Jan Burke - Nine

“Ms. Meghan Taggert’s room, please,” he said.

He walked along the hallway, listening to the sound of the ringing phone. He was trying to decide whether it was 716 or 718, when the ringing stopped.

“Hello?” she said a little breathlessly. Softly.

God, he loved her voice.

Which door? Just say hello again, he willed her silently. He waited, listening, but she hung up.

He moved a little farther away from the doors, called again, and said to the operator, “I’m sorry, I was just talking to one of your guests on my cell phone when I must have hit a dead zone and lost the signal. Could you reconnect us? Her name is Meghan Taggert.”

As the operator made the connection, he moved back to the doors. This time, the phone rang several times before she picked it up.

“Hello?” she said again, almost angrily.

Room 718, then. He hung up and went back down to the lobby. If he hurried, he’d be just in time to watch the press conference.

In her room, Meghan hung up the phone after the second call. She stood up and paced, hugging her arms across her stomach, looking at the phone as if it were a weapon left behind by an invader.

Kit was the only other person who knew she was here.

Be sensible, she told herself.

She called the hotel operator.

“Oh, that was a young gentleman. He didn’t give a name, but he did mention that he was having trouble with his cell phone.”

“Thank you,” Meghan said, feeling relieved.

She turned on the television set. She watched the evening news every night now, expecting an announcement of Gabriel’s capture. Or worse.

The newscaster smiled and said, “Three of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted fugitives have been found murdered in the Los Angeles area. We’ll take you to a live press conference at the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. We’ll have this and other stories when we return.”

She sat down hard on the bed. Not Gabe, she begged silently. Not Gabe.

She thought of the phone calls. Kit must have learned something and called to warn her, to tell her what had happened.

Frederick Whitfield IV finished his club soda slowly. The bar was buzzing with talk of what they had done. He eavesdropped with all the pleasure of a man who is hearing his work praised by strangers.

“Ask me, couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch of folks,” a woman next to him said, and laughed harshly. She was a big blonde and bore all the marks of a heavy drinker. She raised her glass. “Here’s to seven more of them kicking off as soon as possible.”

Frederick obligingly clinked his glass with hers, as did the man on her right. The man was leathery and thin. “Amen to that,” he said in a flat Midwestern accent. “It’s about time the government realized that if they just sit around and coddle these criminals, worrying about their rights, people are going to take matters into their own hands.”

“Jesus, yes,” said another man, two seats down. He had abruptly ended a discussion of baseball with the bartender when the news came on. “It’s not just that. It’s their damned incompetence. People are tired of shivering in their beds, waiting for the cops to figure out how to catch these guys.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” said the leathery man. “The cops catch them, and they have to let them go.”

“Because the ACLU and the courts and all of them are all screwed up,” said the blonde, leaning into him.

“Exactly right, darlin’,” said the baseball fan, and got a wink for being agreeable.

“That one guy killed a family-witnesses,” Frederick said, thinking it was time to add his mite.

The blonde slewed around on her chair to smile at him. “Who needs a son of a bitch like that walking around, right?”

“Right,” said the leathery one, and she slewed back.

“I think they ought to find whoever’s killing them,” the baseball fan said seriously, causing everyone to stare. “And then make him the director of the FBI!” he finished, causing laughter all around.

Frederick laughed harder than any of them.

She could only take so much, Meghan decided. She hated to call Kit again, but after all, he had just tried to reach her. She didn’t bother going down to the lobby. She used her cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Meghan? Are you okay?”

“You heard the press conference?”

“Press conference?” he repeated blankly.

“Oh-I thought that was what you were trying to talk to me about, the last time you called.”

She heard the pause before he asked, “When?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” she said, her voice sounding small, even to her.

There was a silence, then he said, “I haven’t called, Meghan. Someone else knows you’re there.”

She let out a low moan. “Never mind me! They’re going to kill Gabe.”

“Meghan, no-they’ll try to bring him to trial.”

“No! You don’t understand.” She told him about the vigilantes. “I’m here in New Mexico, and those sick bastards are looking for Gabe! They may already have him.”

“Meghan-we’ve got to try to learn more. We can do that in L.A. Until then, there really isn’t much we can do for him.”

Panic started rising. “But if Gabe-”

“Are you forwarding calls from your home phone to your cell?”

It was a practical question. She felt the panic ebb. “No, but I can set that up from here.”

“Good. Do that right away, so Gabe can reach you more easily. Now-we need to think about your safety.”

“I can defend myself.”

“I’d like to believe that, but no one is a one-person fortress,” he said.

“And why be foolish, right?”

“Right. Given these news reports, I think you have to take every sign of danger seriously. You need to make sure no one tries to use you to get to Gabe.”

“Maybe the FBI’s already followed me here.”

“Maybe. If it is the FBI, you’ll be okay. But if it isn’t-” He stopped. “Call hotel security and tell them someone has been trying to break into your room-sticking a card in the key slot, banging on the door. Tell them you are afraid to stay in the room, that you want a new room, and you want an escort from this one to the new one on another floor. Make the hotel security office describe the person who is coming up and don’t open the door to anyone who doesn’t have ID and exactly match that description.”

“Should I just go to another hotel?”

“I already considered that. I think you’d be followed. The Sandia Towers will take care of you, just let them know you want their help. Tell them you got a couple of crank calls just before the problem started. Tell them you don’t want any incoming calls. When you get to your new room, call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to see if I can arrange some additional private security for you until I can get there. In the meantime, you don’t open the door for anyone, and you only answer the cell phone. All right?”

“Yes, all right. Thanks, Kit.”

“Meghan-”

“Yes?”

There was a long pause. “Don’t talk yourself out of doing what I’ve asked you to do. You’ll hang up, you’ll ask yourself if it was all your imagination, or maybe even wonder if you’re causing too much trouble. You won’t be. Promise me-”

“I’ll do everything you asked me to do, Kit.”

“Thanks.”

She called the hotel security office. She found that without any effort at all, she could sound as if she’d been scared out of her wits.

They responded immediately.

Frederick lingered a little longer, unable to tear himself away from the congratulations and good wishes he was receiving-undercover, on behalf of the project-in the bar.

But soon his new comrades were distracted by the sports news, and he bid them adieu. He strolled over to the front desk and waited patiently in line. Normally, he would have been able to use the privileges of those with membership in the frequent guest program. He found himself in the rather novel position of not being catered to, but he felt proud that he had remembered to stand in the not-so-special line.