunteered to clear a patch of saplings and brush away from her new house. “You should take down those trees,” he’d advised. “They’re pinion pines and grow rapidly. You’ll have moisture and limb problems with them being so close to your roof.”

The next morning, she had been woken by his work outside, saw, shovel, rake and hoe busy doing the job. She’d tried to help as much as possible, but the heavy lifting was beyond her frame’s design. Still wanting to contribute, she’d
gone inside to make lunch.

Leaving him alone to continue the job
while she prepared a meal, she decided a cool drink was in order, gathering a tray of tea and ice-filled glasses while the food finished in the oven. She’d walked around the corner and found a shirtless Durham swinging a heavy axe.

She’d
admired his build before, tall and thin, a swimmer’s physique. With shoulders twice as wide as his hips, he drew the eye of most women. He was, as she’d noted, a fellow worthy of watching as he walked down the street. What she had never witnessed until now was the power and grace of the man as he tested his frame to the extreme.

His
skin undulated and bulged as he swung the axe, knotted cords and rippling waves of power moving across his back. His arms surged with honest muscle, cut and taunt, born of toil and hard work - not countless sessions on a machine in a gym.

She found herself watching
, riveted, his display arousing a part of her that she had forgotten. For a brief period, she was a woman… a woman feeling a need, a physical need ignited by the kind man who was working so hard on her behalf. That craving had been dead in her for so long, unfelt and unrealized for so many years. Its reemergence was a shock, lust-hot and spreading through her core.

Again and
again, he swung the axe, his body a choreographed combination of raw strength and unwavering focus. She couldn’t help but picture him as a lover, his lean body against hers, unrelenting in demand, irresistible in its resolve. She wanted him – the first man she’d felt that way about since the death of her husband so long ago.

While she stood fantasizing like a
schoolgirl, holding the tray of cold tea in a stupor, his mesmerizing swinging of the axe had paused. A loud cracking sounded from the trunk, and then the pine began to topple. She remembered looking up at the thick trunk… recalled how fast it seemed to be moving directly at her, the sight causing her legs to freeze. She was going to be crushed, struck down by impact. She was about to die.

It was all so cloudy after that. She remembered his shouted, desperate warning, startling her from the dream.
Then he was moving… a blur… the tray of drinks flying through the air. She remembered the weightlessness and momentum and then the loud crash and thump of the tree as it slammed into the earth – right where she had been standing.

Dusty was holding her. Her legs suspended off the ground
as he’d lifted her like a small child, swinging her to safety. She’d never felt so helpless, yet so safe. Reality rushed into her head, an awareness that she was whole because of the man who was now screaming her name.

“Grace! Grace! Are you okay?” h
is voice rang, cutting through the shock of her near-death terror.

Nodding her head rapidly, she managed a hushed, “Yes
.”

S
atisfied with her state, Durham had pulled her close in an embrace of relief.

She wrapped herself around him, the driving emotion to cling to the hero – the savior of her existence. But that chang
ed as she recouped, her renewed need as a woman quickly recovering – stronger now, enhanced by his rescue.

She clutched the back of his head and pulled his lips to hers as her legs tightened around his waist. He reacted
as a man would, his rock hard chest seeking the softness of her breasts… bruising, desperate kisses.

Her hands moved down, traveling on their own and seeking his belt. Halfway down his back, she felt warm
, sticky… wet. She raised her hand and inhaled sharply at the sight of her blood-covered fingers.