Frank Harper sat in the run-down motel in the seediest part of the French Quarter, watching his static-ridden television blare the news across the screen. Reruns of the tape of the post office just after the explosion replayed over and over on every station. He was so proud he could hardly contain it.
He watched as the reporter standing outside of the Flagstaff Motel in Chalmette described the surrender scene. Jerry had turned himself in. What a fool. It occurred to him that he might tell them what had happened, but then that old sense of peace fell over him. He knew Jerry wouldn’t say a word. He knew he could count on him.
He had known it an hour earlier, when he’d stolen a car from a rest area as someone went in to use the facilities. As he’d listened to the play-by-play on the radio, he had known that Jerry would never talk.
Frank turned back to the papers on the table, picked up the ballpoint pen he’d found lying on the street, and returned to the most important work of his life. His manifesto. The reason for his blowing up the post office. There was no use committing an act that great without specifying his reason. To do less would mean cowardice, and he was not a coward.
He began writing as the news droned on about Jerry Ingalls’s surrender, about his wife’s part in the drama, about the woman he’d been holding hostage. Jill Clark was her name.
He looked up as they began to interview her. She looked shaken and sick, as if the day had taken its toll on her in more ways than one. Her brown hair was wet and beaded down into her face, and her nose was red as if she’d been crying.
“How many hours were you in there with him?” she was asked.
“Three or four. I’m not sure.”
“Did he talk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say why he blew up the post office?”
“He claims he’s innocent,” she said, looking into the camera. “He says that someone else did it.”
“Do you believe him?”
She didn’t know quite how to answer that, and obvious seconds ticked by as she thought that one over.
“Did he say who did it?” someone else asked.
And suddenly Frank Harper’s smugness fled, and he was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jill Clark knew his name and had sent the authorities after him. Jerry Ingalls had given him away to save his own hide. The shock, the despair in that rose up inside him, and he knocked his manifesto off the desk.
He got up and raked both hands through his hair, suddenly paranoid, convinced they were surrounding his room even now. He went to the window and pulled back the curtain. Nobody was there.
He turned back to the television, and saw that woman, the hostage, still standing in front of the camera.
“Is it true that you’re thinking of representing him?”
“It’s true that he asked me to,” she said. “Excuse me. I have to—”
“Miss Clark, are you going to represent him?”
“No comment,” she said. She headed back into the police department.
She knew, Frank Harper told himself. If she was even considering representing the man who had taken her hostage, then he must have told her. That left him only one choice. He was going to have to kill her next, and he didn’t have much time to waste.
Chapter Nineteen
Issie Mattreaux lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Each time she dozed, she heard the explosion again, felt the world shaking, saw the flames and the smoke. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw five-year-old Pete Hampton, covered with cuts and blood, asking for his mother while he struggled to get a breath.
Somehow, she felt this was her fault. In some indirect, roundabout way, she had played a part in all that had happened.
She got up and went into her bathroom, turned on the light, and stared into the mirror. She looked younger with her dark hair down and tousled around her face. The little girl who had lost her mother at eight wasn’t so far removed from the twenty-five-year-old she saw reflected there. But who was she? The flirtatious, sophisticated woman who played by her own rules, or the sad little girl who didn’t have any rules at all?
She left her reflection and went into her living room, opened the drawer where she kept pictures in several Kodak envelopes, and began to flip through them. She saw picture after picture of herself with men. Most of them were men her mother would have warned her from. Some of them were married.
Like Larry Hampton.
She came to the picture she had kept of herself and him together. It had to be four years ago, when Pete was a baby. She had gotten to know him at Joe’s Place, the bar that felt like home to her. She hadn’t been that attracted to him at first, but then one day she had seen him with his wife. Mary was pretty and gentle, and a good mother, and she made him look good. Issie remembered the spirit of competition that had risen inside her at the thought that she might be able to turn Larry’s head from his wife and baby.
Winning him would have been no big deal, if it had been just the two of them at Joe’s Place. She had always been relatively successful with men. But the addition of his wife and child in the battle had raised the stakes. If she could win him from a pretty woman and a happy marriage, then she would be victorious, indeed.
So she had set about to win him.
She closed her eyes as she recalled that she was his first infidelity. He’d found it to be easy and harmless with her. They’d had their fling, and then she had moved on to someone else. But he liked the feeling of cheating, and he hadn’t stopped with her. She hadn’t been surprised when, a couple of years later, he had disappeared from town with his latest mistress.
What if she hadn’t flirted with him at Joe’s Place, lured him into unfaithfulness, started a pattern of cheating and lying? What if he had still been with his wife right here in Newpointe? Maybe she wouldn’t have been at the post office that day. Maybe Pete Hampton wouldn’t have experienced two losses in his young little life. Maybe Issie wouldn’t have such guilt.
She knew her feelings weren’t rational, that changing her behavior probably would not have stopped the bombing, but at the very least, Pete’s father might have been here when he needed him most.
She wondered what Nick Foster would say about all this. All that forgiveness he preached…would he still believe in it with such guilt coursing through her? Or would he finally hit that wall of intolerance, and decide that she was one of those who had gone too far?
She couldn’t stand her thoughts, so she headed back into her room and got dressed, pulled on her shoes, and grabbed her purse. She would go to Joe’s Place and drown her troubles away. There were always people there to help her get her mind off her troubles. The men were especially happy to oblige.
Then she’d come home with her brain fuzzy and her body tired, and she’d fall into sleep without any problems at all. The alcohol could hold the nightmares at bay. And maybe it would cover the guilt, as well.
Chapter Twenty
Dan Nichols was met with a lukewarm reception when he returned to the station. Ray, the chief, was angry that Dan had run off without a word, but he had called Cale Larkins to replace him when he realized he wasn’t coming back. Cale and some of the others were annoyed that Dan would create such hardship. But Mark Branning and Nick Foster were more concerned about Jill.
He filled them all in about what had happened, and before he knew it, the angry ones had forgotten their anger and were astounded at Jill’s adventure.
When he’d finished describing the scene to them, he went out to the truck bay, which hadn’t yet been closed for the night, and sat in a chair next to the pumper. From here, he could see Jill’s car where he had parked it on the street. Media vans had pulled in around it, and some reporters still milled around in front of the station waiting for her to come out. He whispered a silent prayer for Jill, that she’d have the energy to get through the questioning from the federal agents tonight. She deserved to go home and relax, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen for a while.
Mark
came out of the TV room into the bay, and pulled a chair next to him. “Inquiring minds want to know,” he said. “Are you and Jill about to be an item again?”
Dan had known the question was coming. He leaned his chair back on two legs and looked at his friend. “Inquiring minds. That wouldn’t be Allie, would it?”
“Hey, my wife is her best friend. She’s been rooting for the two of you to get back together.”
“Yeah, when she hasn’t cursed the day I was born.”
“So she was a little ticked when you dumped Jill. She’s defensive about her. But she’s gotten over it. You know Allie loves you.”
He drew in a deep breath to buy time, then dropped the chair down and leaned on his knees. “I don’t know if we’re starting up again or not, Mark. All I know is, when I heard that gun go off over the phone, and things crashing and Jill screaming…Well, nothing else mattered, you know? Every protective instinct in my body went into high gear.”
“Now, that’s how I’ve felt when Allie was in trouble. But I didn’t really feel that way about Jill tonight, as good a friend as she is. I prayed for her, worried for her, rooted for her. But I wasn’t rushing to the scene and thinking how I could take a bullet for her. But you did. See, that sounds like true love to me.”
Dan grinned at his best friend’s probing. “So are you trying to define it for Allie or yourself?”
“Both of us, I guess. It’s kind of a hazard that comes with marriage. That feminine curiosity kind of eats into your brain cells, and male or not, next thing you know you’re interested in people’s love lives. Go figure.”
“And this is a condition you recommend?”
“Sure, I recommend it. There’s nothing like it. God knew what he was doing when he invented wives.”
Dan looked at her car again, and slowly straightened. “I don’t know where it’s headed, Mark. It was a weird night. There’s no telling what will come of it.”
“But what do you want to come of it?” Mark asked. Dan shot him a look, and Mark laughed and held up innocent hands. “Hey, Allie’s gonna ask.”
“Tell Allie that I’ve been missing Jill. That tonight scared the hesitation out of me. That if it’s at all in my power, I’m ready to have that fourth date.”
“Fourth date? Man, you had way more dates with her than that when you were seeing her before.”
“Yeah, but Allie’ll know what I mean.”
Mark thought about that for a minute, then began to laugh. “Oh, I get it. The guy with the three-date limit…fourth date…Allie’ll love that.”
“Tell Allie that it all depends on Jill.”
“Uh-oh. The catch. I knew there had to be one.”
“The catch is, does she want to be caught?”
“If I know Jill, she does. But she may not be willing to chase hard enough to catch you.”
“Chase me? What do you mean by that?”
Mark chuckled. “Did you see your messages? You had three calls from women while you were gone tonight.”
Dan waved that off as if it had no relevance. “They were just interested in the post office.”
“Right, and they never call on other shifts.” Mark’s sarcasm caught Dan’s attention.
“Okay, so they call. But that doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never taken any of them on a fourth date. I wouldn’t have rushed to Chalmette for them. I wouldn’t have been begging the cops to let me go in and take on the gunman for any of them.”
“So why did you?”
“Because it was Jill,” he said, looking his friend fully in the eye. “She’s different. She means…” His voice broke, and he swallowed and looked off to the side. Finally, he met Mark’s eyes again. “She means a lot to me.”
Mark’s amusement faded, and he nodded, as if he understood. “Like I said, buddy, sounds like true love to me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Hours passed as FBI agents questioned Jill about Jerry’s behavior in the motel room, the things he had said to her, the threats he had made. When she’d told the story at least a dozen times, in as many different ways, they were finally finished with her.
When she and Stan were the only two left in the room, Jill leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. Thankfully, Allie had brought her a change of clothes, and her hair had dried, but she felt bone-weary and wanted desperately to go home.
“So are you considering representing him?” Stan asked quietly.
“No,” she said. “How can you ask that?”
“I know you,” Stan said. “That, and the fact that he’s still telling everybody that you’re his lawyer. He’s refusing to answer any questions until you’re present.”
She looked up at the ceiling and rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe this. I told him that I’d represent him, just so he’d let me go. Surely he doesn’t really think…” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Stan, there’s got to be another lawyer in town who would represent him.”
“There are only two, Jill. You know that. Frank Manning just passed the bar, and he’s doing mostly contract work. Then there’s Clive Martin. I guess he could represent him, but Ingalls wants you.”
Jill was beginning to get angry, and she narrowed her eyes at Stan. “Don’t you think it’s a conflict of interest? I mean, how hard am I gonna fight for a guy who held a gun to my head and kept me hostage for hours?”
“That’s what I tried to tell him,” Stan said. “And no, I don’t think you should. I was just asking.”
She threw up her hands, got up, and went to the window. It was too dark to see anything on the outside, but raindrops still ran in rivulets down the glass. “I’d be afraid that if he didn’t like the way things were going, he’d grab me around the neck and start making demands.”
“I don’t blame you,” Stan said. “It would be hard.”
“Hard?” she asked. “That’s an understatement.” Her eyes filled with tears and she motioned in the direction of the post office. “I got Dan to drive me by the post office on the way home. I can’t believe the devastation. People are dead, Stan. This guy probably did it. I don’t care what he says. I can’t represent a person who might have done a thing like that.”
“You don’t have to.”
She breathed in a deep breath and let it out in a huff, then slapped both hands on the table. “Then why are you badgering me about it?”
“Badgering you?” He breathed a laugh. “Why do you think I’m badgering you? I just asked you a question.”
“You think I should keep my word, don’t you? You think, since I told him I’d represent him, that I should do it.” Her face was reddening.
“No, I don’t, Jill.” He leaned forward on the table. “Look, I think you need some rest.”
“Don’t condescend to me,” she bit out. “Don’t treat me like some distraught woman who’s changed her mind! I have reasons. Valid reasons.”
He was getting angry himself. “For what?”
“For not keeping my word!”
Stan looked as if he didn’t know what to say to her. “Jill, you’re putting words in my mouth. I’m not condescending, but I’m also not gonna sit here and let you chew me out for things I didn’t say or think.”
She wilted. “I’m sorry.” She looked up at him across the table. “Okay? I’m really sorry. I’m just very tired.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Yeah, that is what you said.” She took a deep breath. “So can I go home now? I’m exhausted, and I have to get up early tomorrow. I have to go back to Chalmette to take some more depositions.”
“I wish you’d stay in town in case we have more questions.”
“What could you possibly have questions about? I’ve given you a play-by-play of every minute he had me in there. I have work to do, and I’m not gonna let some terrorist get in my way.”
“All right, all right,” Stan said. “I’ll call your secretary if I need you. She’ll be able to get in touch with you?”
“O
f course. If Sheila can’t find me, she hunts me down like an animal just for the sport of it.”
He wasn’t amused. He just stared at her with serious eyes. “Jill, at the risk of sounding “condescending,’ let me take off my cop hat for a minute and put on my friend hat. You know, you could stand to rest tomorrow. This is one of those days when no one would fault you—”
“Stan, I appreciate your concern, but I have to be there tomorrow.” She was growing more and more exhausted, and her head was beginning to ache. “I’m going home now, okay?”
He nodded and got up. “We’ll call if we have any more questions.”
“Yeah,” she said without much enthusiasm. “You do that.”
“You sure you’re all right?”
“Yep. Nothing a couple of Tylenol and a soak in a hot bath won’t cure.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
But neither the Tylenol nor the hot bath helped Jill to sleep that night. She kept having nightmares of a man bursting through her closet door with a rifle aimed at her face. A man leaving a box in her home, a box that exploded as soon as she discovered it. A man pulling her up from a deep sleep and attacking her.
She woke up for the fourth time, covered in sweat and trembling, and finally realized that she wasn’t going to rest tonight. She sat up in her bed and looked wearily around at the shadows cast by clothes hanging over her chair and draped over her exercise bike. She’d been keeping so busy that she hadn’t hung anything in her closet in days. Now each draped outfit looked like a crazed terrorist waiting to attack. She got up and turned on the lights as she went through the house, looking behind doors and in closets, making sure no one was lurking there, waiting to jump out and ambush her. Even as she did so, she realized the silliness of all this fear. She was not the type to be paranoid, yet something she had never expected to happen to her had happened today. It wasn’t something she could get over easily.
Her den was somewhat neater than her bedroom, though old, unread newspapers lay rolled on the floor beside the couch, and unopened mail was stacked on the coffee table. She sat down on the couch, staring at the wall, trying to analyze her feelings. She was a mature adult, she told herself. A lawyer. She dealt with frightening people all the time. What was different about this?