by Eva Chase
He made a tight sound in his throat, but he moved to meet me at the same time, one hand catching my waist, the other tracing my jaw. His mouth claimed mine.
This was the kiss I remembered, so intent it seemed determined to erase every other lover from my mind. I looped my arm around Garrett’s neck as I kissed him back, trailing my fingers down his side at the same time. He nudged me back to the counter again, already hard as he pressed against me.
I let my breath stutter over my lips at the feel of him. Garrett kissed me more deeply, his tongue teasing into my mouth, his hand hot on my hip—
And then he was shoving himself back from me with a heave of his chest. He shook his head.
“No. Fucking hell. No. Every fucking time, you bring out the worst in me.”
That last comment stung. He hadn’t seen anything like the worst yet.
I wiped my mouth and raised my chin. “Then I guess we’re done here. I’m sorry you feel that way.”
He didn’t try to stop me when I headed out the door. I strode to the elevator, my fingers brushing over the notepad I’d freed from his pocket and stuffed into mine.
I’d come out on top. I should be pleased. So why was my gut twisted into a knot that only lurched tighter with the elevator’s descent?
Chapter Thirteen
Garrett
Pebbles rattled in a frenetic rhythm against the undercarriage of the rental car. As usual, John was driving a bit too fast for comfort as he navigated the road between Split and a smaller town further north where Sherlock had decided we should make inquiries. I wondered if I had any chance of taking the wheel on the way back. My stomach would definitely appreciate a less death-defying pace.
“Do you think she’s fallen for the trick?” I asked, glancing out the back window as if I might see Jemma speeding along after us.
“I can’t imagine her failing to follow up on a lead like the one we gave her,” Sherlock said with his usual confident air. “We all played our parts well.”
I’d texted John as soon as Jemma had left their suite, and Sherlock had been in full-out precautionary mode when they’d returned. He’d looked a little ridiculous examining every surface in the suite as if it were a crime scene, but his vigilance had rewarded us, because he’d spotted the bug she must have placed before any of us had said anything we wouldn’t have wanted her overhearing.
I’d said she must have placed it before I’d gotten to the suite. That had better be true, because if she’d done it under my nose, I’d have to be doubly humiliated. It’d been bad enough forcing myself to admit to the loss of my notepad she must have lifted off me.
I’d had to grit my teeth, but the boy I’d been ten or fifteen years ago would have hidden the mistake automatically, regardless of the damage it could do. I’d grown up. The man I’d become was better than that.
For the most part.
I hadn’t mentioned how I might have failed to notice her taking the notepad or anything else that had happened between us other than conversation. My bungled attempt at possibly-seducing-or-maybe-being-seduced didn’t seem all that relevant to the case. Why bring it up and have them think I was an idiot as much as I did?
I still wasn’t completely sure which had been the more idiotic move: going for that last kiss or pulling away from it.
In any case, after he’d discovered the bug, Sherlock had come up with a plan that I had to admit was solid. We’d hashed out our actual findings of the day in my room, which Sherlock had determined was bug-free, and then returned to the suite’s living area to discuss a modified version including supposed follow-up plans. Plans which involved driving into Zadar and heading north from there, rather than flying into Split and heading south like we’d actually done.
Sherlock had fully committed to the deception. We’d rented a different car for our supposed road-trip, set off as if for the coast, and then doubled back through a series of hasty maneuvers that John had way too much fun pulling off. He’d parked that car at the Zagreb airport, where we’d caught a flight to Split.
We hadn’t seen any hint that we were being followed, but Sherlock took a lot of delight in his precautions, and since he had found the bug, I wasn’t going to hassle him about it.
If Jemma tried to interfere with our investigations, she’d have her people looking for us many miles distant. Or she might not have bothered, amusing herself thinking that we were on completely the wrong track.
I really shouldn’t be imagining her lounging on her hotel bed right now smiling that sly grin of hers. I’d thought a lot about Jemma over the last several weeks, but after kissing her yesterday, after the way she’d talked to me, she kept popping up when I was trying to focus on other things.
“It’s quite the view,” John remarked, not that he showed any sign of slowing down to take it in. On the left, we sped by pale buildings made out of stone or plaster, surrounded by green shrubs. Gray mountains speckled with vegetation loomed beyond the shallowly slanted rooftops. At our right, blue-green expanse of ocean stretched out toward the horizon. The air that the car’s hitching air conditioning system drew in smelled of sand and salt.
“Too bad we’re not here to take in the scenery.” I stretched my legs as well as I could in the back seat. “We’ve found plenty of evidence that there’s some small group of people operating undercover out here, but it’s only traces. Do you really think we’ve got enough to find a community that’s been hiding this well for so long?”
“I’d have preferred to wait until we could trace Jemma more directly to them,” Sherlock said, “but her recent activities haven’t pointed us any closer. We know she means to move them and to cover up their operations here as soon as she can. I have several possibilities for the location, areas away from the usual tourist routes but within a reasonable range for hospital access and the other unusual reports. I expect the locals will be able to give us a good sense of when we’re close.”
He ordered John off the paved road onto a dirt one that wound through the countryside toward the line of mountains. We stopped at a country house where Sherlock knocked on the door and explained to the owner in rough Croatian that we wanted to explore a nearby section of the mountain despite the lack of paths. When the man responded with brusque enthusiasm, as if he appreciated our daring even if he’d rather we got out of his face, we returned to the car.
Sherlock crossed an item off his list. “He said the local teenagers roam through the woods there all the time. I’m sure a secretive commune would have found some way to discourage that activity.”
Three stops later, I was starting to think we were barking up the wrong mountains. No one had appeared at all concerned about our various supposed uphill jaunts. Even Sherlock was getting a grim look I recognized. If we’d been back in London, it would have meant he’d take to his sofa in his house coat for hours examining his ceiling until I turned up with a case intriguing enough to prod him out of his stupor.
We pulled up outside a stone farmhouse at the edge of a few scruffy fields. A tractor puttered in the distance. An elderly woman with her sleeves rolled up over brawny forearms came out and frowned as Sherlock gestured toward the gray peak jutting in the near distance.
“English, yes?” she said when he was about halfway through his usual spiel.
Sherlock paused. “Yes.”
“I speak some. Enough.” She waved her hand at the mountain. “No. You don’t go there.”
She turned as if she thought that answer alone would satisfy us. She’d clearly never met Sherlock Holmes before.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a conciliatory tone that was ruined somewhat by the eager light that had sparked in his eyes. “Why not? It doesn’t look all that dangerous. I don’t believe it’s private property.”
“Bad things happen there,” the woman said. “All around. Last month, a farm even closer, they found half their chickens torn to pieces on the roof of the coop. A few years before, a man came up from town with his dog, the dog ran off, next day we fi
nd it at the bottom of the mountain, its skin…” She made a folding motion. “Turned inside out.”
My stomach clenched. John looked rather green around the gills too. We’d gotten this far based on stolen medications and odd hospital visits, missing equipment and strange deliveries. We hadn’t expected stories of mutilated animals.
“There weren’t any police reports,” I said. “Haven’t you told anyone?”
She raised her hands. “What would they do? People don’t live too close. The ones with the chickens, they left. Everyone just knows, anything that goes up the mountain there, don’t expect to get it back.”
A queasy chill pooled in my belly. I didn’t want to ask this, but I had to. “There was one report. Five years ago, a little boy who was climbing near here fell. Broke his spine. The account said it was an accident?”
The woman pursed her lips. “The city people, they don’t want to think it could be more. He went too close. My husband is the one who found him. The way he was twisted up, his waist bent right around… No one could fall like that. They took his eyes and scraped his hair off to his skull. No accident. Don’t go there. Leave the mountain alone, or the mountain takes.”
We walked back to the car in silence. My stomach kept churning. There hadn’t been any pictures of the boy in the report I’d seen, but the woman’s words had drawn a clear enough picture. The kid had been only eight years old.
When we reached the car, John looked at Sherlock. “We’re going up, aren’t we.” It wasn’t even a question.
Sherlock dropped into the front passenger seat. “We appear to have found the place we were looking for. There’s a road farther along that will take us closer. I don’t want any locals running after us trying to save us from ourselves now that we’ve made our intentions known.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I said as John started the engine. “Just the three of us? We’re talking about people who’d kill and disfigure a child. They’re not going to hesitate to come after us.”
“A child is easier to kill,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “I have my pistol, and Watson has his. We’ll tread carefully, but there was no point in coming out here if we don’t investigate the exact location.”
My fingers itched for my own police-issue gun, but I’d had to leave that behind in London since I wasn’t here on any official business. Just chasing a woman who’d worked her way too far into my head.
That thought brought a fresh wave of nausea. I rubbed my mouth. “We assumed Jemma had to be the one calling the shots with this group—directing whatever they’re doing. This isn’t about just stealing pretty artifacts or making money. These people are sick.”
“We don’t know exactly how she’s involved,” John said, but the protest sounded weak.
Sherlock’s jaw had set. “Whatever she’s had a part in, she’ll face the consequences for her crimes.”
What did it say about her that she was willing to work with people who’d torment children and animals? God, what if she’d been the one to give those orders? The same woman who’d looked me in the eyes yesterday and told me without a hint of guile that everything she did served a purpose, that she never acted purely to cause pain.
I’m not some kind of sadist…
What did it say about me that I’d believed her, at least in part? That I’d wanted to believe her? Because even though she’d wrapped me around her finger and then flicked me aside in London, I couldn’t seem to shake the hold she had over me.
Maybe I hadn’t left behind the boy I’d been as far as I’d thought. The boy who’d acted out his frustrations through cruelty. With every case solved, with every bid for justice fulfilled, I’d buried my past deeper, but something in me, something strong, found her compelling. She’d drawn that jealous, resentful side of me out with her teasing encouragement as recently as yesterday.
My hands balled where they were resting on my thighs. Now I knew what she really was. I wouldn’t forget it. And this was a reminder not to forget who I could be either, as sick as the memories made me feel.
John parked on a grassy shoulder where the road curved to veer past the steeper slope. My feet felt heavy as I clambered out, but I tramped after the other two into the dense forest that hugged the mountain’s base. Every snapped twig, every waver of sunlight piercing through the leaves overhead, made my skin twitch.
The ground grew steeper and rockier, pale gray chunks of rock protruding between roots and shrubs. The trees thinned, letting more sunlight stream through to balance out the cooling air. Sweat streaked down my back. John and Sherlock veered to the right, and I followed them automatically.
After several paces, Sherlock stopped abruptly. He peered around himself and backtracked. I moved to follow him, but the impression gripped me that heading upward would be completely the wrong way.
I hesitated, John beside me. His knuckles had blanched where he clutched his walking stick, his blond hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead. His expression was tight. The hike had been tiring for me—I couldn’t imagine how rough it had been on the doctor’s shaky constitution.
A short scramble higher up, Sherlock knelt down and prodded a tiny impression in the dirt.
“What is it?” John asked.
“Only the slightest edge of a footprint, but I believe someone has walked here. Heading down from higher above.” Sherlock raised his head and then glanced at his partner. “Perhaps you should stay here with Garrett while I continue investigating.”
“No,” John said firmly. “You’re not wandering off on your own to tangle with child murderers. We go together.”
I pushed myself after Sherlock. We climbed farther, leaving the trees for ground that was now all rock spotted with pockets of earth that allowed grass, wildflowers, and the occasional coarse bush. Within a minute, the sense hit me even harder that we were heading the wrong way.
I stopped. “This doesn’t seem quite right.”
“I agree,” John said. “I think we’ve gotten ourselves off course.”
Sherlock knit his brow. He scanned the terrain around us. “I am certain,” he said, “if a community such as this exists…” He strode up the rocky slope abruptly as if pushing against the same resistance I felt.
I was watching him—I saw it happen. One moment he was marching along in his obstinate way, and the next, with a shiver of the sunlight, his body buckled as if something had battered his abdomen. He tumbled backward, his feet flying out from under him, his arms wheeling.
“Sherlock!” John cried. He threw himself forward with a lurch of his weaker leg.
Sherlock managed to spin himself around to protect his head, but his ankle slammed into a jutting rock just as John reached him. The thump made me shudder as I rushed over too.
John crouched next to his friend. Sherlock shoved himself upright, straightening his left leg. His ankle was already swelling where the leg of his trousers had ridden up. His normally impassive face pinched with pain.
“You’ve probably sprained it,” John said. “Don’t put any weight on that foot, or you’ll make it worse.” Gripping Sherlock’s shoulder, he glanced around us, his other hand going to the pistol in his pocket. “It looked like you were pushed, but there’s no one around.”
“It felt as if I was pushed,” Sherlock said. “Hard. But I agree—I was looking straight ahead, and nothing moved at me. Perhaps an impactful projectile?”
“I was looking right at you, and I didn’t see anything.” I paused. “The light moved strangely right when it happened, that’s all. Nothing fell with you that could have hit you.”
The light. I paused. It hadn’t looked like any of the effects I’d seen around Jemma back in London. She wasn’t even here—she couldn’t be, could she?
John handed me his pistol. “Have a look around while I make him a temporary splint so he doesn’t hurt himself even more on the way down. Then we’re getting out of here.”
“John,” Sherlock started to protest.
John s
tared at him defiantly. “If you’ve ever trusted me for anything, Sherlock, it’s my medical opinion. And I’m telling you this investigation is finished for the day.”
I scanned the forest below us, but there was no sign of anyone. Still, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of this.
Evening was falling by the time we left the hospital. I walked behind the other two, John with his rhythmic limp, Sherlock hobbling with a brace around his sprained ankle and a single crutch, which was all the assistance he’d been willing to tolerate. As we reached the rental car, I brought up the subject we’d set aside during the wretched climb down the mountain and the bustle of the hospital.
“Now what?”
“We aren’t climbing any more mountains, not for a few days at least,” John said before Sherlock could answer.
Sherlock’s mouth tightened. “Whoever and whatever is up there, they’re dangerous,” he said. “And they’re tied to Jemma. If we can’t tackle the mountain, then we’ll tackle her. We have to go back to Zagreb.”
“And then do what?” I demanded. “We don’t have any more evidence of a concrete crime to charge her with than we did before.”
“Perhaps we cut her too much slack. Perhaps we were more swayed by her charms than we should have been.” He rubbed his jaw. “Anything more she orchestrates under our watch is on our consciences too. We have evidence. We have proof of a relic she stole from a major London art gallery.”
“We don’t know where it is. We don’t even know if she brought it with her to Croatia.”
Sherlock’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “I do.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jemma
I flopped back on my bed with a stifled groan, holding my phone to my ear. “So there’s nothing? No sign they were ever anywhere near Zadar?”
“Our contact there had several of his people on it as soon as I gave him the heads up yesterday,” Bash said on the other end. “They paid especially close attention to the roads heading into the mountains. Nothing unusual. No sightings of the car the Londoners left in. And there’s something else.”
