They rejoined the crowd, which was now milling in a noisy group on the dance floor. He replaced his arm around Suzanna’s waist as they neared the yawning doors where they lingered until little bunches of guests repopulated the reception area. In minutes, they were outside on the wide, curving steps under the portico.
Several valets looked up questioningly. He shook his head and they returned to counting their tips without a second glance.
The headshake was a mistake. The red haze expanded across the perimeter of his vision. He watched with dismay as the rows of cars at the far end of the lot blurred into a mass of multicolored shapes. He compounded the mistake by looking down. The steps shifted abruptly and he stumbled.
Then Suzanna’s arm wrapped around his back, supporting him firmly against her side. “It’s all right,” she murmured, “I’ve got you.”
He couldn’t check the valets without turning his head but it no longer seemed important. They’d have a lot of drunks to watch before their shift was over. He took the remaining steps on faith, letting her guide him.
Once off the stairs, his head cleared. He scanned the lot, taking uneasy note of the pedestrians. Parking lots made excellent shooting galleries, and he’d just identified himself to anybody with the expertise and lucky foresight to tap those lines. The woman had certainly had the opportunity to make a good guess where they’d be. So, if they knew whom they had, did they want him dead or alive?
Suzanna dropped her arm at the car. “Please,” she said, “let me take you to a hospital now, before that kills you.”
“It’ll take more than this,” he replied grimly. “Get in the car.” Her face blurred and he swayed back against the side of the Volvo. Suzanna’s hip caught his slide. Her face came back into focus, very close to his, as the red haze retreated again. He returned her stare, feeling exposed and vulnerable to her as well as the threatening openness of the parking lot.
“Get in,” he repeated urgently. Then, seeing the argumentative movement of her chin, “We’re going somewhere that should make you happy — a place where you can get me out of your car.”
It began to rain again in the dusk as soon as they joined the freeway. “Back the way we came,” he said.
“Now where are we going?”
“Your house. I’m a guest, until midnight.”
“But you said — “
“I said, you were going to get me out of your car. And you are, so just drive and don’t worry about it.” He didn’t look in her direction and gave no indication that he expected anything but obedience. He waited in painful apprehension until she made the exit onto the road marked Águila Canyon.
Her voice came out of the darkness as he watched the headlights on the winding strip of pavement. “I could just drive off into the canyon.”
He turned to study her profile. Very aware of her speed and the road conditions, he was careful not to touch her bare shoulder or neck while he wound one tendril of dark curl around his fingers. He clenched his fingers around the curl until there was no more give to the hair and the resistance was a direct line to her scalp.
“You could,” he agreed, “but once you make that decision there’s no turning back. That drop would be pretty unforgiving. Now with me, you can always tell one of your stories and get a second chance. You pick the canyon, no second chances.”
“It would be just as unforgiving to you.”
“I doubt it. I can take a lot more pain than you.” He twisted the band of hair around his finger. “You wouldn’t want to end up dead or alive, with me, at the bottom of that rock pile. Not over a little thing like a few hours with a guest. Would you, Good Samaritan?” He gave a final flex of his fingers then dropped the curl and turned away from her, satisfied by her silence.
When she slowed to make the hard turn under the illuminated Águila Arroya Country Club entryway, he was shocked by the scatter of house lights visible along the high ridge to the right and ahead.
“All these people and it just happened to be you who found me. And you say you haven’t even told any of them. Don’t you like your neighbors, Suzanna? Or don’t you know them, after eight years?”
She was driving slowly between the rain-slick steel rails. “See this fence?” she snapped, “It took three years of meetings and committees and arguing to get this fence built. It’s a nice fence. I like it, I voted for it and I could have had it built in about a month. But it takes three years to get anything done by my neighbors.”
She exhaled loudly. “I guarantee that you’d have gone for a nice ride, in an ambulance with the sheriff, if my neighbors had been involved. After they’d let you lie out in the rain for hours while they argued. How does that sound?”
He was shaken by the abundance of house lights. How had he ever stumbled into this hornet’s nest of suburbia? He must have been blind. Or crazy. More likely, he hadn’t come anywhere near this place under his own steam. “It’s a good story,” he said flatly.
The Volvo’s headlights showed him the telephone service box as she pulled the car under the carport. He plucked the keys out of the ignition and opened his door. The box was mounted on the wall of the house sheltered by the carport, directly in front of him. Suzanna’s door opened and closed behind him. “I locked the dog up after my run,” she said from the far side of the car, “but he usually gets out.”
He traced the bottom rim of the utility box until he felt the wire. The minor effort of ripping the wire out of the box left him dizzy. Bracing his left hand against the house, he waited for his vision to clear.
“He’s only a pet,” Suzanna went on. “He won’t hurt you.”
The thought of the dog watching them from the dark stirred the hair at the top of his spine. “Inside,” he said, forcing himself upright and away from the wall. “You first.”
As he took the stairs, he thought about the eighteen hours ahead. Eleven tomorrow morning — no big deal. As long as he could lie down, he could spend the night anywhere, even outside in the rain, if he had to. Not that he’d have to. No, that wouldn’t be necessary. All that was necessary was to keep her quiet for another eighteen hours.
Once inside, she went directly upstairs.
He staggered to the couch in front of the glowing remains of the fire. His head was back, eyes closed when he heard her return. He watched her rebuild the fire, clad once again in white shirt and jeans.
The box of aluminum foil was still on the coffee table with the roll of adhesive. The tape suggested something, a solution to the woman problem. He stared at it, remembering the feel of the bones in her wrist. He judged he had half an hour of consciousness in which to deal with her. That half-hour was his, after that, the night was all hers.
Plenty of tape there for wrists and ankles. And her mouth. Tie her up, shut her up and get some rest. Tempting as it was, he forced himself to consider the downside: the physical damage wrestling with her would probably inflict and the problem of her cooperation tomorrow. He’d need her again in the morning. Whatever she was after, she was curiously slow to act. Whatever she had planned, what leverage did she have? A couple of those hollow points in non-lethal places would change the dynamics. He shifted his attention to the loose folds of her shirt and the possibility that his gun was under it.
She left the fire, leaned over him. Her hand brushed his face. Her touch was gentle, and involuntarily he turned into the warmth. Then he jerked his head away. “Back off,” he growled.
She withdrew her hand but remained close. “I just wanted to see if you were awake. How long do you think you can go on like this? I don’t think you even know what’s under the bandage. It’s big and deep.”
He wondered what new twist she was taking. Did she think he didn’t know he was in bad shape?
“I made a decision to help you yesterday,” she continued. “I like to finish what I start. But I need to know what’s going to happen at midnight. Is someone else, another person like you, coming here tonight?”
When he didn’t respond she sighed. “Please, I believe you’re serious. Just give me this much. I haven’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. Do you want to hurt me?”
“Nobody’s coming. And you’re in control of whether or not you get hurt. Go to bed. And stay there.” His voice betrayed his exhaustion. The silhouette of her body swayed across his vision in the reflection of the fire. She gave him a final look and then turned to the stairs.
He slid sideways on the couch, seeking any kind of comfort, any relief, willing the images to come, to transport him. He was trapped in a cocoon of ice and fire. He eased his shoulders carefully flat and stretched a hand toward the fire. Nothing — no heat, no reduction in the agony, no deliverance.
The couch was too narrow and too short. He considered the floor, the disagreeable bed in the back room and then, effortlessly, visualized the bed upstairs, her bed. Felt again the warmth of her hand on his face. One more flight of stairs and then a real bed, a limitless bed, complete with a warm body. He started on the shirt studs without sitting up.
He rested at the bedroom door, waiting behind the protection of the doorframe. There was no sound from within while he considered the possibility that she had taken the gun to bed. He covered the remaining distance to the bed soundlessly. The wall of glass was dark, thanks to the rainy moonless night but he knew she could hardly miss him once he touched the bed. His left hand touched the bedding, searching for the tension of the bottom sheet before she moved.
He was on the bed, left hand reaching for her, when she spoke. “What do you want?” Her voice was brittle. He could hear her breathing harshly and quickly. Probably no gun.
“I don’t think you have much to worry about, not in my condition,” he said. “I just want to get warm.”
His hand was still searching for her across the ocean of bed. When he found her, it was not an arm as he’d expected but her leg. Arrested by her body heat he pressed the back of his hand against her, then added his fingers, caught by the instant warming effect of skin on skin.
“Don’t,” she said sharply, shifting away.
His fingers followed her passively until he knew she intended to slide completely out of the bed. Then his hand found her arm. “Relax,” he said, “I just want to know where you are.”
She was rigid, muscles tensed under his fingers. He sensed her fear in the controlled stillness of her body, scarcely broken by her breathing. He relaxed his hand, confident she didn’t have the gun, willing her to stay calm.
He was attempting to absorb the warmth of her arm when she slid her free hand under his and pushed his hand off and onto the cold sheet, where she held it firmly.
He groaned aloud as the chill descended. He stared into the dimness of the room, watched the edges of the ceiling turn red. Closing his eyes, he groaned again as the images began to move behind his eyelids. The last thing he noticed before they took him was the relative ease of breathing now that his back was flat against the mattress.
* * * *
The sliding rumble of the closet door woke him. He lay with his eyes closed in the warm aftermath of sleep. He inhaled slowly, savoring the relative ease of the reflex. The bed felt good and his chest felt something approximating good — too good to move, too good to worry.
When he heard the rustle of fabric, he opened his eyes balefully. Suzanna’s upper back filled his gaze. Nice back, curve of spine, faint definition of lower ribs. Interesting tan pattern between her shoulder blades when she lifted all that hair.
She shrugged into a robe that belled from her elbows to her waist. The pale blue silk covered her back and the underarm curve of a breast. Then she dropped the dark mass of curls and his eyes moved past her. When he’d checked the room yesterday, the panel of mirrors where she stood had appeared merely decorative. Now the panels stood open.
Suzanna turned, giving him a clear view into the closet. The contents shocked him awake like a plunge into cold water. He beckoned her with a peremptory crook of his fingers while his eyes devoured the racks of suits and columns of white shirts. Now he understood the oversized shirts she favored. Shirts that buttoned on the wrong side. And this goddamn bed — a woman who slept alone did not require a bed like this.
He was trapped. She’d set him up. He would never have returned here last night if he’d had the slightest hint of a male in the house. His heart was hammering pure adrenaline against the raw tissue of his chest.
He groped through the past twenty-four hours for clues. There were none: no telltale masculine items lying around, no rings on her left hand. She had not impressed him in any way as the helpless type, a woman accustomed to having a man around. He thought about her ease with the fireplace, remembered her coolness with his gun. Sneaky, lying little actress, he cursed her silently.
“Come here,” he commanded in a voice like iron.
He choked back the torrent of accusations until she was within his reach. Then he took a handful of her robe and jerked. She sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. Her face lost its soft, sleepy expression.
“Whose clothes are those?” he demanded.
She followed his gaze over her shoulder to the open closet. “They’re Richard’s . . . my husband’s.”
He gathered the slippery fabric of the robe into his fist. “Your husband’s? So you live alone, except for the minor detail of a husband. Christ, you do have a short attention span. Where is he?”
She swallowed. The smudges on her throat throbbed with her pulse. “He’s away. A business trip.”
Another evasion. “You have a dangerous and stupid habit of not answering my questions. Husbands usually come home from business trips. Though, in your case, it would be understandable if the poor son of a bitch never did.”
Her eyes widened into the shocked, watchful expression he’d seen each time he’d overruled her yesterday. He passed over it without hesitation and twisted the silk around his fist. “Now, where the fuck is he?”
“Brazil,” she whispered. The hiss of the word stripped the last of the sleep from his mind. Why couldn’t she have stayed quietly in bed and let him sleep? First, a husband, now Brazil. She was worse than the bullet.
“Brazil, huh? What’s the long distance code for Brazil?”
“Fifty-five,” she murmured.
“Anybody can look that up,” he said coldly. “But what I’m really wondering is why you picked Brazil for this little story. Is there a husband who belongs to those clothes? And if he exists, what business does he have in that hole?”
“Consulting. He’s a database statistician.”
“He must be one lousy consultant if he has to go all the way to South America to get work.”
She shook her head. “No. Richard’s really good. He’s a genius.”
“What’s his name?”
“Oxenburg. Richard Oxenburg.”
“Is that your name? Oxenburg?”
“Yes.”
“And just exactly who is he working for in Brazil?”
“The Ministry of Health. He’s a database specialist. He’s helping them analyze their population. Some kind of childhood nutrition program or something so they can set up education and health care — ”
His bark of disbelief interrupted her. “Christ,” he snarled, “don’t give me that shit. You sound like a travel agent. Most kids born in Brazil die before their first birthday. The ones that don’t are lucky if they get one meal a day, and that comes out of garbage cans. There is no goddamn Ministry of Health. They haven’t even managed to get a grip on leprosy. And forget education.” He narrowed his eyes in speculation. “If he’s working on any kind of database, there’s only one possibility — the military. They’re the ones with technology and the money for consultants.”
Her eyes had fallen under his tirade. When he finished, she pushed her hair back and looked at him with resignation. “What do you expect me to say? I’ve never been there.”
He glared at her, “How long has this genius husband of yours been rotting in that godforsaken jungle?”
When she did not answer, he shook her. “How long?”
“A long time,” she replied dully, “a year and a few months.”
“And when will he be back?”
“I don’t know,” she said simply.
“Jesus Christ,” he ground out, exasperated, “The man’s trying to earn a living while you’re working part time and playing with your horse. You’re living in his house and you can’t even remember when he left or when he’s coming home.” The fire in his chest was roaring. He rested his head on the pillow and studied her face, seething with frustration. “Brazil,” he said mockingly, “it’s full of distractions. For men, husbands in particular. I know. I’ve lived there. I’ll bet your husband is racking up a few statistics of his own.”
“Richard is busy,” she said. “He’s working. And as soon as they pay him, he’ll come home.”
“Right,” he said. “To his long-suffering wife. Who can’t quite remember when her husband left or probably even what he looks like.”
“Look around you,” she said evenly. “In what way do I appear to be suffering?”
He let his gaze roam the room. It was an undeniably beautiful room, a beautiful house. “No,” he said ruthlessly. “You’ve got it made. You’re playing house with your dog and your horse. Something to talk to, something warm between your legs. No, I’d say — “
“Stop it!” She blocked his words with her fingers before he could dodge her hand. An instant later, she snatched her hand back. “Just stop. I would have told you about him last night if I’d thought it would be this important to you.”
“Last night I was only interested in getting warm before I froze to death. Nothing about your husband is important except where he is and when he’ll show up here.”
“He’s in Brasilia, working. I don’t know exactly who for or exactly what he’s doing. There’s a problem with them paying him. I don’t know why . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He waited impassively, watching her with disbelief. She had to know more than that. In a moment, she asked tentatively, “What were you doing in Brazil?”
“Playing soccer.” He watched her face for the flicker that would tell him she already knew all about him.
Her gaze swept over him, “You’re too big for soccer.”
“Right. Soccer players all look like Beckham.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, “but you certainly don’t. And whatever you were doing in Brazil, Richard is not.” There was a change in her voice. “I have not forgotten anything about him. I miss him every day but I dread him coming home.”
He was fascinated. Quite the little actress all right. All day yesterday and not one tear, and now this. “Why?” he demanded.
“I sold his Jaguar. The car was very important to him, very special. He’ll never forgive me for selling it. I would do anything to get it back, but it’s too late. There’s nothing I can do.” Her low voice vibrated with emotion.
“The fool should have told you to keep your hands off his car collection. But that’s the bottom line of marriage for women, isn’t it? Getting your name on the property.” His voice was thick with disgust. “The man’s trying to make a living and while he’s away, you’re selling off his property. Anybody who’d marry you should know better than to leave you unsupervised. How long does he have before you cash out everything he owns? How much have those months away cost him so far, Mrs. Oxenburg? What’d you get for that car?”
“I didn’t give it away, if that’s what you mean.” Her voice was her own again. “I got a hundred and forty thousand dollars for it.”
“Is that him downstairs with the E Type?” At her nod, he frowned in immediate rejection. “No way, not for that car.”
“You’ve never seen this car. It’s in the Jaguar registry. It was worth a lot more than a hundred and forty thousand dollars to Richard, to him, it was priceless. Nothing would have made him part with it.”
“This is very touching,” he said coldly, “but you can drop the phony bullshit. What are you whining about? You’ve got the fancy house and a hundred and forty thousand dollars. As you just pointed out to me, you are hardly suffering. He can replace you easily enough in Brazil but as long as you go with the property, he’ll have to come back.”
“Yes,” she said bitterly, “I’ve got the house. I don’t need it but I’ve got it and I’ve got the mortgage that goes with it. The insurance, the taxes, the club dues, all of it. How much do you think it costs to maintain a house like this?”
When he did not respond, she continued with quiet disdain: “You don’t know anything about marriage or houses or what they cost. And I am not going to discuss mine with you.”
“Fine,” he said. “For a minute there, I thought you were trying to bore me to death. I’m not interested in your domestic problems. Is this husband of yours coming here today? Yes or no?”
“No. And if you wanted to know, all you had to do was ask.”
He stared at her blankly. He could barely remember his painful journey up the stairs. He felt the familiar flicker of lost events but he was too tired to care. His concentration was going, and with it, the rage that had held him upright despite the pain. Her face was out of focus.
“Go back to sleep,” she said. “It’s early. I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s right.” He eased his body down into the lost paradise of the bed. “You’re not.” He used her robe to pull her down beside him. The corners of the room dissolved into red shadows. “Be still.”
* * * *
The next time he awoke, he was alone. His tuxedo was lying across the empty side of the bed. He regarded it with disgust and promised himself the satisfaction of burning it. Soon. Light was pouring through the shades over the huge windows which had held only the dim glow of dawn when she’d wakened him. His brain prodded him to get up and find her immediately but for long minutes he could not dredge up the energy. From some dark corner of his subconscious came the soothing but suicidal conviction that she was downstairs, innocently waiting.
He grimaced. So this was what a bullet did to you after a day or two. Sapped your brain until you quit fighting it.
The bathroom mirror caught the flash from the foil on his chest. He stared at it, tempted to peel up a corner of the tape and take a look. The impulse faded quickly when he remembered the firestorm when he’d torn it loose yesterday. Instead he wasted five minutes looking for his gun. There were a thousand hiding places in the closets alone, so he soon gave up. She probably had it with her, anyway.
He found her perched on a stool behind the kitchen island in the kitchen, reading a magazine. She stiffened immediately when she saw him and put the magazine down, watching him warily, clearly uncertain as to what to expect. He took a long look at her throat, framed in the open neck of the robe. It was something to see in the daylight.
He halted where he could watch her from the living room. He had the shirt studs in his hand and moved to stand in front of the fire, hoping for warmth while he fastened them. Between the bruises and his verbal attacks, he welcomed the distance. He did not relish losing control and she had a way of tripping him into it.
Each time he took a break from the frustrating one-handed job of refitting the studs in the shirtfront, the picture on the mantle drew his attention. Despite the flash and beauty of the roadster the picture had mainly captured the man. Behind his confident good looks and loose-jointed grace his stance against the car bristled with pointed possession. He smiled out of the picture with the ruthless satisfaction of a big game hunter with one foot on his kill. The car was one trophy that wouldn’t be waiting for him when he got home. That would no doubt take care of the smirk.
The Jag looked clean, all right. Not a hundred and forty thousand dollars’ worth, but nice.
“Where do you bank?” he asked Suzanna. He saw her eyes widen as he watched her from across the island.
“Why?” She frowned at him.
He smiled thinly at her expression. Right, now I’m going to rob a bank for your entertainment. “Write down the names of the four biggest banks in the city. By biggest, I mean the ones with the most branches.” He pointed to the writing tablet.
He had not called for an evac in years but he had plenty of experience with Plan A, from the management side. He knew three evac teams would be waiting for him at bank sites. The locations would be the first branch sorted alphabetically by name for each of the three largest banks in the city. The plan relied on the tendency of financial institutions to blanket cities with branches. Nobody ever had to identify the single largest bank in an unfamiliar city, all they needed was to figure out the top three and apply the algorithm.
Suzanna listed the banks in resigned silence. He chose the Arizona Valley Bank branch at the Athenian Shopping center. The Athenian center was a sprawling outlet mall on two levels, containing more than a hundred retail stores and two movie theatres. It was guaranteed to be busy on a Sunday morning. It was an obvious choice, both for him and for Tomas.
He’d left Christine in charge when he’d flown out, expecting to spend four relaxing days with Gerald. It felt odd to him now, unreal, to think about Christine calmly running his job, while he’d spent the time in hell. Technically it was her decision whether to send Tomas or come herself but he expected her attention to remain on the job. He’d skin her if she left Tomas to run his job, no matter how good a successful evac would look on her record.
He did not question his decision to bypass the hotline to headquarters and instead contact his own team to pick him up. HQ was full of dinks who never got out from behind their desks. HQ would follow protocol and go straight to Gerald to organize and execute his evac. That would have been fine in normal times but right now, Gerald’s situation was a question mark. He intended to keep his location and situation quiet until he knew more. He needed his own people to pick him up and get him clear. Later, he’d talk to Gerald himself.
“You’re going shopping,” he said to Suzanna.
She stood up immediately. “And you? Are you leaving?”
He looked at her neck. “Get dressed.”
While he waited, he tried the coffee, found it bitter, and resigned himself to using it to warm his hands. He was vaguely hungry but when he examined the contents of the refrigerator the sight of the yogurt, eggs and even the bread made his stomach roll and he hastily withdrew.
A movement on the deck caught his eye. He turned to find the massive Alsatian watching him through the glass. The unexpected sight of the animal rocked him back against the refrigerator. Alarm rippled across his belly and the backs of his hands.
Years before, replicas of this dog had launched out of nowhere and ripped Gerald open before he could make a single move to block the attack. The sound of Gerald’s spine tearing and popping had ridden his dreams for years. He’d thought he had forgotten the paralyzing memory of canine violence. It came back to him now in a scalding flash. He closed his eyes to block the dog and the memory. Then he opened them and began to work through the process of convincing himself that this dog was harmless.
The dog lost interest in him and began to pace the deck, pausing occasionally with his head cocked to listen for Suzanna. Under the sleek coat, the animal’s powerful frame and low-slung grace advertised his predator ancestors. When the dog yawned, the scars on the inside of the man’s forearm tightened at the display of teeth in the powerful jaw. He clenched his fist and rotated the arm carefully to clear the spasm.
Finally, the huge animal stretched and lay down in front of the doors with his head on his paws. The dog held the relaxed posture until Suzanna reappeared. His pricked ears announced her before she cleared the stairs.
She smiled at him tightly when he’d given her the once-over. “Satisfied?” she asked. She looked as polished as her voice in the high-necked sweater and snug denim.
It was now-or-never time for the gun. He was still shaking, leaning against the island, too weak to tackle her. He had left prints all over her house; he didn’t want to leave the gun, too. But it wasn’t important enough to get shot over. If he roughed her up again, he’d better come up with it.
She took a second look at his face and came directly to him. “Sit down.” She pushed him onto a barstool.
This was too good an opportunity to pass up. He steadied himself with a hand on her waist. She was very slight and warm, apparently unarmed but to be sure he slid the hand around her back. She gave him a questioning glance, then brushed his hand off her waist.
She stepped back and walked away. Before he could stop her, she had the glass door open and the dog’s eager head in her hands. He watched her smooth the hair between the black ears while she spoke quietly to the animal.
A moment later, she turned to him. “I’m just going to shut the gate on the deck,” she explained. “Then we can go.” She stepped outside quickly.
The dog leaned into the room to give him a long, curious stare before padding after her. When the beast was out of sight, he steadied himself against the island and focused on controlling his breathing.
The stairs tested him. He was panting when he made the Volvo, grateful to put his aching head back and close his eyes. His chest was ready to explode. He no longer cared about the gun. If she intended to shoot him, he’d deal with it when it happened. Otherwise she could keep it; the clean-up crew could recover it when they wiped away any trace of his presence in the house.
She drove more slowly this time. They were well into the canyon when she pulled over to allow traffic to pass them on the narrow road. He examined the stream of vehicles with barely controlled anxiety.
“People who live up here drive this road fast,” she explained. “I’m just letting them get on with it.”
“How about you getting on with it?” he snapped. “If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.”
He hadn’t given her a destination. He waited until the freeway signs for Scottsdale appeared.
“The Athenian center on Camelback,” he said, watching her face. “Do you know it?”
She nodded readily. “I think I must own stock in it,” she said with a smile.
He couldn’t figure her smiling. There was no basis for her evolution from worried hostage to acquaintance. She was a puzzle; every direction became a conversation. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew everything, was playing with him. He’d be glad to be done with her.
The Athenian was massive, sprawling and surrounded by acres of parked vehicles. He looked it over grimly while they waited at the light. He knew he would have to endure the exposure of a slow tour of the perimeter.
“Drive up to the main entrance,” he ordered, “make a right and just follow the building until I tell you to stop. And slow down for a change.”
Tomas was at an ATM, filling out a form against the plexiglass frame. His attention didn’t waver, giving no indication of interest in the Volvo or its occupants as it rolled past the bank.
Opposite the next set of entry doors, Suzanna turned away from the building and parked at his direction in an area of open slots where she could pull through to park facing the through lane.
She killed the engine. “Keys,” he said. When she turned to him and put the keys in his hand, he searched her expression. She showed no fear, just watchful waiting. “I’m not a criminal,” he said. “I was attacked. It was unprovoked. I’m doing what I have to do. Everything I’ve asked of you was for one purpose: to get me here, to this place, undetected. From here I can leave the country. I used you, but now you’re free.”
She studied his expression. “It’s over? You’re letting me go?”
“Yes. But if you raise any kind of alarm or attract any attention, people could get hurt, the same way I got hurt. I’ll be gone, it’ll be out of my hands but I’m sure you realize I have enemies, and if you talk, you’ll risk bringing attention from bad people on yourself. That’s not what either of us wants. I need to disappear; you need to forget. So . . . go inside now, walk through those doors, breathe, have lunch, go shopping, buy something pretty. Act normal. Understand?”
She smiled faintly. “No, but I get the general idea. I’m smarter than you think.”
He stared at her coldly. “You shouldn’t have involved yourself,” he said harshly. “Take this as a lesson. There was nothing personal in it but it could’ve been a lot worse. Remember that.”
She groped for the door handle, opened the door and was out. The door slammed in his face.
He twisted the mirror to watch her walk across the lot. She didn’t look back. Tomas followed her inside. In a Lakers sweat shirt and ball cap, he looked like a teenager. Nobody would have guessed he carried a weapon under the pouch on the front of the sweat shirt. He knew Tomas would silence her if necessary. He hoped his warning would keep her quiet for a few hours. Days would be better. This was messy enough.
He adjusted the mirror to cover the lane behind the Volvo and alternately watched it and the lane in front. When he spotted the white four door he got out. They had a rear door open and he was pulled quickly inside and pushed firmly back against the seat while they moved protectively to cover him.
He put an elbow against the throat of the male tech and stopped the female with her name, “Marsha,” he said, “hands off. You can take care of business in a minute, just listen first. And tell your partner here to get a grip.”
“Nick,” Marsha warned, “he means it.” And then she sat back and looked at him closely. “Lewis, I’m glad you remember me. We’ll do this your way but remember we’re on your side.”
“Then act like it,” he growled and dropped his arm.
The man named Nick rubbed his neck and glared at him. “Lewis,” he rasped, “I didn’t come all the way out here to watch you live up to your rep.”
Marsha rolled her eyes and shook her head. She had worked for him in London a few years before. She was equally competent and attractive. It felt like being saved just looking at her.
The car was accelerating, moving briskly across the lot. Lewis leaned forward to speak to the driver, “Park it.”
Then he turned to Nick, “Make yourself useful. Go inside and send Tomas out here. You watch that woman and do not lose her. Hey, hey . . . Marsha,” Lewis protested when she took his right wrist in practiced fingers to feel his pulse. He extended his left arm across his body. “Try this one. I don’t think that one belongs to me anymore.”
The driver idled the car into a handicapped parking spot facing the exit road and Nick got out.
“Lewis, where are you hit?” Marsha pressed his head back and thumbed up one of his eyelids.
“Chest, right side,” he said, “Hit me like a truck, but no exit wound. Haven’t figured that out yet. Any ideas?”
She opened his jacket and he felt her fingertips pressing lightly on the bandage. “Leave it,” he groaned. “I’ve lived with it for days; it’ll keep another half hour.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said. “What’s your resting heart rate, Lewis? Around sixty? Well, right now it’s one seventy. Ever watch anybody have a heart attack? It’s not pretty.”
He looked at her. “What do you think you’re here for?”
But she did not think that was funny and frowned at him fiercely. “What have you had to drink in the past twelve hours?”
“Water, a little coffee. Why?”
“Been passing out?”
“Yep, on and off. And my eyesight’s going. . . sort of a red film around the edges.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Do you have any idea what they gave you?”
He stared at her. His mind scrolled back over the nightmares and the fits of rage and the baseless fear of the dog. “No, no idea. I can’t even tell you how or when. I agree there’s more going on with me than just a bullet, but I don’t know what. She got to me somehow. What are you guessing?”
Tomas joined them before Marsha answered and Lewis saw that she was relieved to drop speculation about his condition.
“Boss,” Tomas said, drinking in Lewis’s face, “you look like a hundred miles of bad road. Some party, huh?”
Tomas looked excited. His eyes were a little too bright, a little off-center. That would be the lack of sleep and being wired, trying to cover everything. Lewis thought he looked about right; not too tense, not too worried.
“Some party,” Lewis agreed grimly. “You set for surveillance?”
Tomas shook his head soberly, “No time, and you didn’t order any. We called off the search when you checked in. It took some scrambling to get this together and out here but the other pickup teams are standing by. I can pull them in and set it up with the center security chief.”
“No,” Lewis growled, “no locals. Get more people from DC if you need to, but set it up and run it yourself. I want to know everything that woman does, who she sees, where she goes — in detail and starting right now.”
“Right.” Tomas straightened from his squat to scour the lot. He closed the rear door firmly and got into the passenger seat in the front where he turned to meet Lewis’s gaze directly. “I’ve got point on this, Boss. You’re heading to the medical unit in five. Debrief me now if you have names. We’re thin on the ground. I’ll have to involve center security and the chief will want a piece of it.”
“Too bad. He’s out of it. He had all the time in the world to pick me up.” He was choking with frustration remembering the body in the wheelchair, the shock of the bullet slamming him against his car. Anybody worth a damn would at least have come for him, spared him the agonizing hours sweating in the sun and shaking in the rain. The last thing he was going to tolerate was interference from anybody connected to Gerald’s staff.
He slid forward, gasping, seeking a position where he could breathe. All he needed was one more minute and just enough air to ask about Gerald.
“Lewis, Lewis stay with me,” Marsha’s voice was remote but insistent. “Go,” she ordered Tomas and that was the last thing Lewis heard.