The Guardian Read online

  But her senses could only take so much. With a cry of ecstasy, she gave into the current that swept her toward the brink of release. At Jackson’s answering growl, they plummeted over the edge together, crashing into a pool of bliss where they sank deep beneath the surface, pummeled by pleasure, until they floated gently toward shore, secure in the circle of each other’s arms.

  Peering through her lashes, Lena was almost surprised to find herself in the same place as where they’d been twenty minutes ago, though the room was distinctly warmer and perfumed with the scent of sex. Jackson’s stunned and blown-away expression had to be a mirror reflection of her own.

  What they’d shared had been sublimely, frighteningly perfect.

  With tender fingers, he brushed a damp tendril from her cheek. His heavy sigh seemed to correlate with the pressure that descended suddenly on her chest. She didn’t want to leave him, was terrified to let him waltz back into Gateway knowing his safety now rested in her hands. What if Peter refused to tell her before he went public? “I’m scared for us both,” she admitted.

  His arms tightened around her, holding her more securely. “It’s not too late for you to go home,” he reminded her.

  “And leave you here alone? I don’t think so.”

  “As long as you tell us when your boss takes his story public, I’ll be fine. You’re the one who’s in danger here.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she tossed back, using the same words.

  They lapsed into quiet, an uneasy truce between them.

  “What are you most afraid of, Jackson?” she asked, her fear getting the better of her, ruling the words that slipped off her tongue.

  He drew a deep breath then let it out all at once. “You really want to know?

  “Yes.” She wanted to know everything there was to know about him, to carry those details around in her head like love letters to be taken out and examined later.

  “All right. I’m terrified of dying in the line of duty. I never used to be afraid of that, and it makes me sound like a coward.”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “What would Naomi do without you?”

  “Exactly. I should put my family first.”

  A warm gush of emotion filled Lena’s heart and sent tears rushing into her eyes. She had never fallen in love before, but if she had, she imagined it would feel like this.

  The unmistakable thump of a car door closing caused them both to start. “Naomi’s grandmother’s back.” Jackson’s tone was gruff with reluctance.

  The tears in Lena’s eyes abruptly dried.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her, reading her expression of chagrin accurately as he scrambled from the bed. “I’ll go talk to her.” Rifling through his drawers, he produced a pair of drawstring pants and T-shirt. “You can wear these home,” he said. He snatched his swim trunks off the floor, dropped a swift kiss on her forehead, and headed for the door. As he crossed the hall into the bathroom, Lena dressed in his overly large clothing, rolling up the pants and tucking in the voluminous T-shirt.

  She heard him retreat down the hallway and speak to the grandmother in the kitchen. Feeling awkward and uncertain, she gathered up her damp clothes, took a deep breath, and walked through the living room into the kitchen.

  The middle-aged woman standing at the counter looked up at her and beamed. “Here she is,” she exclaimed, taking in Lena’s flushed dishevelment without so much as a blink.

  Bemused, Lena allowed herself to be hugged as Jackson introduced them. “Silvia, this is Magdalena. Lena, this is Naomi’s grandmother.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Lena murmured. Her face felt like it was on fire. She glanced at the kitchen clock, “but I do have to get going.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Jackson volunteered. Having grabbed her sandals from where she’d left them by the sliding doors, he placed them by her feet.

  “Hope to see you again soon,” Silvia called as they passed back through the kitchen and out the door there.

  “You will,” Jackson said on Lena’s behalf.

  In comfortable silence, they crossed to her Jaguar. Lena unlocked the doors remotely.

  Warm air wafted out as he opened her driver’s side door. “Make sure you have Toby’s number,” Jackson reminded her.

  Toby had called her cell so she’d have his number on her caller ID. Reaching into the car, she pulled her phone from her purse. “Area code 202?”

  “That’s him.”

  Glancing up, Lena caught Jackson studying her intently. The feelings that had overpowered her earlier rose up in her again, and she took a quick step toward him, laying her cheek against his chest to hide her surfaced emotions. His arms folded tenderly around her. I could just stay right here, she reflected.

  “Remember what you promised me,” he rumbled overhead.

  He had made her promise that they would be together again; that she’d be careful.

  “I won’t forget.” Forcing a smile, she eased away from him and slipped into her car. Despite the heat in the vehicle a chill formed on the top of her head as she realized she’d be facing her sister’s killer in just two days.

  It’ll be fine, she told herself. She’d made Jackson a promise, and she intended to keep it.

  **

  As the wail of a siren penetrated the glass in the cafeteria windows, the parolees and imams looked up from their bowls of lentil soup. The interruption wrested Jackson from memories of the extraordinary contentment he’d experienced yesterday, memories that caused him to get lost in abstraction when he could least afford it. He realized now that the fire marshal had arrived for their surprise inspection. The time had come to search Zakariya’s office.

  With identical frowns of confusion, the imams rose from their table and hurried outside to investigate. The parolees all looked at one another then abandoned their own lunch to follow them.

  This is it, Jackson told himself.

  Dawdling, he was the last to reach the exit. Instead of heading outside, he doubled back and hastened to Zakariya’s office. The door was shut but thankfully unlocked, saving him the hassle of having to pick the lock.

  Slipping into the sunlit office, Jackson shut the door and looked around. Unlike Ibrahim’s office, Zakariya’s personal space was cluttered with books and paperwork. Finding the evidence he sought would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Through the window blinds, the red lights cast by the fire truck glittered on the shed’s new shingles where the roof rose over the flat-roofed dormitory. The reassuring sight encouraged him to sift carefully through the paperwork piled on Zakariya’s desk. Finding nothing of interest there, he pawed through the drawers and came across a letter which made reference to “a struggle.” There were receipts from the purchase of what looked like ammunition and a rental agreement between Zakariya and a storage facility in Washington D.C. More propane tanks might be stockpiled there.

  Making a quick decision to copy the evidence onto one sheet so he could hide it inside his pocket, Jackson crossed to the copy machine. A glance outside prompted a spike of alarm. The reflection of red lights on the shed’s roof had disappeared. Either the fire trucks had left already or they leaving were soon.

  Lifting the lid of the copier, he went to place the originals on the glass, removing the sheet that was already there. He laid the bits of paperwork face down, closed the copier, and hit start. Only then did he glance at the paper in his hands, and did a wide-eyed double take.

  Yes! He was looking at a list of forty names, one of which immediately caught his eye: Mr. Ali Rakeem, Country Club Way, Unit 1000. Every other name was also listed with an address and an apartment number beginning with the #1. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  As the copier spit out a shingle sheet, he overheard voices nearing the mosque. He threw open the lid, swiped up the originals and made a quick copy of the list of names while he stuffed the evidence haphazardly back into Zakariya’s desk. As he passed the copier en route to the door, he snatched up the
two copies he’d made and slid them up inside his T-shirt.

  He had just enough time to dart down the hall before the corridor filled with voices.

  “Abdul,” Imam Ibrahim reprimanded, catching sight of him. “Where have you been?”

  Jackson swiveled, holding his hand over his stomach to keep the paperwork in place. “I had to use the bathroom,” he replied. “I think the soup disagrees with me.”

  The cleric’s suspicion visibly eased as he glanced at Jackson’s hand. “Are you still unwell?”

  “I feel a little better.” Having discovered the destination of the propane tanks, he actually felt better than he had in a very long time.

  **

  Catching sight of several parolees crossing Artie’s parking lot, their voices raised in excited chatter, Lena handed Seth his daily scratch-ticket and took his payment. A second glance out the front windows confirmed that Jackson was not among the men ambling defiantly past Deputy Doug Hazelwood’s cruiser. Beating back her disappointment, she bid Seth a fine evening.

  “Sorry for the other night,” he muttered. “I don’t usually drink.”

  She dragged her attention from the window. “That’s fine. You don’t owe me an apology, Seth. In fact, I’m glad you shared what was troubling you.” If he hadn’t stated his lamentations last night, she might never have taken the initiative to warn Jackson about his cover being blown. It was because of Seth that she’d given Jackson a heads-up. Plus she’d secured Peter’s promise to give her twenty-four hours, before publishing his exposé.

  Seth frowned, obviously trying to remember what he’d said to her.

  In the next instant, Muhammed, Shahid, Hasan, Jamal, Davis and Corey all tumbled into the store, still snickering over some snide comment about the deputy, who openly glowered at them.

  “Hey, Miz Maggie.” Muhammed was the first to salute her, showing every tooth in his mouth when he smiled.

  Seth had stiffened at their entrance. With a suspicious look on his face, he slid to one side of the counter and started scratching away on his ticket, something he had never done before. It occurred to Lena that he was reluctant to leave her alone with the parolees. How sweet was that?

  “Hi, fellas,” she said, taking note of their contented expressions. “What’s going on? You all look like you won the lottery or something.”

  Muhammed held up a hand, showing her a shiny black cell phone. “Look what we all got today.” If possible, his smile widened.

  “They gave you new cell phones?”

  “Sho’nuff. Now we can give you our phone numbers, and you call us, you know, when you need more for the book.”

  “Okay.” She’d had no intention of calling any of them, except maybe Corey to whom she felt she owed an explanation for defaulting on her promise. All the same, she laid a sheet of paper and a pen on the counter. “Go ahead and jot your numbers down,” she said, handing the pen to Corey first as she expressly wanted his number.

  “Muhammed hopes you gonna call him up and ask him out,” Shahid mocked as Corey handed Muhammed the pen to go next.

  “Man, shut up. I never said nothin’ like that.” Muhammed scribbled down his new number.

  “Both of you boys talk too much,” Davis interrupted, snatching the pen from Muhammed’s grasp.

  At the sound of his deep voice, Seth’s head swiveled in his direction. His face drained of color and his green-as-grass eyes bugged as he staggered back a step or two. Then, without a word, he turned and bolted out the door, leaving his scratch-off ticket on the counter.

  “Seth, your ticket!” Lena called, but he was already halfway across the parking lot, and Deputy Doug was climbing out of his cruiser with a strange look on his face.

  “What the fuck’s his problem?” Davis demanded, shoving the pen at Hasan.

  “Now, look what you done,” Muhammed groused. “Cop thinks you done chased him off.”

  “I didn’t do shit.”

  Hasan and Shahid had just finished jotting down their numbers when Deputy Doug swept into the building, setting off the chime. Raking a critical look over the motley crew, he planted his feet apart, crossed his arms over his protruding belly and asked, “Everything okay in here, gentlemen? Maggie?”

  “Of course,” Lena said brightly. “The men were just showing me their new cell phones.”

  “I think they’ve lingered long enough.” The deputy hooked his thumbs in his pockets, putting his right hand conveniently close to his pistol.

  Honestly, that was fine with her. Corey should have come over alone for his interview. But it was unusual for the deputy to interfere when the parolees loitered in the store just to chat. Tonight, though, he obviously intended to chase them all out.

  “Well, you guys heard him,” she said. “Off you go. I’ll see you soon enough.” Catching Corey’s eye, she leaned across the counter to whisper, “I’ll call you to reschedule.”

  “Shoot, we ain’t no threat to Miz Maggie,” Muhammed protested as he swaggered past the cop.

  Deputy Doug’s response was to rest his hand casually on his gun holster.

  Grumbling under their breath, all six men filed outside, brought up at the rear by Corey. It was Davis who looked back, though, shooting her and the officer a suspicious look.

  “Go ahead and fetch your keys,” Deputy Doug instructed quietly. “I want you to lock up now and stay that way till my replacement shows up.”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “My wife’s been in an accident. I need to get to the hospital,” he said without inflexion.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Feeling beneath the counter, Lena located the keys.

  With the deputy standing outside the building, she locked the doors from within. “I hope your wife’s okay,” she called through the glass. He tipped her a tight-lipped nod, hurried toward his car, and sped away.

  It was only quarter to eight on a Monday night, and she’d heard nothing to indicate when the deputy’s replacement might show up. In the meantime, unable to meet customers’ needs, she dimmed the lights at the front of the store, leaving the neon sign over the highway illumined so that customers with credit cards could still buy gas. Then she looked around for something to do. She could spend the time restocking the refrigerators and searching for the video file that she’d apparently misplaced on the store’s computer.

  With a tingle of anticipation, it occurred to her that tonight would be the perfect opportunity for Jackson to swing by for an evening tryst. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him since yesterday. While that was scarcely more than twenty-four hours ago, time had slowed to a crawl since. It felt like days since she’d last felt his arms around her.

  Cristemou, if she weren’t convinced she wasn’t the type to easily give her heart away, she might have to conclude that she was already deeply in love with the man.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two hours later, it dawned on Lena that the videos she’d saved on Artie’s computer weren’t missing; they’d been removed by either Jackson or his colleague. As much as she cared for the man, he had routed her efforts at every turn! With a groan of annoyance, she threw herself out of the chair and went to the front of the store to count the money in the register.

  The view out the windows displayed brightly lit gas pumps and an empty parking lot. Deputy Hazelwood’s replacement had never shown up, and neither had Jackson. With his cover already in jeopardy, she figured he couldn’t afford to violate curfew; still, she viewed this as a wasted opportunity.

  Doubts percolated in her mind. What if Jackson didn’t feel the same intense yearning to be with her as she felt for him? The possibility paralyzed her until she recalled that he’d wanted her to promise their time together wouldn’t be the last. Her fear dissolved into mere disappointment.

  By the time she finished counting and bagging the cash, it was 10 P.M. The Gateway campus stood entirely in darkness. With little hope that Jackson might still show up after curfew, she made up her mind to leave the store when
a quiet knock at the service entrance made her heart leap with joy.

  Dropping the money bag on the counter, Lena smoothed the sundress she had worn just in case Jackson came to visit and flew through the back room to let him in.

  A quick peek through the peep hole revealed his dark, powerful silhouette. With the blood singing through her veins, she unlocked the door and pushed it wide open. Her welcoming smile froze into a grimace of terror as she recognized Davis, not Jackson, standing like a dark specter in the alleyway.

  “Wh-what are you doing here, Sulayman?” Her voice came out high and thin.

  “You expectin’ someone else?” he accused.

  “No. No, of course not. I just . . . came to see who was knocking. What do you want?”

  “What’chu think I want? I figured since that cop ain’t comin’ back, you should interview me tonight.”

  “Tonight?” She tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. Was he serious about the interview or was he planning to attack her? “I really can’t. I-uh-I left my laptop at home and all my questions and my notes are on it,” she said, speaking faster than she could think.

  “You’ll make do.” With that prediction, he bulldozed his way inside, forcing her to scuttle back while blocking her only exit. As he took a good look around, she fought desperately to rein in her runway panic.

  My God, I’m alone with my sister’s killer and no cop outside!

  Common sense advised her to arm herself and to keep calm. Like the predator he was, Davis would sense her fear if she let it get the best of her. “Fine, you want to do this now?” she said more firmly. “Wait right here. I need to get a notebook.”

  As she hurried up front, her gaze traveled longingly to the front doors. Either she could slip out that way like a coward, or she could interview Davis now and get what she’d come to Mechanicsville for.