Jack smiled down at her. “Always, luv.”
At forty-five minutes till the stroke of twelve that night, the entire group, minus Jack and Sam, sat around the kitchen table, satiated and sedated by the food they’d ordered and the long hours they’d been awake.
Clara yawned. And then everyone else did.
No one said anything.
Dylan yawned. And then everyone else did.
“Stop that, you guys. It’s contagious.” Annabelle muttered after she finished yawning. She rubbed her eyes. They felt dry and scratchy and she guessed they were quite red.
“You all head off to sleep. We’ll wake you when we have news.” Sam walked into the kitchen, his cell phone in his hands. He appeared to have just gotten off of it because he closed it, pocketed it, and then reached up into the cabinet for a clean glass.
They all watched him pour water from the faucet and turn around to lean back against the sink as he took a casual sip. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, his stature completely relaxed, awake, and anything but tired. His gray eyes twinkled.
Beatrice shook her head. “No’ bloody likely. We’re waitin’ for Jackie.”
“Yeah,” Clara agreed, stifling yet another yawn. “We’ll wait for da’ to get back.”
Annabelle rubbed the back of her neck, then folded her arms on the table and laid her head down on top of them. She still had a headache from earlier and had only just been able to stop herself from digging into her backpack’s stash of Vicodin for the pain.
“Crap, I shouldn’t have eaten. Now I’ll never be able to stay awake.” Cassie muttered under her breath and joined Annabelle in laying her head down. Annabelle moved her head to glance over at her and then glanced up at Dylan, who sagged further down in his chair.
The boy didn’t say anything, but when he ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his red eyes, Annabelle knew he was on the same wave-length as her friend.
“Bloody traitors,” Clara accused softly, without rancor.
“Oh, what’s the use, dear? Let’s grab some zeds for a few yonks, eh?” Beatrice stood, patting her daughter gently on the arm. Clara blew out a sigh and pushed back her chair, standing as well. They both dragged their feet as they left the kitchen and headed down the hallway toward one of the two rooms in the apartment.
Annabelle raised her head to watch them go. One room down. One room left. Four tired people. She glanced over at Sam to find him watching her. His steady gaze inexplicably caused a shiver to run up her spine.
“Cold?” He asked.
She blinked. Hadn’t Jack asked something like that just recently? Her thoughts were all jumbled. She couldn’t really remember.
She shook her head.
He smiled, took another drink of his water, and then, as if he had been reading her mind, he said, “Other room’s mine, darlin’, but you’re welcome to bed down in it. There’s a daybed in there too. I’ll take the couch.” He put the glass of water down on the sink beside him and crossed his arms over his chest.
She looked over at Cassie, who seemed to be nodding off right there at the table. She nudged her friend.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hmm,” was the half-asleep reply.
“Down the hall, Rip Van Winkle,” she urged gently. “Second door on the left. You and Dylan go take a nap.” She patted her friend’s arm, as Beatrice had done with her daughter.
Cassie nodded against her arms and slowly stood, half-opening her eyes in time to step around her chair and head like a zombie down the dimly lit hallway. Dylan pushed up and followed her without a word. The boy was dead on his feet.
Annabelle watched Cassie disappear into the darkness at the first door on the left – and then come back out, mumbling something derogatory under her breath about men and toilet lids. She almost stumbled into Dylan on the way back out, as he had stopped when she’d gone in and now stood swaying on his feet, waiting. Cassie turned and trudged further on to the
They headed in, one after the other. After a few seconds, Annabelle heard the door close.
And she was alone with Samuel Price.
Jack smiled behind the rim of his glass of Scotch on the rocks. The drink was his third. Or, at least Dr. Beckman would have sworn it was. In truth, Jack hadn’t had a single sip. He didn’t drink, and tonight was no exception.
But it was important that James Beckman believed otherwise.
“You’re bloody pulling my wanker,” he laughed into the drink, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
“No! I tell you, it really happened!” Beckman insisted, laughing heartily. “And then the asshole had the nerve to come back in to work the next day as if nothing happened!” He slammed his hand down on the table, leaning forward as he roared with more laughter. Jack met the man’s laughter with chuckles of his own, calling the waitress over as he appeared to finish off another drink.
The dark-haired woman was at their table in a flash, obviously drawn to the potential tip that Jack’s dress and manner practically screamed. Dr. Beckman wasn’t dressed shabbily either. The waitress’s expression was eager.
“Another round, please,” Dr. Beckman requested, giving the girl a friendly smile.
Jack watched the waitress smile back and saunter off toward the bar. One thing he could say about James Beckman was that the man was not a mean drunk. He was on his fifth Bourbon and had yet to slur his speech. But Jack was good at reading people. There was a tell-tale brightness to Beckman’s eyes, as well as a slight lean to his posture.
The man was sloshed. Jack wondered just how much practice the good doctor had had at hiding his intoxication.
Without allowing Beckman to notice the movement, Jack stole a glance at his watch. Just a few more minutes and the drug would kick in.
It had been created by Central Intelligence twenty-two years ago. A liquid that could be both injected and ingested. In either instance, the victim would become extremely susceptible to suggestion. However, it did not ensure docility. A hostile prisoner could fight the drug, and sometimes did so effectively.
So, its users learned to mix it with either tranquilizers or alcohol for the desired effect of submissiveness and obedience. It wasn’t perfect, but it had its uses.
Jack watched Beckman carefully, which the doctor no longer noticed, as his senses were blunted and his perception of reality was steadily becoming blurred. Two minutes passed, and Jack knew the exact moment that the drug had entered Beckman’s blood stream and was fed to his brain cells.
He took a nonchalant but entirely fake swig of his fourth drink and casually scanned the room as he addressed the man across the table. “It’s too bad about that incident with Craig Brandt. It cost the school sorely. I’m hoping to make up for some of the loss you experienced.” He swirled the ice in the glass, allowing an easy, apparently drunk smile to caress his lips.
He could feel Beckman’s eyes on him, but his facade remained unruffled. “If only I’d known more about it at the time – I’ve got friends in low places, James.” He shook his head in self-admonishment. “They’re bloody pains in the neck, but they have their uses, if you know what I mean.” He grinned over at Beckman.
The doctor leaned forward across the table and leveled his gaze on Jack. He wobbled only slightly as he hissed, “I bloody well
“No doubt,” Jack urged, nodding.
“That Brandt fellow royally fucked us over. Going to work for some criminal drug lab while he was a student at the school.” He shook his head, taking another drink of his Bourbon. His teeth smacked against the glass as his aim wavered a little, but he must not have felt it because, after swallowing, he continued. “Can’t friggin’ remember
