More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  Jack stood and turned toward the car. Morgan sat in the passenger seat, her back straight enough to contain fused vertebrae. She stared straight ahead. He climbed into the driver's seat. For a moment they sat in silence, looking at the same scenery, but somehow he knew her mind wasn't on grass and trees.

  "I apologize," he said. "I never meant to say that."

  "It's all right," Morgan answered, her voice flat, unemotional. "You shouldn't even know the things you know."

  "It seems we're making a really bad start here. We can't start over."

  "Yeah, too many bullets flying through the air."

  Jack laughed. He wasn't sure if she meant to be funny, but he wanted to lighten the air in the car, which had taken on the solidity of raw honey. He glanced at her and hoped to see a slight smile, even the shadow of one would be welcome, but she still sat rock-solid straight and stared through the glass.

  "Morgan, I need to know what is going on. I can't help you if you won't tell me the truth."

  "The truth!" she burst out, swiveling in her seat to look at him. "What about telling me the truth? What about leveling with me? For the past twelve years you've been privileged to my life, every aspect of it, and why? I'm a nobody. Yet you, and God knows who else, can diagram my life like it was a complex sentence."

  "Not totally," he contradicted her, using a calm voice, when he again wanted to grab her and make her understand the life he thought so much about was in danger. But he'd hurt her emotions, not just hurt them, trampled over them, riding roughshod like some cowboy outlaw. She wasn't one of the scum of the earth he was used to dealing with, and he wasn't immune to her.

  He touched her hand. She pulled it away. "Morgan, I'm concerned about you." She looked at him men. "Why is someone trying to kill you?"

  "I don't know." Her answer seemed serious, honest. Jack decided not to push her. She had something or she knew something. He had to give her time to trust him enough to want to tell him the truth. He only hoped whoever was trying to kill her would wait that long, however long that turned out to be.

  "All right." He changed the subject. "We have to ditch this car."

  "Why? It's faster than anything we could rent or steal."

  "It's been made. That guy in the helicopter had plenty of time to get the make, model and color, not to mention the license tag number."

  "He'll get nowhere with that."

  She surprised him again. She'd taken extreme precautions to make sure she could survive. From the looks of her plans, she expected to be alone, dependent on no one and nothing but her own resourcefulness. Suddenly he felt sad. He knew what her life had been like on the streets and since, but it was a paper life, unreal, a dossier to be computer tagged and filed, read by privileged eyes only. What had it done to the person sitting beside him?

  "Morgan, you're not alone this time. I'm here." His fingers stroked the back of her hand. A few seconds later his fingers closed around her hand. Her thumb moved across his palm. The gesture was small, only a mere brush of her finger, but for Morgan it was a step the size of the Grand Canyon. She didn't work in a team. She trusted no one and relied on no one. She was a loner, just as he was. Even her choice of sport, gymnastics, was a solitary event There were six women on the United States team, and while they could only win the gold medal for their country based on the combined scores of the group, the individual performance was the rate at which they were judged. Yet simply running her thumb over his hand, wrapping five long slender fingers around that of another human being, was like a scream. And he was here to make sure that scream was heard.

  CHAPTER 5

  Janine Acres sat at a table in the bar in the Continental terminal of Atlanta International Airport sipping a Margarita. She'd had it shaken and salt generously applied to the lip of the glass. For an airport bartender, used to adding water to scotch or tonic to gin, the man made a masterpiece of a Margarita. Janine loved them, but rarely drank any. They killed too many brain cells, and she often needed all her brain cells to cope with training the future gymnasts of the world.

  She smiled at the thought. This was what she and Allie had joked about doing when they trained together. They were going to become coaches and have a school that turned out only Olympic-class gymnasts.

  Janine checked her watch. Where was Allie? Alicia Tremaine. On the team, she had been Jan and Alicia was Allie. Life hadn't quite given them their dreams, but it hadn't squashed them either. Not like they were doing to Morgan Kirkwood.

  Janine owned and directed a gymnastics school and camp in Clay, West Virginia. When Allie finished competitive gymnastics, she landed a job commentating on sports at a major cable station. Since then she'd gone on to acting and now starred in a television sitcom. That's what probably held her up, Janine thought. It was hard enough to reach her by phone. Even by cell phone. You had to go through a ton of secretaries and assistants before getting to her, then she had so little time to talk. But when Janine mentioned the news report on Morgan, the two agreed to meet.

  As Janine checked her watch for the third time, Allie appeared in the doorway. Who would have thought that skinny kid, who tried to hide in the doorway of the gymnastics class, would become the head-turner of stage, screen and television? Janine watched her approach, noting the men at the bar swiveling around with interest as she passed them. Allie seemed not to notice them as she scanned the area. Janine stood up as her friend approached. They hugged, covering the years of absence that kept them apart.

  "I ordered you a drink. I hope it isn't too watery," Janine said.

  "I guess that's my cue to apologize for being late," Allie said, slipping into her chair. "I apologize."

  Janine suddenly smiled. "Allie, you're going to be late for your own funeral."

  The tension that Janine felt somehow eased. She licked the salt rim and took a drink. Allie swished the straw in her scotch.

  "How have you been?" Allie began.

  "Fine. The school is going well. I have more students than I can handle."

  "And you love it," Allie said.

  Janine grinned. "I admit it. I do." Then she turned serious. "You know Morgan loaned me the money to begin the school. She even donated some of the equipment. I still have it. I don't know how it would ever have gotten off the ground without her."

  "I didn't know that. What happened to the endorsement money you received?"

  "Spent."

  "Janine, you spent it all? On what?"

  Janine wasn't that proud of her past. "Parties, high living, family." She frowned. "Suddenly I was no longer young, no longer a darling, endorsements went to someone else. I spent like there was no tomorrow and then it was tomorrow. The only person who knew was Morgan. She came through with the loan and the school was born."

  "Morgan was always friendly." The sarcasm wasn't lost on Janine. Morgan was anything but friendly. She was cautious, staying by herself, waiting, hanging back, looking to see when someone would spring at her.

  "I've been thinking about that recently," Janine said.

  "What? How friendly Morgan was?"

  "Remember that last six months, before we left for Korea? Morgan became a different person."

  "It was the pressure. She wanted to win and she wasn't the favorite. We all knew it. And our coach kept harping on it during every practice session." Allie took a sip of her drink.

  "That was only psychological pressure. He thought she'd work harder. She was exactly that kind of person. Tell her she can't do something and she'll find a way."

  "She sure did," Allie confirmed. "It surprised the hell out of me when she went through that routine on the beam. I'd never seen anything like that before."

  "She did pull a big rabbit out of her hat that night." Jan hesitated. "But before that, during the training, I thought her nerves were on edge too, but I don't think so anymore."

  "Why?" Allie asked. "What's happened?"

  Jan wasn't sure she knew if anything had happened. In fact she felt pretty stupid right now for her intui
tion. It wasn't like her to get on a plane and fly three hours for a meeting. "It's probably nothing more than coincidence, but after I heard that news report about her house exploding and no mention of her, I started thinking."

  "She couldn't have been there. There was only the mention of one body and that wasn't Morgan's."

  "Then where is she and why hasn't she contacted her friends?"

  "Janine, when was the last time Morgan contacted you?" She waited a second, but the question was rhetorical. Morgan hadn't contacted any of them since she got off the plane from Seoul twelve years ago. Even when she donated the money and equipment for Janine's school, she only came once in person. All the other transactions were between their two lawyers. At the time, Janine thought it was to save emotion between the two of them. Morgan knew Jan was the sappy one. Morgan didn't like to show emotion. Standing on that pedestal with the tears and The Star Spangled Banner playing had probably been the pouring out of years of pent-up passion. Her body was so full of holding it in that if she hadn't done something, she would have exploded. Morgan's life had been hard and she didn't trust people, but if she could help a friend, she would. Jan knew the Olympic team was Morgan's family.

  "Did Morgan ever say anything to you?" Jan asked.

  "About what?"

  "About what was going on in Seoul?"

  "You mean with that swim coach? God, he was good-looking." Allie smacked her lips together as if she was appreciating fine food. "What was his name?" She stared across the room, concentrating. "Something Jack or Jack something, I can't remember, but Morgan said nothing about him. Not a word."

  "I don't mean the coach. I mean anything about anything?"

  Allie shook her head. "Did she say something to you?"

  "She mentioned only once that she didn't think she would die a normal death."

  Allie put her drink down and leaned forward. "What does that mean?" she asked slowly.

  "I don't know. She wouldn't explain after she said it. In fact, she laughed it off, but you know Morgan. She was always so serious about everything. I let it go, but now I wish I hadn't."

  "Do you think we should go to St. Charles and talk to the local authorities?"

  "It sounds melodramatic, Allie. I know that, but I'm afraid something might have happened to her."

  ***

  Country music poured from the radio, twangy voices that Morgan had grown to appreciate, detailed lovers losing each other, other women trying to take your man or gossip in the town that would bring you down, and women vowing to stand by her man. Morgan heard the messages and understood. She'd been all those women and knew all the men. Now more than ever she understood the stories these miniseries told in three-minute bytes. She knew why she'd taken to them, drowned in the sorrow that each of the women felt when the man she loved turned and walked away or put his arm around the blonde and strutted off with a backward glance that said, you lose.

  Jack drove in silence for some time. Morgan felt as if the air had been damped down. She wouldn't go so far as to say cleansed, but she wasn't angry anymore. She wondered about Jack. What had his hand on hers meant? Where was this going, not just the car, although she had no idea where he was heading either, but so far the direction was all right. She wondered where this entire episode would lead them. Would they survive it? She had to admit she was glad to have someone with her.

  She'd imagined running before. She knew it would come to this one day, but all her planning had been for one. She never expected any allies, certainly not the one man who had occupied space in her closed heart for the past twelve years.

  Unbidden, her mind returned to the past. She thought of him—at the end of the gymnastics arena. Back in a time, a history they couldn't relive, couldn't change.

  Morgan stood six feet back from the springboard. Her heart hammered in her chest Everything about her was wrong. She was too nervous, her hands were sweaty, her breath came too fast and she was too aware of the activity in the room. This was her final competition. It was now or never, she thought. This was the moment she had worked for her entire life, yet her mind was blank. Where were the words she was going to tell herself at this moment, where were the song lyrics, the inspirational refrain that had been part of the opening night ceremonies and was threaded throughout the last several days as a reminder and inspiration for the years of training that had brought the athletes to this moment? Where were her affirmations? Even a mantra would be welcome at this point. Yet she was numb. There was nothing there except the memory of the last hour clogging her brain, memory of an exercise gone wrong. What would the director say when he heard the details of her failure? She didn't know and didn't care.

  No one expected her to win here anyway. They'd told her that to her face. She looked at the scoreboard. She needed to be perfect to win. Why was she even here, even trying? No one was perfect and they all knew it.

  The short distance to the beam looked like a mile. The springboard only a square in the vastness of the enveloping cavern. The beam only a ribbon in a sea of blue foam. She took a deep breath and looked at the crowd. The seats were full, everyone moving, talking, looking at her. Then they too began to recede. They blurred into a multicolored collage, moving away from her as if she'd been drugged. Their sound went with them, reducing in volume until all she heard was a soft rush of a wave coming ashore.

  She wasn't the favorite in this event. If she lost no one would think anything of it. And after what she'd done tonight in the prison, it was all she could do to remember her routine. Morgan closed her eyes and raised herself to her toes. Then she came down again on her heels. She opened her eyes and found Jack Temple in her direct line of sight. He stood against the far wall, looking her directly in the eye. She was sure his mouth curved into a slight smile and that he nodded at her. His strength gave her motivation. She took that strength, latched onto it, made him her focus. Going up on her toes again she started her run. She reached the carpeted springboard. Both feet hit the end at the same time. Using her body weight, Morgan propelled her long frame into the air. Everything slowed down. She could see every move, feel everything around her, as if she were in a dream, one in which she was both spectator and participant. She was aware of her hair, her ponytail flying about her head, the air in the room pressing against her, the feel of her leotard against her skin. She swirled around as if she were performing a synchronized water dance. Tucking her arms close to her body, she completed her mount to the four-inch, fabric-covered beam with a full-twisting front flip. Her feet connected with the apparatus with the precision of a diamond needle cutting through metal. Her knees and ankles locked and she stood straight and tall playing to the one man whose eyes she could see. The rest of the sixty thousand people could have been at home with the millions of spectators around the globe watching this performance. The only one whose approval she sought as she stood upon the four-inch structure was Jack Temple's.

  Her routine continued in the same manner as her mount: slowed down, allowing her to see clearly every twist and turn. Jack looked on as she went through the splits, the handstands, the tumbles, with flawless accuracy. She could hear the pounding of her feet and hands as they made contact, see the small puffs of dust form clouds as she went from one effortless exercise to the next. Then the dismount loomed before her. It was the most difficult part of the routine.

  Height was the key. Standing at the far end of the beam, she began the three-step run and bent her knees, then stretched— and reached for the ceiling, clawing as much air as she could reduce to physical possession. Climbing into the fluid medium she tucked her body into a ball, tumbled head over heels twice, then extended herself into a straight missile, locking her elbows in and twisting her entire frame into a full layout before hitting the impact-absorbent floor as if her feet had just found the opposite magnetic pole and once set could not be dislodged without a searing force. Her arms rose into the air saluting the judge and the crowd.

  For a moment the entire arena was silent. She looked around. T
he audience swirled like a blurred photograph. Then thunder struck, a deafening force that broke the calm and clamored to the top of the building, threatening to tear the domed roof from its hinges. She could hear her name chanted and the scores went up on the lighted board. She watched the tens come up one by one. Each of the judges had rated her the same.

  She looked for Jack Temple at his post by the wall. He hadn't moved. This time, instead of a nod he saluted her win. A moment later, she was attacked by her congratulating team members and sight of Jack was lost.

  She wondered about him now. Glancing sideways, he still drove without a word, but apparently with a mission. In Korea, she didn't think he knew how much his presence had done for her routine, but now she wasn't so sure. He said he knew everything about her. Did that include her psychological makeup? Could he read her mind, her thoughts? Did he know what she needed, and had he stood against that wall for moral support or to send her signals that the worst was over, nothing else mattered? She'd done her job.

  Hart Lewiston was on a transport plane with a full medical setup on his way to a military base in California. Only a few people knew a woman, a mere child with fantastic agility, had been instrumental in getting him out of the prison, and none of them could put the name of Morgan Kirkwood with that black-clad figure who could skirt the building ledge with the same nerve-racking calm of a high-wire acrobat. At least no one Morgan knew.

  ***

  Backwater towns are the worst places to hide. Small villages and hamlets have too many prying eyes and too many curiosity seekers. They needed a large city, a place where people were more apt to be concerned about their own lives than what was going on next door, a place where there were many transients and no one asked questions or remembered faces. And Jack needed to make another phone call.