Saving Alyssa (Mills & Boon Heartwarming) (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

N
OAH
 
HAD
 
NEVER
 
felt more grateful for an old recliner than right now.

He was finally well enough that Max, Billie and Troy no longer felt the need to hang around, making sure he had everything he needed, right within reach. The doctor hadn't cleared him from climbing stairs more than once a day, but that, too, would come in time.

For two nights in a row, he'd been able to tuck Alyssa in just like he had before the explosion. And now, as she slept contentedly right down the hall, he kicked back in the chair and flipped through the TV channels. Bypassing black-and-white reruns, replays of Ravens games, a Civil War documentary on the History Channel, he stopped in time to catch the awkward Thanksgiving scene in
Scent of a Woman.
It brought back memories of his own Thanksgiving, weeks ago in the hospital, when facing a bland meal served by staff who'd rather be anywhere else. It had seemed it would be grim, indeed.

But thanks to Billie, the day had been anything but grim. He still hadn't figured out how she'd slipped coolers of hot and cold foods, a small folding table and chairs, linens and fancy dinnerware past the guard.

And though Troy had been released weeks before, he'd returned daily to enforce long walks through the maze of hallways, and seemed to feel no guilt, trouncing Noah at chess, checkers and cribbage. That morning, they'd taken advantage of the sunny day to walk outside for a change. He remembered Troy getting a phone call, and his sudden desire to head back to Noah's room.

Tricky,
Noah thought now, remembering the small crowd that had gathered there to surprise him: Billie, Alyssa, Max, Troy, his twin and sister-in-law, Billie's parents, and even Jason, the once-troubled kid Noah had hired to help run the bike shop.

He had first met Jason when he'd hired Hunter, Deidre's grandson-in-law, to replace the stairway leading from the back alley to the apartment. The kid had seemed surly and rebellious, but by the time Stone Contracting had returned to rebuild the stairs, his attitude had softened considerably. No one would have guessed that Jason had been mere days from juvie when Hunter had taken him under his wing.

A little “good example” went a long way, Noah thought. And no one offered better evidence of that than Noah himself...though in his case, having time to reflect on his past had wrought permanent changes.

It hadn't been all that long ago when Max had told him to quit feeling sorry for himself, to count his blessings. Admittedly, they were many, and he was smiling at the realization when a commercial piqued his interest....

“Up next,” the announcer said, “Nobel-winning journalist Clancy Flynn interviews the nation's most notorious inmates.”

First up, Charles Manson, whose wild eyes and fearsome mind-set had not been tamed by prison life. Next, Terry Nichols, famous for his role in the Oklahoma City bombing. Then former FBI agent Robert Hanssen, convicted of passing classified information to the Russians. And the once-esteemed Senator Hank O'Malley, former federal judge and one-time contender for president of the United States.

In his late sixties now, O'Malley had not aged well. Gone was the cultured gentleman whose financial prowess had kept his name on the Forbes 500 list right up until his conviction. In place of the distinguished politician who'd been the go-to guy on all the news channel talk shows was a cold-eyed thug who seemed more than comfortable with inmate jargon.

He talked about the trial. How he'd been framed. “If this could happen to me,” he snarled, tugging at the stiff orange sleeve of his prison-issue jumpsuit, “it could happen to any of
you.
” After detailing the lies told by a crooked D.A. that had put him in his predicament, O'Malley leaned close to the camera and glared into the lens.

“Didn't get away with it, did ya, Judson? You might not be in a penitentiary, but you're in prison, all the same. Witness Protection is a joke. You
know
I have the means and the wherewithal to find you. It's only a matter of—”

The tape stopped and Flynn's face filled the screen. “We apologize, ladies and gentlemen, for that abrupt interruption. Now a word from our sponsors, and when we return, my interview with Matthew Hale, founder of the Neo-Nazi World Church of the Creator.”

Noah's pulse thundered in his ears. He'd been giving a lot of thought to telling Billie everything, because he wouldn't feel right about asking her to marry him without coming clean about his past.

Well, you can't do it now, can you?

Because as long as O'Malley lived and breathed, he was a threat to anyone close to Noah.

Might be time to move on, he thought. Wouldn't be easy, now that Alyssa was wholly adjusted to her new life. But she was a tough kid. It would require time and patience, but she'd accept and adapt, just as she had following the move from Chicago.

He thought about Billie, and all the ways she'd shown him how she felt. Oh, he'd miss her. Miss her like crazy! But after hearing that interview, he was certain that leaving, starting over, was his only alternative.

If only he could be so sure about his own adjustment to life in the new place, wherever it was...without Billie.

* * *

B
ILLIE
 
HAD
 
SPENT
 
the day sorting through her Christmas decorations. Items in the boxes in the middle of the living room would decorate her home, inside and out. Those stacked near the door were for the bike shop, and the ones beside that, for Noah and Alyssa's apartment. The largest carton contained the seven-foot artificial tree Chuck had bought the year before their split. Billie didn't know why she'd held on to something that served as yet another painful reminder of their failed marriage, but it would be perfect for the father and daughter for whom Santa's deliveries defined the holiday.

Side by side at her computer this afternoon, she and Alyssa had surfed the 'net for cookie recipes, and printed out their favorites. She'd set aside the Saturday before Christmas—just two weeks from now—for baking. This weekend they'd scour the mall for gifts, wrapping paper, ribbon and bows, and then get busy hanging lights and garland, and arranging ceramic snowmen and reindeer on the mantel and tables.

Her favorite news program flickered on the TV as Billie wrote up the grocery list that included cookie-making ingredients. The host was discussing famous criminals, starting with Charles Manson's 1969 killing spree, and switching to the Oklahoma City bombing. She understood how they'd become icons for evil. What she didn't get was why stories like this turned up, year after year. She was about to change the channel when the reporter began naming less violent criminals, such as the D.A. who'd disappeared after his testimony put presidential front-runner Senator Hank O'Malley into prison.

O'Malley. The name Noah had muttered in his fevered delirium that day in the hospital. She put down her pen and paper and zeroed in on the screen. So many things made sense now... Noah's almost fierce refusal to let Alyssa out of his sight. The lack of background information about him. His avoidance of all conversation having to do with his past. And how his wife had died.

O'Malley sat facing his interviewer and looked right into the camera when he said that he had been framed by a man named Judson, the alleged “crooked assistant district attorney.” Billie wrote the name in the margin of her grocery list, thinking to look the story up later. The senator's malevolent voice stopped her.

“Didn't get away with it, did ya?” he growled. Witness Protection, he claimed, was an exercise in futility, because he had the money and the connections to find Judson. Now something else Noah had said made sense. She'd wondered why he would mutter “lipstick” over and over. Now she realized he'd been saying WITSEC.

Billie began to tremble, and barely heard what the journalist said before going to commercial.

A little research helped her better understand WITSEC, the reasons for its existence, and the steps—and risks—U.S. Marshals were willing to take for people living under its protective shield. She couldn't imagine a fate worse than the fear and desperation that drove witnesses into hiding, leaving loved ones, jobs, homes behind.... Max, Billie decided, must be the agent assigned to Noah.

She typed “Nate Judson, Chicago” into her search engine, and found listing after listing describing the charges filed against the assistant D.A. and the senator. At first it seemed odd that the few photos she'd found of Judson were too blurry or distant, making identification—or comparison to Noah—impossible. But it didn't matter. Noah Preston and Nate Judson were one and the same. After seeing the raw, unbridled hatred in O'Malley's eyes as he'd uttered his fearsome threat, she understood why Noah had lied about his past. His reasons for getting involved with a man like O'Malley... Billie needed time to process those facts. Because which persona had she grown so fond of? The man who'd lied and cheated and partnered with known criminals to defend his treasured material possessions? Or the one who'd gone deep into hiding to protect his precious little girl?

No. She didn't need time. She loved him. It was just that simple...and that complicated.

But did she love him enough to spend the rest of
her
life looking over her shoulder, pretending she didn't know the truth?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

N
IGEL
 
NODDED
,
AND
from that smug look on his face, O'Malley knew he'd come to deliver good news.

“Out with it, nephew.”

“I'd think sitting here with someone who won't stab you in the back is worth a little patience.”

Oh, he needed to get
out
of this place and back in control of his life!

He'd learned to forecast the political climate, and had sensed well in advance that the government had a case against him. To prevent them from seizing his assets, he'd moved everything into separate accounts, and put Nigel in control of them all. Before the trial, he'd been confident of the decision, because he believed in his nephew's trustworthiness. But he'd believed in Judson's loyalty, too, and look where that had gotten him.

With every visit, Nigel gained more confidence, and O'Malley lost more control. A dangerous thing—for the nephew of a desperate man who trusted no one.

“Just spit it out, Nigel. You know I have no patience for guessing games.”

Nodding, his nephew said, “My IT guys dug up some stuff on Judson. We haven't confirmed it yet, but things look promising. Real promising.”

O'Malley ran a hand through his hair. “Are you determined to give me a stroke? Why are you beating around the bush?”

Six months ago, the boy would have shrunk back in fear. Today, he shrugged, nodded and continued, “We locked on to a U.S. Marshal by the name of Maxine Coleson. Five years ago, she transferred from Chicago to D.C., and now she's working out of the Baltimore office.”

“As a WITSEC agent?”

Nigel smirked. “Yup. I've already got a tail on her. Once we track her, get some pictures, we can make our move.” He adjusted the knot of his tie. “Which is what, exactly?”

“You're kidding, right?”

“I know what I'd do, but you're the boss. I just want to make sure I don't step over the line.”

O'Malley leaned forward, narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “It's really quite simple.
End. Him.
”

Nigel didn't even blink before he said, “Done.” He stood and signaled the guard.

“If I had a son...” O'Malley said. And nodding, he added, “I'm proud of you, boy.”

A moment later, the door opened to the processing center, and Nigel walked unwittingly into an ugly skirmish between two inmates. The guard tried to diffuse the situation, whirling his baton, bellowing for backup as he tried to get between Nigel and the bedlam. By the time the door-open buzzer sounded, one inmate, the guard and Nigel lay motionless on the bloody floor, victims of a carpenter's square-turned-knife.

As the attacker dropped his handmade weapon, rage boiled in O'Malley. Sick of ducking and cowering at the whims of other prisoners, he pounded on the door. To his surprise—and delight—it opened, and he charged into the waiting area like a grizzly.

In the next moment, he picked up the blade, slashing wildly at Nigel's killer...until an advancing guard stopped him with a well-aimed club to the temple.

When he came to in the infirmary, his wrists, ankles and chest were strapped to a stainless-steel table. The warden, leaning nonchalantly against the door, flicked a cigarette into a deep stainless sink.

“Looks like we're gonna be spending a lot more time together than you expected,” he said. “As you're no doubt aware, our noble legislative body, always with an eye to improving our great state, abolished the death penalty. Which means your six and a half years at Stateville just became a life sentence.”

“Don't make me laugh. It was self-defense.”

“Not according to the guard who clocked you,” he said, pointing at the goose egg on O'Malley's temple.

He was looking at years of hearings and appeals, even before the trial. Without Nigel to act as his defense attorney—or release funds for another lawyer's retainer—the state would stick him with some snot-nosed public defender fresh out of law school. O'Malley felt like the meat in a Life Gone Wrong sandwich, and it was all Judson's fault.
Every
thing bad that had happened to him since the trial had been Judson's fault!

He had one card left in his hand: Nigel's wife. He would ask her to solicit his former partners' aid in securing his early release. He'd pay any price for the freedom to even the score once and for all, even if it meant dying an old man, right here at Stateville.