Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Rachel clanked the metal cuffs in her hand.
“Stop playing with those damn things and put them on!”
She kept moving the metal links in a hypnotic rhythm, willing him to watch her, holding his focus and struggling not to give anything away.
The man who had appeared behind the intruder was Jake Harper, standing like a coiled spring in the doorway, taking in the scene, a grim expression on his face.
She kept her gaze on the guy with the gun. “I don’t know anything about Evelyn Morgan besides what I saw during the reading.”
“We’ll see. But first we’re going to get comfortable.” He laughed, a grating sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “At least I will be. Put on the handcuffs if you don’t want to get shot.”
The man might be enjoying his power over her, but if he wanted information, he wasn’t going to shoot her. She hoped.
Still, questions whirled in her mind. Why had he killed Evelyn Morgan? Because she hadn’t talked? Because she’d told him something incriminating? Or had he gotten too rough and done it by accident?
Her heart was pounding as she lifted the cuffs in her fingers, still making the links click together.
“Stop stalling.”
Instead of snapping one of the bracelets around her wrist, she threw them on the floor, watching from the corner of her eye as Jake silently picked up a heavy glass paperweight from the display shelves.
“You bitch. You’re going to be sorry,” the man growled. “Get down on your knees and pick them up.”
As she slipped off the chair, going down on all fours and drawing the man’s gaze downward, Jake leaped forward, striking the intruder on the back of the head with the paperweight. She’d already dodged to the side as the weapon discharged, and the man went down in a heap in the middle of the floor.
Jake ducked around him, pulling her up. “Are you all right?”
The feeling of relief was overwhelming. Relief and more. As he held her in his arms, they exchanged silent messages.
You knew something was wrong.
Yeah.
Thank you for getting here in time.
You kept him busy.
She wanted to stay in Jake’s arms, but she knew that the feeling of safety was only an illusion. They had to get out of here.
Her eyes flicked to the man on the floor, seeing the blood oozing from his hair.
“You hurt him.”
“Not as much as he was planning to hurt you. Head wounds bleed a lot.”
She winced.
Jake squatted beside the man, picked up the gun and handed it to Rachel. “Keep him covered.”
She accepted the weapon, wondering what would happen if she had to shoot it.
Next he cuffed the man to a heating pipe. When the guy was secured, Jake felt for a pulse in his neck.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.” He riffled through his pockets and pulled out a wallet. In it were a driver’s license and a couple of credit cards in the name of Eric Smithson. He also took the handcuff key.
“Probably the I.D.’s not in his real name,” Jake muttered. “Give me the gun.”
She was glad to hand it over and watched as he switched on the safety and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans.
“We can’t leave him here,” she whispered as she stared at the assailant. She was still coming to grips with what had happened and what would have happened if Jake hadn’t arrived.
“You want to call the cops?” he asked, his voice hard.
She considered that option. “No.”
“Why not?” he pressed.
She’d always been a law-abiding citizen. Now she heard herself answer, “I don’t want to get myself connected to the Evelyn Morgan case.”
“Agreed.”
“What should we do?”
“Well, you can’t hang around here. Too dangerous. Can you stay with a friend?”
She thought for a moment and couldn’t come up with anyone she could impose upon. Not when she was hiding out from a guy who was probably a murderer. And she was pretty sure Jake could guess what she was going to answer.
When she shook her head, he said, “You’re staying with me.”
Undoubtedly what he wanted.
She swallowed. “Okay.”
“Go up and pack a few things.”
“You know I live upstairs?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t comment as she turned toward the door that led up to her apartment. Jake hesitated, then followed.
She stood for a moment in the middle of the darkened room, feeling paralyzed, her brain in danger of shutting down. Which wasn’t an option.
Grimly she forced herself into action, taking underwear and some practical clothing out of drawers, then throwing a few personal items and some makeup into a small kit.
After she’d stuffed everything into an overnight bag, she looked up to find Jake watching her.
“What are we going to do with the guy down there?”
He thought for a moment. “Take him to another location and turn the tables on him.”
“You mean question him?”
“Right. I’d like to know who he’s working for.”
“If he killed Evelyn Morgan, won’t he be . . . dangerous?”
“I think I can handle him,” Jake said, and she knew from the tone of his voice that he’d taken care of a lot of business she didn’t want to ask about.
When she started for the stairs, Jake held her back. “Stay behind me.”
He hurried down the steps, then stopped short as he reached the ground floor, muttering a curse.
Where the hell was Carter Frederick? Bill Wellington expected a second report from the man, but perhaps it was too soon.
He hadn’t been willing to reveal what he wanted to find out from Evelyn Morgan, but he already had a hunch it might be connected to a cockamamie medical research project the Howell Institute had funded years ago.
To give himself the illusion of progress, he started accessing medical reports from the Crescent City and the surrounding area.
At first there wasn’t anything of unusual interest. Then he began to pick up a strange set of data.
On deaths from cerebrovascular accidents among young adults in New Orleans.
There were more than you’d expect in the metropolitan area. And when he checked to see the individuals involved, he found that many of the deaths came in pairs. All of those victims were unmarried couples in their late twenties or early thirties. Young men and women who were found in bed together.
Did Evelyn think that Rachel Gregory and Jake Harper were going to be the next victims? Was that why she’d showed up in New Orleans?
That was certainly a stretch, but why would Evelyn have been trying to contact them? Was there some new kind of brain disease going around Louisiana, and she thought those two had contracted it?
Because a Howell Institute project had made them susceptible?
He reached for the phone and called Carter Frederick. No answer. Again. Did that mean the guy was in trouble? Or was he avoiding making a report because of another screwup?
Wellington slammed a fist onto the palm of his opposite hand. He didn’t like being jerked around, and he didn’t like operating by remote control in Portland.
When he’d been running the Howell Institute, he’d had more trustworthy operatives. Retirement had forced him into using less reliable guys, and now he was paying the price. If he didn’t get results this way, would he have to go to New Orleans himself and do it righ.? But was that worth the risk?
As Rachel peered around Jake, she saw what had made him curse. The man who had been on the floor was gone, leaving a small pool of blood where his head had been.
“He was cuffed to a heating pipe,” she said.
Jake swore again. “I guess he had a spare key.”
“Will he go to the police?”
Jake barked out a laugh. “He came here to harm you. And he probably killed Evelyn Morgan. I hardly think he’s going to call the cops.”
“He could make up some story.”
“You think?”
“Okay. No.” She looked at the blood on the floor. “But he needs medical treatment.”
“Like I told you, head wounds bleed a lot, so it may be superficial. But if he goes to a doctor, he’ll make up a story about what happened.”
She kept staring at the blood. “I have to clean up.”
He made a rough sound. “I’ll send a cleaning crew over. Just lock up after us and put up the ‘closed’ sign.”
He moved to the side of the door and looked out.
“You don’t see him?”
“No. And now we’re really getting out of here.”
He stepped outside, waited a moment and motioned for her to follow.
“Where are we going?”
“A place I own.”
“Your house?”
“No. If he could find you, he could find me.”
“Does he even know who you are?”
“We have to assume he does, even if it’s not true. Which means we’re going to a different location.”
“A hideout?”
He laughed. “It’s a set of converted rowhouses where I store antiques that aren’t going right to my shop. But the top floor was already outfitted as a loft. I go there sometimes when I need a change of scenery.”
He led her rapidly away from the shop, and she hurried to keep up. To her relief, he slowed his pace when they turned the corner. There were only a few people on this street, and she glanced at them as they passed. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to her and Jake Harper.
Still, he took a circuitous route through the French Quarter, ducking down alleys and stopping to listen and look behind them every so often. He had an excellent knowledge of the area, and as far as she could tell, no one was following them.
They ended up in an alley a few blocks away, where he stopped at a three-story building that was as wide as three townhouses.
All the shades were tightly drawn. He unlocked the door and stepped inside where he turned on a dim overhead light.
As she followed him, she saw that the first floor interior was one big open space.
As he’d said, it was filled with antiques.
Victorian sofas, chests of drawers, marble statues and even a horse watering trough.
He crossed the room, heading for a stairway at the back.
They climbed to a second level that was much like the first. The third floor was a living space with a kitchen on one side, a living area, and a bedroom in the back.
He’d said it was an occasional residence.
Anybody else would have been glad to call the place home.