Saving Alyssa (Mills & Boon Heartwarming) (9 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Stateville Correctional Facility

T
HE
 
CELL
 
DOOR
slid open and the guard peered over O'Malley's shoulder. “What's that, a novel?”

O'Malley clicked Save and put the PC into sleep mode. “Autobiography,” he said, getting to his feet. “Not that it's any of your business.” He smiled to take the edge off his brusque statement, because Parker was the only guard at The Ville who treated him with even a modicum of respect.

“So what brings you to my humble abode today, Gus?”

“You've been summoned.”

He could recite a hundred things he hated about Stateville, right off the top of his head: the thin, narrow cot. The cold walls. The nonstop noise. Ghastly food. High on the list was the rule that said any clown who passed the check-in criteria could visit him, whether he wanted to see them or not. Which simpleton would he have to put up with today? The frumpy broad whose only claim to fame was the true crime books she'd written about prisoners? His idiot lawyer? Hopefully not his wife, because conjugal visits were never
conjugal,
thanks to her nonstop nagging and carping.

The unmistakable sound of handcuffs and leg irons echoed in the small space as a second guard, Will Rayford, joined them in the cell.

“What's this all about?” O'Malley demanded as Rayford slapped on the cuffs.

“The warden didn't say,” Parker answered.

Rayford stooped to snap on the leg irons.

“The warden? But...but what does he want?”

“Didn't say,” Parker repeated.

Rayford linked his wrists, ankles and waist together.

“There must be some mistake. Warden Josephs and I have an understanding.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rayford said, leading O'Malley from his cell...

...like a dog on a leash. Anger sluiced through his veins. Josephs had a lot of explaining to do, and he'd better have a very good explanation for putting him through this degrading treatment.

“Step it up,” Rayford ordered. “I got better things to do than babysit some whiny hotshot.”

O'Malley got the guard's meaning. From day one, he'd been assigned segregated housing in a private cell. He ate alone, exercised alone, showered alone, because the state feared he wouldn't last ten minutes in general population. Much as he'd enjoyed the perks of his senate office—rubbing elbows with movers and shakers in D.C., invitations to celebrities' homes and red carpet events—he didn't mind his current near-solitary status.

The warden liked to think he'd been instrumental in the decision to keep O'Malley out of the reach of inmates he'd sentenced when he'd been a judge, and O'Malley had no reason to tell him otherwise. Hopefully, that wouldn't change today.

It was a long walk from his cell to Josephs's office. He broke into a slow jog, thinking to turn it into a mini workout.

“Look at him go,” Rayford said, laughing. “He's in pretty good shape...for an old guy.”

O'Malley was itching to turn around, see if Parker was laughing at him, too. But what did he care? He had nearly three and a half years to serve and saw no point in making trouble that could add to his sentence.

The guards walked slightly behind him, one on either side, talking. Parker had bought his son a puppy. Rayford's daughter would graduate high school in a few months. All their talk of home and hearth made his blood boil, thinking of all he'd missed, thanks to Nate Judson...or whatever name he was going by these days. WITSEC wasn't invincible. Like every other government agency, it was rife with employees looking to make a quick buck. His people hadn't found one yet, but O'Malley knew it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, he'd catch a lucky break. And when he did—

“Where's Patsy?” Parker said when they entered the warden's outer office.

“Don't know, but if she ever retires, I want her job. She's away from her receptionist desk more than she's at it,” Rayford observed.

“Well, the door's open,” Parker said, “and that means he's in there.”

Snickering like a teenager, Rayford said, “Maybe Patsy's in there with him. Sure would explain why she gets away with murder.”

Parker knocked and the warden said, “Come in.”

O'Malley would recognize that nasal whine anywhere, and it was enough to heighten his bad mood by several degrees.
Better pull yourself together,
he thought as Parker nudged him through the door.
You can't afford to rile the man.

“'Morning, Hank,” Josephs said without looking up. “Have a seat.”

Rayford led O'Malley to one of the two big leather chairs that faced the desk.

The warden had been reading his file. O'Malley knew, because he saw his name on the front. Josephs scribbled something on the top sheet and closed the cover.

The chains clanked as O'Malley raised his hands. “What's all this about, Warden? Shackles?
Really?
”

The man thanked the guards and sent them on their way, and when the door closed behind them, Josephs leaned forward and propped his fingertips together under his chin.

“I've been hearing some disturbing things about you, Hank. Things that forced me to reevaluate your position here at Stateville.”

O'Malley did his best to look unruffled. He'd likened dealing with people in here to encounters with wild animals: if they smelled fear, you didn't stand a chance.

“Disturbing things?” he said, laughing softly. “There are 168 hours in a week, and I'm alone for 150 of them. What kind of trouble can a guy like me cause in that much time?” He lifted his hands again, gave the chains a deliberate shake to prove his point.

“You have a computer in your cell...complete with internet access. And I arranged for you to have a cell phone, so you could keep in touch with your family.” Josephs leaned back in his chair. “Seems you've been doing more than that—a whole lot more—and I can't allow it to continue.”

Losing the cell phone wouldn't be pleasant, but losing internet access would seriously thwart his abilities to stay in touch with his men.
Wild animals,
he reminded himself.
Stay calm.
“Ford. Buddy. I—”

“Don't call me by my first name. If anyone heard you...” He ran a finger under his collar, then aimed it at O'Malley. “Let's get one thing straight right up front, Hank. I am
not
your buddy.”

A vein throbbed in the warden's left temple and his face had turned bloodred. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead, and if he clasped his hands any tighter, he'd cut off all circulation to his fingers. What had he heard, O'Malley wondered, to rile him to this degree?

Might as well go for broke, he thought. He was chained up like one of the murderers or rapists Josephs usually dealt with. How much worse could things get?

“I'll save us both a lot of time. Might even save you having a heart attack or stroke,” he said, smirking. “You owe me, Josephs. Owe me big, and we both know it. So let's stop playing games, shall we? Whatever you heard, no matter how
disturbing
it might be, we can handle it...if we keep our cool.”

“Is that a fact? You can quash all the rumors about how you're running an illegal organization out there—” he pointed toward the window “—from in here?”

Somebody on O'Malley's payroll had been talking. When he found out who, he'd—

“Word about your activities reached the governor's office, you fool. He came down on me, hard. Naturally, I told him everything he'd heard was speculation and innuendo. I promised to get to the bottom of it, and assured him I'd take care of things.”

A moment ticked silently by as the threat hung between them like a gritty spiderweb.

“Take care of things? What does
that
mean?”

“It means now that it has come down to a choice between protecting you and ensuring my career...” He raised his shoulders and extended both hands, palms up.

“You're in no position to throw me under the bus,
Ford.
One phone call and I can destroy you.” O'Malley hoped he hadn't just given the warden the reason he was looking for to take his cell phone. Frustrated, furious and feeling desperate, he gave the chains a quick jerk, smiling a little when the rattle made Josephs lurch. “But I'd much rather break your spindly little neck.”

“You asked earlier why the restraints were necessary, and now you know.”

“Wait. No,” he said, trying to make light of the threat. “I didn't mean anything by that. I'm confused. And upset. You would be, too, in my place.” A burst of nervous laughter escaped his lips. “C'mon, now. You know me. You don't really believe I'm capable of actual violence, like some common criminal, do you?”

“I hate to rain on your pity party, O'Malley, but you
are
a common criminal.”

Josephs reiterated the 78-month sentence, meted out by a federal judge as the penalty for ten counts of financial corruption, misappropriation of campaign funds, perjury, obstruction of justice, voter fraud and half a dozen other things unearthed by the prosecutor, thanks to that turncoat, Nate Judson.

“You got too full of yourself, as my daddy used to say,” the warden continued, “and I'm afraid you've left me no alternative.”

O'Malley wanted to ask for an explanation, but didn't. If he put his questions into words, and his voice shook the way his hands were shaking, Josephs would see his weakness, and use it to his advantage.

“You know, you
do
look a bit baffled, so allow me to clarify things for you.” Josephs leaned back again, and this time casually propped both feet on his desk. “Parker and Rayford are in your ‘pay to stay' cell,” he said, linking his fingers behind his neck, “packing your meager possessions as we speak. When they're finished, they'll come back here and escort you to your new cell and make the necessary introductions.”

O'Malley's heart thumped wildly, his hands grew clammy and he could barely swallow past the dry lump in his throat. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid.
Really
afraid.

“Warden. You can't do this. Before I ran for office, I was a judge. I put hundreds of those guys out there
into
this place. I wouldn't last until dinnertime.”

The warden smiled. “When I set you up in your cushy little cell in minimum security, we had an unwritten contract of sorts. You wouldn't call attention to yourself, and I'd look the other way while you played Big Man Off Campus. But you violated that agreement. Made the staff question my authority. Worse, made the
governor
question my authority. You of all people should understand why I can't allow this to continue. Because what do you get if your people don't respect you? I'll tell you what you get. Anarchy, that's what. And in a place like this, that means war. Literally.”

A little black box on his desk buzzed, and he hit a button.

“Yes, Patsy?”

“Mr. Parker and Mr. Rayford are here, Warden.”

“See how well people function when they respect their boss?” He leaned nearer the intercom. “Send them in, dear.”

Seconds later, Rayford unfastened the clip that held O'Malley's chains to the floor.

“On your feet, Hank,” he said, helping him up.

Parker, standing at attention in the doorway, met O'Malley's eyes, and he knew in an instant that the man felt sorry for him. He'd seen a lot of emotions on the guard's faces...anger, hatred, fear, repulsion...but never pity.

“I'll come see you in a day or two,” Josephs said.

“I won't last a day or two, and you know it.”

A nonchalant shrug was the warden's only response.

He wouldn't be here if Nate Judson had been a man of his word, O'Malley thought. If he hadn't turned state's evidence to save his own skin. The man had taken everything—his senate seat, his home in Chicago's Gold Coast neighborhood, the trust of his wife and the respect of his kids. Hatred didn't begin to define what Hank felt.

He'd just returned a novel to the prison library, a story centering around a protagonist being stalked by a ruthless assassin. O'Malley identified with the hit man, and when he got out of this place, he wouldn't rest until he found Nate Judson. He had an important decision to make between now and then: Kill Judson immediately after the daughter, or let him spend the rest of his miserable life knowing his disloyalty had cost his wife and daughter their lives?

CHAPTER TEN

I
T
 
WAS
 
BARELY
 
eight when the phone rang, and when she saw Noah's name in the caller ID window, Billie groaned. “Did you think of something you forgot to berate me about yesterday?” she said aloud. Because if that's why he'd called, he was in for a rude awakening. She'd looked forward to designing website number one hundred, but she wasn't desperate enough to put up with his guff.

Billie all but barked hello into the mouthpiece.

“Hi, Billie. This is me. Alyssa Preston. My daddy is Noah, from the bike shop.”

You mean Alyssa, the little girl whose lie cost me a client?

“How are you?”

“I'm fine. How are you?”

“Never better,” she fibbed. “What can I do for you?”

“Well...I was just wondering...if I could come over to your house?”

Her brother padded into the room in white socks, a camouflage T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, looking like a high school boy instead of a thirty-year-old retired marine.

“Who's that?” he asked around a yawn.

Billie covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Alyssa Preston.”

Troy frowned. “What does that jerk's troublemaking brat want at this hour?”

Billie frowned, too, and waved him away. “Alyssa, is there something I can help you with over the phone? To, ah, to save your dad coming all the way over here?”

“No, thank you. I should do this in person. Besides, it isn't very far. Just point two miles from my house. I know, because I looked it up online.”

Billie had been trapped in uncomfortable social situations before, but never by a third grader. “So how are you feeling today?”

“You already asked me that. I'm fine, remember, so don't worry. You won't catch anything from being around me.”

Something told her the sooner she agreed to the visit, the better. “Okay, then, come on over.”

“Daddy says we can't stay long because he has to open the store at ten o'clock today,” Alyssa said, and hung up without another word.

Billie stared at the silent receiver for a second before replacing it on the cradle.

“Better get dressed, brother dear. Company's coming.”

“I don't have anywhere to go or anyone to impress.” He picked up a cookie and took a bite, then looked down at his clothes. “Why? Will my mismatched getup embarrass you?”

She shrugged and started a fresh pot of coffee. “No, but it might inspire a volley of little-girl questions.”

“I think I have a pretty good idea what kind of craziness to expect from a seven-year-old girl.”

The front bell rang and he followed her to the foyer. “Man. They're here already?”

“Apparently,” she said, opening the door.

“I like your doorbell, Billie. It's fun.” Alyssa twisted the brass key and laughed when it emitted a tinny sound.

Noah grasped her hand. “That's enough, okay?”

As they entered the tiny foyer, he said, “Thanks for letting us stop by so early.”

His expression reminded Billie of the way Chuck had looked that morning she'd asked if he'd been keeping something from her. Did Noah really think the in-person approach would make it easier to hear he didn't want to hire her?

Troy peeked around the kitchen door. “There's fresh coffee and straight-from-the-oven cookies in here, in case anyone's interested.”

Had he lost his mind? Not five minutes ago he'd called Noah a jerk and Alyssa a troublemaking brat!

“Thanks,” Noah said, “but I've already had my three-cup quota for the day.”

Alyssa glanced up at him, then looked at Billie. “He drank three
pots,
” she said, “because he didn't sleep well last night.”

Eyes closed, Noah tilted his face toward the ceiling. Summoning patience? Billie wondered. Or searching his mind for a phrase to counter hers?

“I made snickerdoodles yesterday,” Billie told the girl.

“What are snickerdoodles?”

Troy stepped into the hall. “What are snickerdoodles! Only
the
best cookies on the planet!”

Alyssa pressed up against Noah as Billie said, “That's my brother Troy. He's staying with me for a while.”

“Nice to meet you,” Noah said.

“Same here.” Hands on his knees, Troy bent at the waist to make himself child-sized. “How 'bout I introduce you to the best treat you ever tasted while your dad and Billie talk?”

“No, thank you,” she said, grabbing Noah's hand. “I'm the one who wants to talk to Billie.”

Billie met Noah's eyes. “Really?”

“Well, yeah. She has something she wants to say. And then so do I.”

Troy held out a hand to Alyssa. “Do you like milk with your cookies?”

She looked up at Noah again, and when he nodded, she put her hand into Troy's. “Just one cookie, though, okay?” Noah cautioned.

“Okay, Daddy,” she said as Troy led her into the kitchen. “After my cookie, is that when I should say what we practiced?”

“That'll be fine.”

Billie couldn't imagine what Alyssa had come here to say, but if it had anything to do with that dreaded allergy pill, she didn't intend to let Noah browbeat her a second time. She took a deep breath.

“I guess it's fate that you're here, so I can tell you in person what I should have said....”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“I'm sorry about the allergy pill.”

“You didn't know I'd already given her one.”

Billie didn't really
need
Noah as a client, but the money would have definitely come in handy, especially if Troy took her up on her offer of a loan.

“That's no excuse,” she said. “You were right. I should have realized you weren't focused on my question.”

He studied her face for a second. “Still, I overreacted. Big-time. You didn't deserve that, especially after the way you minded the shop while I picked Alyssa up at school, and hung around while I blasted that supplier.”

“I'm confused. Aren't you here to say no thanks on the website?”

“The opposite, actually.” He gestured toward the computer in the corner of her living room. “Is that my site on the screen?”

She followed his gaze. “No, but I can pull it up in just a second.” Restless and unable to sleep, she'd worked on it last night, thinking it would be easy enough to change the header. He wasn't the only bike shop in town, after all. Billie led him to the alcove she'd turned into her office. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, removing the throw pillow from the wingback chair beside her desk. Then, facing the PC, she tilted the monitor so Noah could see it, and clicked through his site, tab by tab.

He pointed at the headline banner, where she'd typed in big bold Times Roman font SHOP EXTERIOR.

“I don't have any pictures of the store.”

“No problem. I have a great camera.” Billie sat back. “Do you have any suggestions? Questions?”

“We can do this whole thing without any photographs of Alyssa or me, though, right?”

What a strange question. But if Bud was right, and they were in the witness protection service... “Sure, if that's what you prefer.”

His lips formed a grim line as he said, “It is.”

“And this tab about experience and years in the business? How can we emphasize that I know what I'm doing without revealing that I have only a little more than three years' experience?”

People were always saying that her face was an open book, so Billie focused on the monitor, to keep him from reading it now.

“If it's there, people want details. If it isn't, they usually don't notice. At least, they don't point it out. That's been my experience, anyway. So it's best to delete it.”

“That makes sense. Thanks.” He got to his feet, slid a checkbook from his shirt pocket. “Your proposal didn't mention a deposit. How much do I owe you?”

She waved the offer away. “I'll invoice you when the site is finished and approved, right before it goes live.”

He repocketed the checkbook. “Part of me is looking forward to that...and part of me dreads it.”

“Dread? That's an odd way to describe the results of more business and more income!” She punctuated the comment with a too loud, too long laugh that made her blush.

“More money would be nice. More attention...” he shrugged “...I could live without.”

Billie didn't know how to react to that. “You're sure you don't want some coffee?”

“I'm sure.” He held out his hand. “Good doing business with you, Billie.”

She wasn't prepared for the strength and warmth of his handshake. “I'll probably have things wrapped up in a week or so.”

“No hurry,” he said, releasing her hand. “Guess I'd better get in there before Alyssa talks your brother's ears off. Besides, by now she's probably dying to deliver her speech. She worked on it all morning.”

All morning? It wasn't even nine o'clock yet!

When they walked into the kitchen, Troy said, “There they are. See? I told you it wouldn't be much longer.”

Immediately, Alyssa blurted, “I'm very sorry that I fibbed about the pill, Billie. And I'm sorry that I got you in trouble with Daddy. I promise never to do it again.”

A strange sensation spiraled in Billie's heart. She should have tried harder to dislike this child. Maybe then she wouldn't want to hug her. “I'm the grown-up,” she began, “so I should have known better.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to pluck a napkin from the basket on the bar counter, cup Alyssa's chin in her palm and gently brush cookie crumbs from her chin. So natural that it scared Billie, and dredged up the familiar sorrow, born when she had buried her own little girl.

She backed away slowly, and tossing the napkin into the trash, said, “Then we're even. I won't give you any more medicine, and you won't say you want some when you'd really rather have candy. Deal?” She held up a hand, traffic cop style, and waited.

Beaming, the girl gave her a high five. “Deal.”

Troy reached into the drawer behind him and retrieved Billie's camera. “If this isn't a Kodak moment,” he said, “I don't know what is. C'mon, you two. Let's get a picture for the kid's scrapbook.”

Noah stepped between his daughter and Billie's brother. His posture, his voice, his facial expression shouted “No!” A tense moment passed, and then he relaxed. But not much.

“I hate to break up the party,” he said, “but Alyssa has some homework to do, and I have a store to run.”

He faced Billie. “Again, thanks for letting us stop by so early, and on such short notice.” He took Alyssa's hand and led her to the foyer. “Let me know if I can do anything to help with the website.”

Billie and Troy followed, stood side by side as he opened the door.

“Thank you for the cookies,” Alyssa said to Troy. “And for the new knock-knock jokes.”

“You're welcome. Enjoy your day off.”

After they'd gone, Troy put the camera back into the kitchen drawer. “I thought you were making mountains out of molehills, but I stand corrected. There is something off about that guy.” Grabbing a stack of snickerdoodles, he headed for his laptop in the living room. “And this time, I'm going to find out what.”