sure they were indeed destroyed.”
“Oh, yes, they were, Mr. McClendon. Didn’t someone contact you about it?”
“They did.” He glanced at Jessie. She stepped closer and stared at him. Her eyes darkened like storm clouds. “Equipment failure, the person said.”
“I’m afraid all the samples in that particular tank were destroyed. You are eligible for compensation from our insurance carrier.”
He wasn’t interested in insurance. In fact, before today Jake hadn’t been interested in the vials at all. He’d stored them at Cryogen in case the treatment for his Hodgkin’s Disease left him sterile. Since it hadn’t, he had forgotten they even existed. Until he got that call four months ago.
“I need the vial numbers,” he explained to the woman.
“Certainly. I have that right here in the computer.”
He heard the clicking of her fingers on the keys, and made another spot-check on Jessie. Now she was looking around the room. For her gun, no doubt. She wouldn’t find it. Jake had wrapped it in a plastic dry cleaner’s bag and put it in the closet in the bedroom. Later, he wanted someone to check the weapon for fingerprints. That was probably the only way he would find out who she really was.
“Okay, here we are,” the woman finally said. “The vials were numbered consecutively from 6851 through 6855. As I said, they were all destroyed.”
So, there was no 6837. But Jessie Briggs had been damn close. Jake was about to end the call and confront his visitor, when he realized the numbers that the woman gave him only accounted for five vials.
“There were six specimens,” he pointed out.
“Oh, yes. I see what happened. The first vial was the one you originally gave us. The other five were collected later at your physician’s office and then transferred here.”
“And the number on that first vial?”
“Let’s see. That would have been 6837.”
The muscles tightened in his chest. Jake refused to allow himself to react beyond that. This meant nothing. There was a reasonable explanation. All he had to do was find it. “And where is that vial?” he asked.
“I’m afraid it was destroyed also.”
Not according to the woman in his hotel suite. But then, she was obviously a liar. Her story didn’t make a lick of sense. Nobody in his or her right mind would kidnap a woman, inseminate her and then try to kill her. Would they?
No. They wouldn’t.
He hung up the phone to confront his lying visitor. There was just one problem.
She wasn’t there.
And the door to his suite was wide open.
Chapter Two
Adjusting the plastic bag of groceries, Jessie cradled the phone against her shoulder and pushed the coins into the slot. Someone had scratched crude profanity into the black plastic box, and the mouthpiece smelled like dog’s breath. The phone company would not have been pleased. It didn’t exactly please her, either. She tried not to breathe too deeply, knowing the smell would turn her stomach.
She entered the numbers and waited. Not long. As she’d expected, he answered almost immediately. “Detective DuCiel.”
“Byron, it’s me.” Jessie tried to keep her vigilant gaze on everything going on around her. It was rush hour. A little past five o’clock. The traffic crawled down St. Mary’s Street. Horns honked. People hurried on the sidewalk. There was enough activity for her to get lost in the crowd, and she counted heavily on it. Getting lost was the only thing that made sense right now.
“Well, it’s about time you called. You said I might not hear from you for months, but I didn’t believe it.” The relief in Byron’s voice soon turned to a bark. “Where the heck are you, anyway? What happened? I was ready to—”
“I only have a few seconds. It isn’t safe to talk here.” It probably wasn’t safe anywhere, but Jessie didn’t say that.
“Where are you? I’ll come right now.”
“That wouldn’t be smart, for either of us. I just wanted you to know that I’m—” What? Not all right. She wasn’t all right by a long shot. “Alive,” she finished. “I’m alive.” And terrified. She wouldn’t mention that, either, even though Byron would almost certainly hear it in her voice.
“That, I can figure out myself. Why the heck haven’t you called me before now? Jess, it’s been three months.”
“It’s a long story. Too long to get into here. I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“It’s about Christy, isn’t it.”
Just the mention of her friend’s name made Jessie’s heart feel tight and heavy. It was as if a fist had gripped it and wouldn’t let go. Christy had been dead eight months, and the pain was still just as fresh, just as raw as it had been when Byron had come by the apartment to tell her the news. The news that Christy wouldn’t be coming home, ever.
It was so strange. Even though she’d seen her friend’s body, it was still hard to believe Christy was dead. It was hard to believe Jessie would never again hear the laughter that had come so easily to the fun-loving woman that she considered a sister in every way that counted.
“You were asking too many questions about Christy’s death,” Byron concluded. “And someone didn’t like it.”
Maybe. And maybe it had nothing to do with Christy. Jessie just didn’t know. She didn’t have time to speculate out here in the open, where she was a sitting duck. That didn’t mean she was giving up on finding the person responsible for Christy’s death. She would never do that. One way or another, she would get to the bottom of it. It was a promise she’d sworn to Christy, and herself, the day of the funeral.
She pushed the painful memories away, knowing she couldn’t deal with them at the moment. “Listen, Byron, I can’t talk much longer. I need some money, but I’m afraid I’ll be spotted. I want you to do it the way we talked about before I left Austin. Transfer all of it.”
“All of it? Jess, what’s wrong? Let me come and get you right now. Or better yet, go to the nearest police station.”
Jessie ignored that advice. “Please do the money transfer and work out some travel arrangements. I need to disappear for a while. It’ll take—what? Two days? Three?”
“If I do it the way you wanted, it’ll take three. I’ll have to cover my tracks.”
She didn’t tell him how much that scared her. Three days of hiding out. Three days of praying they wouldn’t find her again. “I’ll pick up the money at the location we discussed. I also need you to check out a warehouse here in San Antonio. And be careful. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s on Isom Road, near the airport. It’s sandwiched between two old brownstone buildings.”
“What happened there?” he asked. “Why do you want me to check it out?”
