While I waited, I ran through the list of questions I was going to ask Moreland. Basic queries, easily answered, none of which would reveal any hint of our suspicions because my main role was to get Moreland out of his private room long enough for Jack to get what he needed.
As footsteps squeaked down the hall, I listened. Voices drifted in, both female. The first I recognized as the young nurse.
“-ever tells me anything.”
An older woman answered, her voice clipped with authority. The squeal of a cart covered her first few words. “-show up, demanding access to Ben, saying it’s part of this horrible Helter Skelter killer mess. We’ve had to notify the director, round up every doctor Ben’s ever spoken to, alert security-believe me, Angela, informing a junior nurse was the last thing on our mind.” The women’s footsteps receded around a corner. “Who did you say wants to talk to Ben now…?”
I nearly shot out of the room, but managed to stop myself at the door and crack it open for a quick peek before hightailing it out. I started marching in the other direction and got five steps before Jack swerved around a corner and grabbed my arm.
“Lawyer?” the older nurse’s voice trumpeted down the hall. “Lord, that is just what we need. Where did you put-?”
“Fuck,” Jack whispered, drowning her out.
Still clutching my elbow, Jack strode to the first door, checked it, then moved to the next. Another peek. Then he yanked it open and propelled me inside.
I caught a glimpse of brooms and buckets. Jack wheeled in, closed the door and the closet went dark.
“FBI,” he whispered, breath tickling my ear.
“How many?” I whispered.
“Don’t know. Just heard the nurses talking.” A pause and he shifted, moving against my hip as he leaned toward the door.
I put my ear to the wall, but heard only pipes gurgling. The small closet made for very tight quarters. Warm, too. Much longer in here and we’d be putting our deodorant to the test.
The room already stank-of bleach, as if there was an open container or a small spill-and between the smell and the heat, my head started to spin.
“Hold on,” Jack whispered. Like I was going anywhere.
The soft grate of a doorknob turning. A splinter of light lit Jack’s face. He pressed his cheek against the gap, then pulled back. The light vanished and the door clicked shut.
“Nothing.”
“You get some of Moreland’s hair?” I whispered.
A shake of his head. “Don’t need to. It’s a match.”
“Wha-?” I bit off my near-yelp of surprise.
“That’s why Feds are here. Got a tip. Hair matches Moreland’s DNA.”
“Shit. So it was a plant.”
“Yeah.”
The word tickled my ear. He shifted, and his hand went to my hip for balance. As he breathed, that faint scent of the earlier cigarette wafted over me, and my pulse quickened. I told myself it was the smell of nicotine, but I suspected it had more to do with having a man pressed up against me, hand on my hip, breath against my hair…Like I’ve said, it’d been awhile.
Jack pressed closer as he shifted again, trying to get his balance or get comfortable. I could feel the heat of his fingers through my skirt. He leaned forward, listening, cheek a hairsbreadth from mine. I could smell him-the cigarette plus something faintly spicy: soap or shaving cream. He smelled very…male. When he moved again, his hand slipping on my hip, my imagination followed through where his fingers didn’t: down my skirt, catching the edge-
I jerked upright. “Sounds quiet. We should go.”
“Yeah.” A moment’s pause, then. “Nearest exit-”
“-is a staircase two doors on the other side of the meeting room, leading down to the first floor. There’s an emergency exit right there, but it supposedly triggers an alarm. If possible, it’d be better to cut back across the first floor to the main doors. The only alternate route I see is to head into the basement and cut across to another stairwell.”
A soft chuckle that reverberated along my back. “Good work. Basement’s it, then. Hold on.”
Putting his free hand on my other hip for balance, he opened the door and leaned into it. The sliver of light grew to a handsbreadth. Then he twisted back toward me, mouth lowering to my ear.
“Clear. Wait.”
He took a broom from behind us, and eased from the closet, leaving the door open a crack so I could see out. As I picked up my briefcase, I looked down at my new pumps. Take the risk of someone hearing me clicking along the floors? Or the risk of being spotted in stockinged feet? I went for option two and slipped them off.
Broom to the floor, Jack swept briskly, moving fast. He kept his head down, concentrating on his work and hiding his face. The hall remained empty. A few feet from the end, he stopped and turned so his back was to the nearby nurses’ station. Then he bent, as if to pick up something. As he leaned over, he peered under his arm, looking toward the station. Then he gestured for me to hightail it down there.
I crept out of the closet, closing the door behind me, and walked as fast as I could without breaking into a jog. I kept my face turned slightly toward the far wall. When I drew opposite the hall leading to the nurses’ station, I caught a glimpse of two men in suits, talking to the nurse, their backs to me. I kept walking.
Ahead, Jack waited by the stairwell. As I took that last step past the hall junction, one of the FBI men moved. I caught only the flash of motion, not enough to know whether he was turning to watch me or scratching his ass. I picked up the pace. Footsteps sounded behind me.
I flicked my fingers at Jack, telling him to get out of the hall. He stepped into the stairwell, but held the door open. Six steps, seven, and I was there.
Behind me, shoes squeaked against the linoleum, making a sharp turn. As I ducked through the door, Jack grabbed my elbow and pushed me toward the stairs.
He paused behind me, presumably to double-check. I didn’t wait for the verdict. I galloped down the steps as fast as I could without stumbling. As I rounded the first flight, Jack fell into step beside me, caught my eye and nodded. The Feds were following.
I lifted my forefinger, then swiveled my thumb down. “First floor or basement?” I mouthed. Jack pointed down. Basement. Above us, the door finally clicked shut, only to whoosh open seconds later. Footsteps thumped across the landing. I shifted to the outside, where I’d be harder to spot, and Jack fell in behind me.
At the first floor, I motioned for Jack to continue heading down, then turned toward the door. He caught my arm, but I motioned that I’d follow in a moment. I jogged to the first floor door, opened it as far as it would go, released it and turned to race after Jack. As we rounded the midflight turn, Jack glanced up. The door I’d opened was slowly swinging shut, where the agents would see it and assume we’d gone that way. Jack nodded his approval.
Above us, several sets of shoes clomped down the steps at double-time. When we reached the basement door, Jack waved me against the wall. He opened the door slowly and silently. We slipped through and he eased it shut behind us.
We turned to survey our surroundings. A typical industrial basement: big, semidark, full of wheezing, clanking machinery. Helpful signs on the wall indicated points of interest: furnace, laundry, storage, deliveries. Jack jabbed a finger at the last.
As we turned the first corner, a grating squeal cut through the mechanical roar, growing louder by the second. We looked around. To our left was a hall lined with old office equipment. We took refuge beside a filing cabinet.
The squeal turned to a steady squeaking. Wheels in need of oiling. Seconds later, the sound began to recede. I leaned out to see an employee wheel a metal cart of laundry onto an elevator. We waited until the doors clanked shut before we took off.