Reluctant Witness (8 page)

“Marigold, did you hear any of that
exchange?” he asked me in hushed tones. I nodded.

“Most of it,” I whispered.

“Crawl out here, but don’t stand up.”

I did as I was asked, pulling my tote bag
behind me. The only lights came from the living room below, but I
could see Jack wasn’t alone. I sat up.

“This is FBI Special Agent Lincoln Cornwall,
my little brother. I asked him to come here and help us figure this
out.”

“Younger brother,” he corrected Jack. “I’m
temporarily assigned to a task force in the New York field office.
I did some checking when Phil called me, and what I saw caused some
consternation. My boss asked me to coordinate this.”

I nodded, suddenly understanding why
Inspector Vidal didn’t call the FBI; the agency was already
involved, through back channels.

“Hi,” I took the hand he stretched out to me.
His grip was gentler than his older brother’s, but I had little
doubt he shared that same tenacity.

“Do you know this guy, Ron?” He held out his
Smartphone and showed me a photo of a stranger.

“No, I don’t think so. His voice didn’t sound
familiar.”

“Listen, this mess with the Providence cops
is more complicated than we thought, and with the assaults on
current and retired marshals, we’re trying to figure out whether
there’s a leak in that agency. We can’t put you back in the WitSec
program until we know you’ll actually be safe. Can you understand
that?”

Ever since Tovar was shot, I couldn’t shake
the feeling that I had a better chance of surviving on my own.
Lincoln Cornwall put those worries into words that finally made
sense of all the madness. There was something very wrong at the
Marshals Service and it could be very dangerous.

“Yes,” I admitted. “But I don’t think I know
anything more about what happened.”

“You let me worry about that, okay? In the
meantime, we have to scramble. It won’t take that creep long to run
a check on Jack and find out I’m FBI.”

“So,” I asked expectantly, “what happens
next?”

“We’re going to sneak you out of here, but
first we’ve got some work to do.”

“What kind of work?”

I found out when the two men led me down the
dark stairs and into the bathroom. As the light went on, I looked
around. There was a stacked washer and dryer unit and a large
walk-in shower on the wall to my left, and a single sink and toilet
on my right. Straight ahead was a wall with a single window, its
shade drawn.

“Pull up a chair. Let’s see what’s going on
under the gauze,” Lincoln suggested, closing the lid of the toilet
seat.

My ear was now throbbing, and I was overdue
for my medications by several hours. I sat and let Lincoln examine
me. With a light touch, the FBI agent moved my long, auburn hair
out of the way and carefully removed the bandage.

“Ooh!” I moaned as his fingers brushed
against the wound. Jack leaned over his younger brother’s shoulder
to take a look. When he grimaced, I knew it wasn’t good news he was
keeping from me.

“You want something to take the edge off the
pain?” the state trooper asked me. I nodded. “Let me read those
discharge instructions from the hospital again, so I can figure out
which pills I’m supposed to give you.”

He disappeared down the hallway as his
younger brother got busy. Lincoln took a first aid kit from the
medicine cabinet.

“It looks inflamed, but you’re not supposed
to get it wet yet. I’ll put a new gauze pad on there. Philomena
said we should be careful when we put a hat on you because you have
stitches on top of stitches.” He gently attached a gauze pad over
my ear with some paper tape. I bit my lower lip, fighting the urge
to cry out. “That will have to do. I’m afraid I’m not much of a
country doctor.”

Jack handed me a glass of water and shoved
three different pills at me. I took them one by one, letting the
cool water carry each of them down my throat. I hadn’t realized how
thirsty I was, and once I started drinking, I had to finish what
was left in the glass. Lincoln waited until I had downed it before
he spoke again.

“We’ve got to disguise you, so don’t expect
to look glamorous.”

“Not a problem. Better to stay alive as an
ugly duckling than die as a beauty.”

“That’s a good attitude to have, because this
ain’t gonna be pretty,” he laughed.

Jack left us for a few moments, returning
with a pile of ski clothes. He handed me a pair of navy nylon ski
pants, thickly quilted on the inside for warmth, and a
navy-and-yellow North Face down-filled parka. I don’t know what I
was expecting to wear for my transformation, but it surely wasn’t
this outfit.

“Sorry, kid. You have to wear the Patty
Porker clothes, so you look like you’ve got some bulk to you. Seems
a shame to turn you into a Butterball turkey, but it’s for your own
good.”

“Great,” I rolled my eyes, trying to find my
sense of humor. It seemed to be missing. I pulled on the padded
pants. “I feel like I just gained twenty pounds.”

“You look it, too,” Lincoln agreed,
satisfied. “No one’s likely to recognize you in that get-up.”

The K-9 cop held up a thick, dark object
covered in some sort of woven fabric. I had no idea what it
was.

“Marigold, I need you to wear a vest, just in
case anyone decides to take a shot at you. Not that anyone will,”
Jack quickly added. How could he be so sure? And then I remembered
I was worth more to the bad guys alive than dead. Is that why the
hired killers let me live?

The men helped me into the Kevlar contraption
and fastened the Velcro straps. It was bulky, just slightly less
annoying than a life preserver, but definitely more useful on dry
land for someone like me. By the time the big ski parka went on, I
was feeling like the Michelin Man.

Lincoln had a handful of ski hats to choose
from, and he selected a silver faux fur one that he tied under my
chin.

“There. Beautiful. You look
just like Lara in
Dr.
Zhivago
. ” He took a step back, looked at
me from several different angles, and declared me unrecognizable.
“Jack, can you see that bandage?”

“Nope. The fake fur takes care of that.”

“In that case, we’re ready.”

“I’ll get the guys coordinated. The buzz
phrase is ‘stormy weather’, Lincoln Log.”

“Roger that, Cracker Jack,” the FBI agent
told his brother. “Be safe.”

“You too. And good luck to you, Marigold. I
hope it all works out for you.”

“Thanks...for everything.” I put out my hand
and he shook it, his grasp still remarkably firm. Brutus came up
for a nose rub and a scratch behind the ear. “Good dog.”

Three minutes later, Lincoln and I were
huddled by the back door, waiting for our signal. Jack was on the
front deck, observing the slope down to the road. His men had
scattered just before Ron arrived at the door; once he stormed out
of the house, two of them followed him. The others were positioned
around the property, to make sure Ron hadn’t left a colleague, or
worse, another hit man behind.

“We’re going to do some walking. The snow’s
starting to come down, so it will hide our tracks rather quickly.
Ready?” asked the FBI agent.

“Ready.”

The moon was barely visible as the big flakes
floated down from the heavens. Lincoln led me up the hill behind
the chalet and we crossed into the yard belonging to the closest
next-door neighbor. From there, we moved on to the next yard, and
then the next, weaving our way west. When we reached a side street,
we headed down the hill towards the main road. About a hundred
yards ahead, I saw a snow-dusted car. Lincoln leaned over to
me.

“Not to worry. That’s our getaway vehicle,
Marigold. “One of the guys has been sitting on it for us. Are you a
decent driver?”

“I guess so,” I responded.

“Then you take the first shift at the
wheel.”

A moment later, I was sitting in the driver’s
seat of a dark VW Jetta and Lincoln was encouraging me to start the
engine.

“I’ve got to take you away from here. Right
now, my job is to make sure we’re not being followed. I’ll give you
directions as we go.”

Chapter Eight

We were on the road for what remained of the
night. Overheated, I soon shed the ski parka and hat, and unzipped
the ski pants from the ankles all the way up to the knees.

By the time we hit the Garden State Parkway a
couple of hours later, I figured out we were heading for the Jersey
Shore. Thankfully, the traffic was light, due to the four inches of
snow that fell. Lincoln spent much of his time watching the action
in the passenger side mirror.

We stopped for coffee at a Dunkin Donuts just
before we got to Atlantic City. Feeling stiff after so much time
sitting in the car, I yawned and stretched. My body was too aware
of every bruise, every muscle ache accumulated over the last two
days, and my ear, hot to the touch, throbbed with pain.

“Don’t forget your hat,” he reminded me,
handing me the faux fur cap. With a grimace, I pulled it over my
sore ear again.

In these last few hours before the dawn,
there were few customers. We passed another couple as we entered
the coffee shop. Handing me a tote bag, Lincoln urged me to change
my clothes in the ladies room.

Once ensconced in a stall, I found a pair of
black stretch leggings inside the canvas bag. Hardly glamorous, but
at least they were a little more stylish than the ski pants I wore.
There was also a black wool poncho in the bag, a great improvement
over the down jacket. I pulled it over the Kevlar vest before I
slipped my feet back into the police-issued, black rubber-soled
shoes and socks before I put the faux fur hat back on.

Lincoln was at a small table in the
glass-fronted coffee shop, watching the action in the parking lot.
Most customers used the drive-up window, picking up their to-go
orders, so we were by ourselves as we sat eating our egg
sandwiches, juice, and coffee.

“How are you holding up?” he wanted to
know.

“Fair to middling,” I answered, giving him a
tired smile. “It’s been a long day and night.”

“I’m sure. We’re almost there, Sleepy Beauty.
Atlantic City is just down the road.”

“That sounds good to me,” I admitted, yawning
again. My eyelids had grown heavy.

It was my first trip to the legendary
oceanfront gambling Mecca and I had no idea what to expect. As he
took over the driving duties for the last ten miles, Lincoln
promised we’d get a hotel room and settle in for some well-deserved
sleep.

He found us a spot in a covered parking
garage by a high-rise hotel and we took the elevator to the main
hotel lobby. People wandered in and out, casino zombies with dull
eyes, jaded by their long hours at the slot machines.

“Room 837,” the clerk announced, sliding the
electronic room keys across the counter. “Take the elevators to
your left. You’re on the concierge floor.”

“Good, good,” Lincoln nodded, nudging me
forward. “Come on, Suzy. We have just enough time to get a nap
before we hit the casino floor.”

For a split second, my mind
tried to process the name.
Suzy.
In my exhausted state, it took time to realize he
was talking to me.

The elevator glistened with tinted mirror
panels on the walls and purple Berber carpeting, tinged with flecks
of gold, red, green, and blue, on the floor. When the doors opened
on the eighth floor, we spilled out onto a vividly patterned carpet
in a similar color palette, but this looked like casino decor by
Picasso. Wild scribbles and child-like figures danced across the
hallway in a wide swath. We followed the path to the concierge
desk, where a young woman sat at reading. When she noticed our
approach, she slowly stood up and activated the computer screen on
the upper counter.

“May I help you?”

“We’re in Room 837,” my companion told
her.

“This way, please,” was her reply as she came
around to meet us. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt, a purple
vest, black tie, and black slacks. Her name tag identified her as
Mindy.

We walked down an overly long hall, all the
way to the end, and then continued down another hallway to the
right. At the seventh door down on the left, we stopped. Mindy
waited for Lincoln to swipe the card through the electronic lock,
and once she heard that automatic click, she pushed the lever down
and opened our door.

I gazed around at my temporary quarters. The
room was dressed with pearl gray walls with contemporary
furnishings that were a little too sterile for my taste. On the
double beds were woven coverlets in a contemporary pattern of
pewter gray, black, and blue. A large-screened flat TV was mounted
on the wall opposite the double beds. By a picture window that
afforded an early morning view of the high-rise coastline sat a
pair of blue club chairs. When Lincoln pulled the blue and silver
drapes, shutting out the emerging sun, the room was instantly
transformed into a sleep cave. I was ready to hibernate for at
least twenty-four hours.

“Here is your remote control for the
television,” Mindy told us, as she began a short tour around the
room, moving from the dresser to the built-in kitchenette by the
bathroom. “You have a coffeemaker and refrigerator over here.
Please let me know if you need anything. I’ll be happy to assist
you.”

The red button she pointed to by the door was
marked “concierge service”. It seemed simple enough to use.

“Thanks,” Lincoln told her as he moved to see
her out, but she wasn’t done with us yet.

“Would you like breakfast in bed? We serve
until ten. We also have a small dining room right by the elevator,
if you prefer that.”

“Right now, I think we just want to get some
sleep, Mindy. It’s been a long night of driving to get here.”