Читать книгу Seven Days To Forever - Ingrid Weaver - Страница 9

Abbie flicked another glance at her watch as she dug her keys out of her purse. The traffic had been worse than usual. Every direct route to her apartment building had been blocked by stalled cars or minivans. Why couldn’t everyone simply follow their vehicle manufacturer’s recommended maintenance schedule? She always did, and she hadn’t had any problems with her car yet. Still, it was odd that the car trouble seemed limited to her neighborhood. It was almost as if there were some grand conspiracy out there to delay her from reaching home.

She shook her head at the ridiculous thought. Washington was undoubtedly full of enough conspiracies, but they wouldn’t be targeting her. No, she was about as ordinary and law-abiding as a person could get. She understood the value of structure. Maintenance schedules, school timetables, to-do lists, these gave a lovely framework on which to build a life.

Of course, sometimes timetables did require adjustment. She’d have to pencil in thirty-five as her next target date for the husband, family and home in the suburbs.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, fitting the key into the lock. “Get over it. Thirty is only a number.”

The phone was ringing when she opened the door. She bolted the door behind her and flicked on a light just as the answering machine picked up.

“Hi, dear.” It was her mother’s voice. “I hope everything’s all right. I thought you’d be home by now.”

Abbie hurried through the short entrance hall to her living room, dodged around the avocado plant and reached past the fig tree to grab the telephone. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, you’re there. How was your day, Abigail?”

“Great. The kids loved the museum.” She started to shrug off her jacket, belatedly realizing she was still holding on to the stray backpack she’d picked up. She’d meant to leave it in the car so she could take it in to school tomorrow, but in her rush to get home she must have brought it upstairs to her apartment without thinking. She was getting as absentminded as her students.

On the other hand, wasn’t forgetfulness a sign of advancing age?

She grimaced, dropped the pack and her purse beside the fig tree and sank into a chair. “How are you, Mom?”

“Just fine.” There was a spurt of conversation in the background that was quickly muffled. “Are you still going to come over tonight? You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No, of course I didn’t forget. I was late getting in because the traffic was horrible. If I hadn’t used all my shortcuts, I’d still be sitting in it.”

“Well, I hope it clears up before you set out for our place.” The sound of a doorbell came over the line.

“I’ll be over as soon as I can. Is someone at your door, Mom?”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Just your dad fidgeting with the bell again.”

“Mmm.” She was sure she heard more muffled conversation in the background. It sounded like her older sister’s voice. “Are you sure you aren’t expecting any visitors?”

“Now, why would we be expecting anyone but you, dear?”

“I don’t know. Are you making fried chicken?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you guess?”

Fried chicken, potato salad, egg sandwiches without crusts, just like every year. The surprise party was on. “I could smell it from here, Mom.”

“Oh, you.” She laughed. “We’ll see you in a little while, then. Drive safely, dear.”

Abbie put the phone down and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She had to try to think positively about this birthday, she thought as she studied the ceiling. Apart from a different digit at the start of her age, it was the same as all the others.

She looked at her watch and did a quick calculation of how much time she would need to drive to her parents’ house if the traffic didn’t improve, then pushed to her feet and hurried toward the shower. She’d better get moving or she was going to be late for her own party. She just hoped she would be able to act surprised. It was going to be tough. She had never liked surprises.

“Twenty-nine years old,” Sarah said. “No, make that thirty. Birthday today. Single. Has worked at Cherry Hill School for the past seven years. Four hundred and sixty-one dollars in her savings account, seven thousand dollars in government bonds. Want her credit card balances?”

Flynn buckled on the electrician’s tool belt as he swung around another turn in the stairwell. Sarah was on the radio, feeding him information about Abigail Locke as it came in. He was thinking on his feet now, making up the action plan as he went along; so, any fact, even a date of birth might prove to be useful. “Does she have a debt problem?”

“No, she has a good credit rating. No debts apart from a car loan. She’s a nonsmoker, according to her insurance records,” Sarah continued. “No outstanding traffic fines. Three library books on loan. History texts, judging by the titles.”

Flynn wasn’t surprised at the depth of detail Sarah could obtain on such short notice—all it took was a little know-how, and nothing that had ever been entered into a computer was secret. If the public became aware of how easily the privacy of a private citizen could be breached, the conspiracy theorists would have a field day.

One detail that hadn’t shown up on the records, though, was the fact that Abigail could drive like a New York City cabbie. If Flynn hadn’t seen it for himself, he never would have believed what she could make that little beige Firefly do. She’d gotten past every one of the obstacles they’d set up. It was a good thing he’d been on his bike, or she would have lost him back at Sarah’s “stalled” van.

He clipped a fake power-company ID card to his shirt pocket. “What about boyfriends?”

“No data about that so far. I could get into her prescription records and find out if she’s gone to a doctor for birth control.”

“No,” Flynn said immediately. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the idea of Intelligence digging quite that deeply into Abigail’s life. “I only wanted to know whether she might have company with her at her apartment.”

“Sorry, prescription records wouldn’t help you there. She has her mother, Clara Locke, listed as her next of kin. Parents live in Maryland. One older sister named Martha, a younger one named Eleanor, both married with kids.” Sarah paused. “Abigail and her sisters are named after first ladies. Seems like she’s not the only history buff in the family.”

Flynn reached the next landing just as the lights went out. The power failure didn’t startle him—evidently Specialist Gonzalez had located the main breakers in the basement and had done his job right on schedule. This was the reason Flynn was using the stairs to get to the seventeenth floor instead of the elevator. He waited where he was until the emergency light clicked on, then continued climbing.

“Vilyas has just received word from the LLA.” Redinger’s voice replaced Sarah’s. His words were even lower and more clipped than earlier—definitely a very bad sign. “They claim they were double-crossed, that he never left the ransom as he had agreed.”

“What did he tell them?” Flynn asked.

“Vilyas said he left the money but it was picked up by a schoolteacher.”

Flynn increased his pace, taking the stairs three at a time. Great. If the terrorists hadn’t followed Abigail from the museum, they’d be able to find her for sure, anyway, now that Vilyas had told them the ransom was picked up by a schoolteacher. They wouldn’t need the resources of Delta Force to be able to trace which schools had field trips at the museum today, all they’d need would be a telephone. It was only a matter of time before they narrowed it down and decided to come after Abigail and the money themselves.

“Wasn’t anyone with him when he took the call?” Flynn muttered. “Couldn’t they have stopped him from talking?”

“He was advised not to say anything, but the LLA put his son on the line and then struck the child. When Vilyas heard his son scream, he disregarded our instructions.”

Flynn felt a surge of adrenaline. The LLA had abused a helpless child. They would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. They wouldn’t care how many innocent people were hurt or how much collateral damage they did in the process.

Miss Abigail Locke, who turned thirty today, with her three library books and her little beige car was a sitting duck. He had to get the money away from her—or get her away from the ransom—as soon as possible.

“Is the kid okay?” Flynn asked.

“We have no way of knowing,” Redinger replied. “All we know is that he was alive and conscious ten minutes ago.”

“How long do you estimate I have before the LLA gets here?”

“We’re keeping our units in place to gridlock the traffic in the immediate area, so best-case scenario, you’ll have thirty minutes.”

He didn’t need to ask what the worst-case scenario was, Flynn thought, hearing footsteps in the stairwell below him. He waited until he could be sure the footsteps were retreating—probably one of the building’s tenants, nervous about the power failure. He placed his hand on the door to the seventeenth floor. “What’s the latest from the electronics in the pack?”

“The pack is stationary, somewhere in her apartment.”

“Has she opened it?”

“Unlikely. The mike didn’t pick up any sound to indicate the buckle was being unfastened.”

“Did it pick up anything?”

“Only a phone call from her mother. They’re expecting her for dinner.”

“Maybe I should wait until she goes out.”

“The LLA won’t wait if they find her first.”

“Right. What’s she doing now?”

“Nothing on the mike except some shuffling sounds. Probably trying to find her way around in the dark.”

“Okay. Keep me posted. I’m going in.”

Abbie balanced on one foot to put on her shoe as she peered through the peephole in the door. She tried to make out the features of the man who stood there, but the beam from the emergency light at the end of the corridor didn’t reach this far. All she could see was a tall, broad-shouldered figure with some kind of tool belt strapped around his hips.

“Who is it?” she called through the door.

“I’m with the power company, ma’am.”

She buttoned her blouse and tucked it into her skirt, thankful that she’d finished her shower before the lights had gone out. The bathroom had no window, so it had been pitch-black, but at least there had been enough light from the dusk filtering through the other windows for her to find some clothes. “That was fast,” she said.

“There’s a problem with the wiring in the building. We’ve traced it to a circuit in your apartment. I need to check it out.”

Water dripped from the ends of her hair onto her shoulders. “What?”

“Do you mind letting me in?”

She opened the door to the limit of the security bar. “Do you have any identification?”

There was a rustle of fabric as he reached for something on his chest. “Here’s my I.D. card.”

She squinted at the card, but all she could make out was a pale rectangular blur. “Sorry, I can’t—”

“Hang on.” He took a flashlight from his belt, clicked it on and directed it toward the card. “This should help.”

The suddenly bright beam made her blink. She looked at the printing on the card. Flynn O’Toole. Sure enough, he was an employee of the power company. She glanced at the small color photo in the corner. Her grip on the door tightened.

Who had ID photos that turned out like that? Even the stark head-on flash couldn’t hurt that square jaw and those high cheekbones. A picture like that should be gracing an ad for designer cologne, not an identification card for the electric company. She raised her gaze to his face.

The photo wasn’t that good after all. He looked far better in the flesh.

Good Lord, but he was gorgeous. Not in a pretty, cover-boy way, but like a man. All man. Those deep-set, thick-lashed blue eyes gleamed with quiet male confidence. His nose was bold and straight, his lips framed by twin lines that etched their way down from the hollows of his cheeks. His hair was black, curling over the tips of his ears and the back of his collar in a way that invited a tousling. In his plaid flannel shirt and his snug-fitting jeans, he looked rugged but approachable, a natural-born heartbreaker.

Abbie wanted to slam the door in his face.

“Ma’am? Would you like to call my supervisor? He’ll verify my ID for you.”

“No, I—” She cleared her throat, thankful for the lack of lighting so he might not notice how she was staring. On the other hand, a man who looked like that would be accustomed to attracting plenty of female attention. Yes, he probably reveled in it, drawing women like mindless, doomed moths to a flame.

It was a good thing she was immune to men like that. That was the advantage of being infected before—it served as a vaccination against future bouts of the same affliction. “Are you sure the problem is in my apartment? I haven’t had any trouble with the electricity until now.”

He took a slim, rectangular device from the pocket of his jeans and held it toward her. “The readings I’m getting on this gauge pinpoint your place.”

She made a show of studying the numbers that were flickering across the screen of the instrument, but it could have been a pocket calculator for all she knew. “I see.”

He hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice and bent his head toward her. “Please, ma’am. I’d like to get this job finished and get home. You see, it’s my birthday.”

The door wobbled as she jerked. More water dripped from her hair to her shoulders and trickled down her blouse. “Your birthday?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re not serious.”

“’Fraid so. I hit the big three-oh today.”

“That’s…odd.”

“Sure is, according to my folks. They claimed I’d never make it this far.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“They’re expecting me for dinner tonight, but I have to finish this job before I can leave, so if you don’t mind…”

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to return her gaze to his face. He was smiling. A hopeful tilt at the corners of his lips. She could almost hear moth wings sizzling. “I meant I can’t believe it’s your birthday today. It’s mine, too.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Now that’s a coincidence.” The lines beside his mouth curved as two dimples appeared in his cheeks. “What are the odds?”

Yes, indeed. What were the odds? Having a man who looked like Flynn O’Toole show up on her doorstep was unlikely enough, but sharing something as personal as a birthday with him was beyond strange. It bordered on bizarre.

Was this some kind of cosmic joke? she wondered. Was this fate’s way of pointing out the road she’d almost taken, the very thing she used her schedules and her timetables to guard against? Just as she was about to adjust the best-before dates on the plans for her life, instead of Mr. Right, Mr. Flynn O’Toole shows up at her door with his blue eyes and his dimples like some karmic birthday present….

Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought sternly. He was only here to do his job. He couldn’t help how he looked.

Abbie tucked her hair behind her ears, then wiped her wet fingers on her skirt. “Did you say your parents were expecting you for dinner?”

His budding smile disappeared. “Hey, just because I’m thirty and spending my birthday with my parents is no big deal.”

Her conscience twinged. He couldn’t help how he looked, she repeated to herself. She had learned the hard way not to trust handsome men—or to put it more accurately, not to trust her reaction to handsome men—but she really shouldn’t be letting her personal prejudices color her judgment. Who knew? If he actually did plan to visit his parents, maybe there were a few ounces of human decency behind that pretty face, after all.

Not that she would be willing to bet money on it.

Not that his character had any bearing whatsoever on the current situation, she reminded herself firmly. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to imply there was anything wrong with that. I was getting ready to go over to my parents’ place for dinner myself when the power went off.”

He was silent for a moment, then shook his head and chuckled. “Go figure. Guess you’re in as much a hurry as I am, then.”

“Yes, I believe I am.”

He clipped his ID back on his shirt pocket and gestured toward the door. “Well, the sooner I get started, the sooner both of us can leave.”

She hesitated. The logical side of her brain waged a brief battle with the dark little corner where she kept her instincts. As usual, though, logic won. She had to get organized and get out of here within the next thirty minutes or she was going to disappoint her family. She eased the door shut to unlatch the security bar, then stepped aside to let him come in.

It would be all right. She was just letting him into her apartment, not her life.

Flynn kept his light aimed at the floor as he walked into Abigail’s apartment. She pressed herself against the wall, giving him as much room as possible, then closed the door behind him.

Miss Abigail Locke was a cautious lady, he thought. It was a good thing he’d hit on the idea of making up that story about today being his birthday. That seemed to have smoothed his way inside.

Flynn was good at saying what people wanted to hear. It was a useful talent to have in his business—talking his way out of a situation was often preferable to using force. In spots like this, people called it quick thinking. When he was off duty, people called it charm.

The technical word for it was lying.

But it wouldn’t have accomplished his objective if he’d told Abigail that he’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday more than two years ago. And it sure as hell hadn’t been with his parents. He’d been six years old the last time he’d seen his mother, and as far as he knew, his father was somewhere in Brazil with wife number four.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Abigail asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. Rather than staying by the door, she had followed him into the living room. There was more light here than in the hall, but still, the place was too dim to see more than dark shapes and outlines.

Her outline was worth seeing. Compact, feminine and rounded in all the right places. She must have been fresh from the shower when she’d answered the door. He’d caught a whiff of fruit-scented soap—apple or cranberry, he’d guess. Her hair was wet, plastered flat to her head until just below her ears, where it coiled into heavy curls. She probably hadn’t realized that the drips from her wet hair had been turning her white blouse transparent.

Flynn kept his flashlight aimed at the floor. “Like I said, I traced the short to your apartment, but that’s about as specific as the gauge gets. I need to test each one of your electrical outlets until I find the source of the problem.”

“But wouldn’t each apartment be on a separate circuit? I still don’t understand how a problem here could black out the entire building.”

“Seems the wiring in this building wasn’t done to the standards specified in the electrical code,” he improvised. He had to distract her before she realized how flimsy his story was. “Wow, I still can’t believe we share a birthday.”

“Me, neither.”

“And that we’ll both be spending it with our parents.”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“Are you close to your folks, then?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

He heard the caution in her voice go down another notch. He decided to play up on the family angle. “So am I. A lot of people would call it old-fashioned, but there’s nothing like family.”

“Especially on birthdays.”

“You got that right.” He paused, trying to think of the most likely spot for her to have dropped that backpack. “Kids make it the most fun, though. I’ve got two nephews who can’t wait to blow out my candles.”

“Do you like children?”

“Love them,” he said, figuring that would be what a schoolteacher would want to hear.

A sigh whispered through the darkness. “So do I.”

He used the flashlight to scratch his elbow as he moved toward the outline of the living room window.

“Oh, watch out for the—”

Something stiff and dry hit his face. He automatically brought his forearm up to block the next blow and jumped backward.

“—avocado plant,” she finished.

Flynn directed his flashlight upward. A branch thick with long, wavy leaves hung at head level. He traced the branch to an enormous plant that grew from a pot beside one wall. “What the…”

“It’s an avocado plant,” she repeated. “I started it from a pit. I know it’s in the way but it does best in that spot. Are you all right?”

“Sure. I managed to fight it off.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not carnivorous.”

Flynn heard a smile in her voice. It reminded him of the private smile that had so intrigued him before. He swept his flashlight around the room, this time aiming the beam higher. A pair of monster plants hulked under the window. No, it was a glass door, not a window. Probably led to a balcony, but he hadn’t been able to see it before because of the plants. More pots of foliage clustered on the top of a low bookshelf. “I see you’re good at growing things.”

“It’s my hobby.”

“I’m a civil war buff myself,” he said, remembering what Sarah had said about Abigail’s library books. Maybe he was piling it on a bit too thick, but he’d do whatever it took to keep her off guard.

“I enjoy studying history, too,” she said. “I believe there are worthwhile lessons to be learned from the past. As long as a person is smart enough to remember them,” she added under her breath.

Not a good topic, he decided, hearing the note of thoughtfulness in her voice. He didn’t want her thoughtful. He wanted her off balance. He chuckled. “Let’s not mention history on our birthday, okay? After the day I’ve had, I feel ancient enough already.”

“I know what you mean.” She sighed and moved toward him. “You’ll never find what you’re looking for in this jungle. Better let me help you.”

The flashlight was still aimed high, so when Abigail walked into the beam, it shone directly on her wet blouse. Flynn tried not to look, but it was impossible not to notice how the patches of wetness from her dripping hair had spread. The fabric wasn’t white as he’d first thought, it was the color of ripe melons. Or maybe the fabric’s color was due more to the lush curves it was plastered to, particularly since it turned dark where it clung to her nipples.

And Flynn suddenly realized that the innocent, house-plant-loving, visit-her-folks-on-her-birthday Abigail Locke wasn’t wearing a bra.

He turned the light aside and scowled. She hadn’t provided the peep show deliberately—she must have been in a hurry to get dressed when the lights had gone out.

But he was supposed to be the one distracting her, not the other way around.

Find what you’re looking for, she’d said.

Well, he sure wasn’t here to look for a pair of breasts, however lush and temptingly displayed they might be. He had to find that backpack, he reminded himself. A green backpack. In a jungle of green houseplants.

She touched his arm. “You might as well start in the kitchen. The outlets are easiest to get to there.”

Her touch was soft, hesitant. It was meant impersonally, a practical way of getting his attention in the dark. He felt her warmth through his sleeve, through his skin, right to his bones.

He couldn’t afford to feel anything. He had a job to do. A kid’s life and the political stability of an entire region was resting on the success of this mission. He had to stay focused.

The outlets, she’d said. Right. He took a screwdriver from his tool belt, turned around and followed her to the kitchen.

The receiver in his ear crackled. “O’Toole.”

Flynn was careful to betray no reaction to Redinger’s voice. The radio had been silent since he’d made face-to-face contact with Abigail. The major had been monitoring everything, of course, but for him to risk direct contact, it had to be important.

“A car passed one of the roadblocks one minute ago,” Redinger said. “They flagged it as suspicious so we ran the plates. It was reported stolen this morning.”

Okay. Redinger had to let him know about anything suspicious. This could be coincidence, nothing to do with them.

“Three male occupants.”

Three. The LLA operated in cells of three.

“Sarah turned the parabolic mike on the car. It picked up a snatch of foreign language conversation. She identified it as Ladavian.”

That clinched it. They were about to have company.

“The stairwell is getting busy with tenants making their way downstairs,” the major said. “We’ll run interference there when our visitors arrive, but we still can’t risk a confrontation. I estimate you’ve got five minutes tops.”

So much for the half hour he’d hoped for.

“Better wrap things up, Flynn.”

Sure, find the ransom, get it and Abigail out of this apartment before the terrorists dropped in without compromising the mission by blowing his cover.

Why had he thought he didn’t like things easy?