in Chicago for a week with her sister, during which time her fiancé
had made a major breakthrough, the nature of which she had yet to learn. And
then she proceeded to tell her tale, which he interrupted for questions or
clarifications, but infrequently.
Blake decided Jenna Morrison had
been correct: her tale did sound ridiculous.
And yet she spoke with detail and assurance. And her intelligence and reasoning
power were impossible to miss.
But criminal psychopaths could
be brilliant and utterly convincing. Could weave rich tapestries of lies.
On the other hand, this girl’s story
was too rich of a tapestry. If she
had murdered Nathan Wexler, why complicate things so much, make up wrinkles that
were so simple to disprove?
“When you first began,” said Blake
when she had finished, “you told me you are living with Nathan Wexler. Present tense. If he’s dead, as you say, why weren’t
you using past tense?”
“I didn’t want you to have any
preconceptions. If you knew he was dead from the start, you’d absorb what I
told you in a different light. I didn’t want that.”
Blake nodded. Very shrewd of
her. “And you don’t even have a guess as to what he might have discovered?”
“No. But as I said, there is one
man who knows, at least the gist.”
“Dr. Dan Walsh at UCLA?”
“Correct. And we need to find a
way to warn him he’s in danger. If he’s even still alive.”
Blake studied her face
carefully.
“Look,” she said, impatience
showing for the first time. “Do you believe me? Will you help me?”
His every instinct told him this
Jenna Morrison was something special. Some people melted under pressure and
some reacted to its squeeze by turning into diamond, becoming battle hardened.
He was all but certain this girl fell into the latter camp.
While she occasionally allowed
the severe emotional pain she was feeling to show in her eyes, she didn’t have
the bearing of a beaten wife. She had a fire about her. An easy intelligence. A
self-confidence and competence. For someone who had been through hell, this was
quite impressive.
“Your story is definitely out there,” he said.
“But you already knew that. And you haven’t given me any reason to doubt its
veracity.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “You said you confiscated the cell
phones of two men. Can I see them?”
Jenna shook her head. “No. I
tossed them in San Diego. I realized as I began the drive here that they could
be used to track me. I promised the poor guy I stranded on Palomar that I would
call one of his friends and tell them where to find his car, but I decided I
couldn’t. At least not yet.”
“A wise decision,” said Blake in
genuine admiration. Her reasoning from start to finish had been impeccable. Each
individual move she had made, by itself, was unremarkable, even obvious in
hindsight, but it was his experience that very few civilians, when thrust into a
nightmare the way she had been, would have had the presence of mind to unerringly
navigate the precisely correct path.
“What about the weapons you say
you, ah . . . acquired?” he asked. If she had gotten rid of these, also, this
would cast considerable doubt as to the truth of her story. “Can I see them?”
“Absolutely,” she replied
immediately. “They’re in the trunk of my car. Well, you know, the car I drove
here.”
“You really know how to use a
trunk,” said Blake wryly. “Most women just use them to carry groceries or
luggage. It’s the rare women who understands their utility for storing weapons
and trapping dangerous intruders.”
Jenna smiled, the first time
since Nathan’s death, and led Blake to her car, parked in a visitor’s spot near
his apartment. She popped open the trunk.
Blake recognized the SMG inside immediately—an
MP5, favored by US Special Forces. Interesting. Not the sort of weapon a Jenna
Morrison could get her hands on. It would be easier for her to murder Nathan
Wexler than to acquire one of these. The
had made a major breakthrough, the nature of which she had yet to learn. And
then she proceeded to tell her tale, which he interrupted for questions or
clarifications, but infrequently.
Blake decided Jenna Morrison had
been correct: her tale did sound ridiculous.
And yet she spoke with detail and assurance. And her intelligence and reasoning
power were impossible to miss.
But criminal psychopaths could
be brilliant and utterly convincing. Could weave rich tapestries of lies.
On the other hand, this girl’s story
was too rich of a tapestry. If she
had murdered Nathan Wexler, why complicate things so much, make up wrinkles that
were so simple to disprove?
“When you first began,” said Blake
when she had finished, “you told me you are living with Nathan Wexler. Present tense. If he’s dead, as you say, why weren’t
you using past tense?”
“I didn’t want you to have any
preconceptions. If you knew he was dead from the start, you’d absorb what I
told you in a different light. I didn’t want that.”
Blake nodded. Very shrewd of
her. “And you don’t even have a guess as to what he might have discovered?”
“No. But as I said, there is one
man who knows, at least the gist.”
“Dr. Dan Walsh at UCLA?”
“Correct. And we need to find a
way to warn him he’s in danger. If he’s even still alive.”
Blake studied her face
carefully.
“Look,” she said, impatience
showing for the first time. “Do you believe me? Will you help me?”
His every instinct told him this
Jenna Morrison was something special. Some people melted under pressure and
some reacted to its squeeze by turning into diamond, becoming battle hardened.
He was all but certain this girl fell into the latter camp.
While she occasionally allowed
the severe emotional pain she was feeling to show in her eyes, she didn’t have
the bearing of a beaten wife. She had a fire about her. An easy intelligence. A
self-confidence and competence. For someone who had been through hell, this was
quite impressive.
“Your story is definitely out there,” he said.
“But you already knew that. And you haven’t given me any reason to doubt its
veracity.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “You said you confiscated the cell
phones of two men. Can I see them?”
Jenna shook her head. “No. I
tossed them in San Diego. I realized as I began the drive here that they could
be used to track me. I promised the poor guy I stranded on Palomar that I would
call one of his friends and tell them where to find his car, but I decided I
couldn’t. At least not yet.”
“A wise decision,” said Blake in
genuine admiration. Her reasoning from start to finish had been impeccable. Each
individual move she had made, by itself, was unremarkable, even obvious in
hindsight, but it was his experience that very few civilians, when thrust into a
nightmare the way she had been, would have had the presence of mind to unerringly
navigate the precisely correct path.
“What about the weapons you say
you, ah . . . acquired?” he asked. If she had gotten rid of these, also, this
would cast considerable doubt as to the truth of her story. “Can I see them?”
“Absolutely,” she replied
immediately. “They’re in the trunk of my car. Well, you know, the car I drove
here.”
“You really know how to use a
trunk,” said Blake wryly. “Most women just use them to carry groceries or
luggage. It’s the rare women who understands their utility for storing weapons
and trapping dangerous intruders.”
Jenna smiled, the first time
since Nathan’s death, and led Blake to her car, parked in a visitor’s spot near
his apartment. She popped open the trunk.
Blake recognized the SMG inside immediately—an
MP5, favored by US Special Forces. Interesting. Not the sort of weapon a Jenna
Morrison could get her hands on. It would be easier for her to murder Nathan
Wexler than to acquire one of these. The
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