Author's Note: Finally updated! I was so caught up with finishing Mariel3's story, Too Good To Be True, I got distracted. (a GREAT read, if you haven't already) All right, hope everyone enjoys. I'm over this block of uncertainty I'd been stuck on in reference to what I was going to do with the storyline, but everything's resolved, my outline is finally drafted, and all I have to do now is get it down on paper. Thanks for all the support.
Jack sat across a scratched mahogany desk from a man in his early fifties wearing a white lab coat and rectangular, rimless bifocals. The president of St. Joseph's watched as the FBI agent flipped through the slim vanilla folder containing Mrs. Grace Romero's file before clearing his throat gruffly.
"If there's anything else I can do," the president added as they rose simultaneously. Jack nodded and offered him his card.
"Thanks for your cooperation," he mumbled, obviously thinking of something else. "My personal line's on the back." Jack looked down at the surprisingly thin folder and shook his head. "You're sure this is all the history you have of Mrs. Romero's duration here? Six months is quite a bit of time…"
"Like I said, Mrs. Romero was the ideal patient," the doctor answered with a shrug. "Never gave us any trouble, just typical withdrawal behavior. That's why there was such little fuss over her transfer to New York."
They fell silent for a moment before Jack stretched out his hand. The president shook it firmly once. "Best of luck, Mr. Malone. Mrs. Romero and her childrens' safety is the first thing on all of our minds."
"Of course," Jack responded and withdrew his hand after another second. "We'll be in touch."
As soon as he left the office and walked down an ashy-white hallway to the main lobby, Jack exhaled deeply and tucked the file under his arm. Someone wasn't coming clean, and he hated being led on. When it came to endangered lives, he was not a patient man. Just as he was about to flip open his cell phone to call Samantha's hotel room to check in, a voice called him from behind.
"Mr. Malone!" Jack turned and frowned to see someone running toward him in the distance. The figure morphed into a young medical assistant whom Jack vaguely remembered greeting earlier that morning. "I waited until you were outside the walls before coming up to you, sorry. You never know who's listening until you're fired a week later for opening your mouth."
"Why would you be fired?" Jack asked, his eyes lowering to a battered briefcase in the man's left hand. "What's that?"
"That would be why I'd be fired," the young man answered sheepishly. "I told them you'd left your briefcase. Inside, I put Mrs. Romero's file—her real file—behind the leather backing." Jack looked up, scrutinizing the doctor's character. "There's some stuff the president wouldn't want getting out, but I'm more concerned with Grace's life than some fake pretense."
"I'll take a look at it," the FBI agent said, smoothly relieving the man of his burden. "Should I—do you want my card?"
The doctor shook his head, already backing away. "No, no, I think I'm as involved as I want to be, Mr. Malone. But thanks." He paused briefly. "Just—be careful with her. She's not what people think she is."
Jack slunk back into his car and slammed the door shut, sliding the briefcase under the passenger side seat. It would be too dangerous to investigate it now. Instead, he tossed the thin file on the backseat and took out his cell phone again. His thumb hovered over Sam's speed dial button before switching to a different number. Plugging the phone into the outlet at the lighter, he hit the speaker button and pulled out of the driveway.
"This is Johnson."
"Hey, Viv. It's Jack. How's it going?" He spared the small talk; Vivian would understand his abruptness.
"Okay, we've got about three eyewitnesses from Central Park who saw the girls and a large dog late Saturday around midnight. The blonde girl, Jessica, seemed to be hunched over her stomach, but they were almost running and so no one stopped them."
Jack recorded mental notes. "Did we get anything off of the Dominican Academy?"
"Well, the teachers had nothing but good things to say about the girls, even Tallulah, the younger one, who we all thought was a trouble-maker. Jessica's boyfriend hangs around a lot, but so do the boyfriends of all the other girls who go there."
"What do we know about him?
"Jeremy? Quiet, kind of sulky. Seems like a shady character, but Martin checked his record when he picked him for marijuana possession and other than that, he's clean."
"Uh-huh," Jack murmured.
"You don't sound convinced." He smirked.
"I'm not. What about Mrs. Romero? She give us anything worthwhile about her situation?" He heard Viv sigh through the line.
"Just sputtering and crying about her babies," Vivian answered. "I don't know, Jack. She seems to be taking it pretty hard. Almost like she's feeling guilty."
"Could she be trafficking?"
"Drugs? I don't know. Danny's questioning her now and Martin drove down to the rehab center to see what her status is like right now." Vivian paused. "Samantha with you?"
"Uh, no, she's sick."
"Sick?"
"You know, throwing up, fever, headache…" Jack squinted through a light drizzle that had begun to fall and flicked on the windshield wipers. "I feel bad dragging her down here. If I'd known she was coming down with something…"
"She'll be fine. She's tough." There was a heavy silence as the rain interrupted their connection slightly. "How about you, are you doing all—" Vivian was cut off by Jack's sudden yell and swearing as she heard breaks screeching and a horn blare. "Jack? Jack! Can you hear me?"
"Son of a bitch…" Her boss muttered moments later, "Some idiot just sped out of a garage and nearly hit me head on! God, and people say New Yorkers can't drive."
Vivian laughed nervously. "Right. Be careful, Jack. We'll call you if we get an update."
He hung up the phone and got out of the car, not bothering to grab his umbrella, and went to the front of the car to check for damage. He'd veered into the open garage to avoid the lunatic who almost hit him, and if he had to pay two-hundred bucks if he'd blown a tire or the headlight was busted…
Jack turned suddenly from the car and glanced into the open lean-to garage that he'd pulled into with a crumpled brow. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. He was not a superstitious man by any means, but he trusted whatever supernatural force controlled the sparse hair along the very top of his spine with his life. It was hardly ever anything but spot-on.
His hand moved to the holster at his hip, but instead he grabbed the flashlight from the front seat and walked into the garage, rain splattering against the aluminum roof. The garage was shadowed against the already cloudy sky, but Jack could see several rusted cabinets and chests upon which were piled greasy out-of-use tools and forgotten car parts. But something was grabbing at him, and he could not turn back just yet.
Jack knelt by one of the locked cabinets and examined the thoroughly rusted exterior. His eyes traveled along the porous surface until they came to the padlock binding the doors shut. Brow creased further, he frowned. For such a destroyed remnant, the lock was surprisingly new and heavy-duty, as was the chain on the adjacent chest, and the next. He held out a finger to test the lock.
"Put the flashlight on the cabinet and your holster at your feet." Jack froze and felt his stomach churn within him. The cold, unflinching mouth of a pistol pressed against the back of his neck. "Put the flashlight on the cabinet and your holster at your feet." Jack's mind spun. "I won't say it again, Mr. Malone."
Jack placed his flashlight head up on the cabinet so that a spotlight shone on the mildewy ceiling and slowly unhitched his holster. What were his exits? Where was his pocket knife? How did the man know him? What were his options? His mind was a flurry of trained responses, but the mouth of the gun was insistent and so he shook the thoughts temporarily away.
"Very good. Now, get up." Jack rose to his feet, wincing as his weather-sensitive knee pulled against a tender muscle. He turned around. "Brazen, Mr. Malone. I didn't ask to see your face."
"What do you want?" Jack murmured, his voice calm and level. Beyond the gun, he could see the face of a seventeen-year-old boy with messy black hair and a much pierced face. The boy could tell the agent recognized him.
"Remember me now, Mr. Malone?"
"Where are the girls, Jeremy?" Jack listened to the wheezing laugh that followed and was confronted with a closer view of the handgun.
"They're just fine," Jeremy answered, pushing Jack backwards against a misshapen metal door that he kicked open. "But let's not get to the exciting part just yet, shall we? Now, would you please go through this door and have a seat." The boy yanked on a hanging cord connected to a filthy light bulb and lit the room dimly. Several wooden chairs were assembled around crates doubling as tables were glass plates and bags of white powder were splayed open, their contents spilling onto the surface.
"Jeremy, listen to me…" The boy struck Jack hard across the forehead with the butt of his gun and Jack stumbled into the room, seeing stars.
"Shut up and sit down." Blinking away the black dots from his vision and realizing he had no other choice, he slumped down into a wooden chair. Only then did he realize he was not alone.
Yes, cruel cliffhanger, isn't it? Haha, sorry. Will not be as lazy with follow-up, though. I promise. -LV