When he said her name, she stopped moving to the music and tracked the shadow drawing closer to her. Head still bowed, she wiped an arm across her brow, sensually sweeping her hair back with the motion. She glanced up with a ready smile. Recognition dawned. The smile faded. She lurched to her feet. At first she didn’t know what to say or do. Then she made a saucy gesture. She wasn’t as demure as she had been before. There was an edge to her now, a defiance. The adorable sweetness was gone. “You look different in daylight. Not nearly as handsome. Very ordinary.”
“And you look the same way you looked the other night. Showy. Plastic. Transparent.” He approached her, taking his time, his eyes focused on the dainty dimples bracketing the corners of her petite mouth. They would have been endearing had her face not been a scathing study of loathing ... and fear. They had parted as lovers. They met again as adversaries.
He crowded her. She backed away, step by leery step, her eyes weaving and a false smile playing on her lips. With insolence, she thrust her mouth up to meet his. A breath away from the nearly inescapable kiss, she bolted like a hare.
Jack chased her through a thicket of scrubby vegetation and viny underbrush. Thorny branches grabbed his shirt, slapped his face, raked his flesh. Tree birds took wing, palm fronds flapping with their darts and dashes. Cecile moved remarkably fast, her arms and legs pumping like a marathoner, her face shooting back to gauge distance before frantically pushing forward once again. She reached a rocky trace and swung sharply around it before swinging into a copse of palmettos. Wild turkeys raced out of the brush, honking and complaining. Jack scrabbled after her, plowing deeper into the jungle, losing sense of direction. Slippery as a snake and fast as the wind, she zoomed down an unseen path, hopping and leaping and sprinting, determined to burn a trail as far away from him as possible and lose herself in the playground of her birth. She was fighting a losing battle. In high school, Jack had been on the track team. Possessing runner legs and Apache stamina, he could outrun and overtake anyone, even a nimble girl such as CeCe.
Briefly he lost sight of her, but the slap of branches and the crunch of foliage gave her away. She reached the end of the trail, or seemed to, but quickly ducked beneath drooping boughs and escaped into the undergrowth. Jack easily traced her route, left visible by upset foliage and stirring breezes. He caught up with her just as the ground rose sharply, and just as sharply ended at a steep escarpment climbing vertically toward the sky. She had edged herself as far back as possible, allowing the rough-hewn stone at her spine to embrace her body even while she struggled for a tenuous foothold on the ledge. The exertion of the chase and her quick breaths captured the essence of her sensuality. In another place, under different circumstances, she could have achieved anything, taken the notice of any man, nothing to impede her desires but the limits of her imagination.
Her mouth curled into a seductive smile. “Want some?”
Jack wanted to sag against a tree and let loose a whinny of laughter. He correctly anticipated her reaction to his showing up at her house but hadn’t predicted the absurdity of it. The most shameful melodrama often becomes high comedy, the hilarity of which cannot be measured. She was a delectable sweetie pie, his enchanting partner of the other night, this doe-eyed beauty who used guile and wet lips to lure him into bed and there flatter him into believing in the moon and the stars and the promise of a love far beyond just another lay. She had taken advantage of his momentary weakness when he had convinced himself it was the other way around. And now, if his life depended on it, he could not harm a hair on her adorable head or leave an imprint of his hand on her delightful face. The trap he so cleverly engineered against her had backfired.
Her engaging smile reappeared, taunting him to draw nearer. Men do not hurt loveable little darlings like her, darlings who smile agreeably and titter cutely, fingers curled at their heart-shaped mouths. Or do they?
Under the harsh light of day, she wasn’t nearly as alluring. She stood there, quite still. Cornered, sweaty, and vexed. Panting and breathless. Seductive and tantalizing. Vulnerable and exhausted. And a tad bit frightened. After all, she was just a girl, and a slight one at that. She was sizing him up most attentively, guessing at his capacity for hurting her. He saw himself through her dark eyes, a man in his prime, a man she had betrayed, a man who came to exact vengeance.
He approached slowly so as not to scare her off. She backed away from him and bumped into inflexible rock. Her hands explored the precarious ledge at her spine. She pressed her back against the jagged crevices, making herself as small as possible. In bed, she was brazen and brave. Out in the open, she was timid and unsure. She showed her teeth. They were yellow and crooked. Sweat soaked the underarms of her blouse. She was panting through her mouth. Her eyes scurried about, hunting for a way out. There was no way out. He had made sure of that. And she knew it. She licked away caked lipstick. The fingernails she lifted to her lips had been bitten to the quick. The aquamarine nail polish was chipped and cracked. Dandruff flaked at the roots of her hair. Wrinkles flourished beneath her eyes. Her complexion was already coarse from hard living and harsh sun. She was indeed lovely but by no means a paragon of beauty. She was soiled and used.
She knew she had made a mistake. “I’ll ... I’ll scream.”
He looked around and grinned. “No one will hear you.”
She was still catching her breath, her chest heaving, perspiration drenching her. “What do you want?” She was trembling, a subtle quaking of flesh and spirit. The sweat-soaked blouse revealed the outline of her lovely breasts, breasts he once caressed with abandon. She maneuvered for position, skirting around the escarpment, searching for a way out, sidling fearfully away from the American who, not so long ago, had been quite loving, quite gentle.
In a single swift movement, he rushed her, slammed her against the rise, and encircled his fist around her throat, cutting of her screams. Breath gurgled past crushed windpipes. Then she whimpered. He relaxed his grip but pressed his advantage, shoving her against the rocky face, feeling the pulsating rush of her heart, tasting the foul stench of her breath, sensing the terror rising from her soul like a tangible thing, a thing he could destroy with his bare knuckles. “How much did he pay you?”
His words slowly penetrated. Her eyes flew open. Terror touched them, paired with defiance. She raised her hand as if to brush him away, but he caught a wrist, wrenched her arm behind her back, and flung her to the ledge below. She went flying. Landed with a heavy thud. The violence momentarily dazed her. She pushed herself up and rolled over, groaning miserably. He was on top of her, his full weight pressing her flat. She squirmed beneath him, tried to wrench herself free. Blood seeped from her nose. Shredded flesh uglied her cheek. She cried out, a whiny plea for mercy. He squelched her sobs with a brutal hand slapped over her mouth.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “You’ve been following me.”
She jerked at his menacing words. She fought harder, scrabbling, wriggling, lashing out wherever she could, however she was able.
“Who sent you?”
She moaned, and with the moan came submission. The fight went out of her. She was crying. Sobbing. Scared. Broken.
He slid his hand away but braced her chin between the crush of his fist.
“A man,” she rasped.
“His name.”
“He ... he didn’t tell me.” Though weak, she was still defiant. Stubborn. Fear has a way of doing that to a woman, make her fight rather than submit. He didn’t blame her. He almost felt sorry for her.
“His name!”
“Michael. He said Michael. He didn’t have another name.” She was bawling now, sniveling, tears flowing freely.
“He must have given you a reward, something for your troubles.”
She was looking for a way out, her eyes darting everywhere but seeing only sky and jungle and the look in her lover’s maddened eyes.
“Didn’t he?” He shook her. “Didn’t he!”
Her admission came
out as soul-wrenching sobs. “A ... a hundred ... a hundred American dollars.”
“What did you give him in exchange?”
“A ... a promise.”
“What promise?”
She squirmed and whipped around and finally got lucky, drawing ragged fingernails across his cheek.
He flinched, wrested her wrists into his fists, flattening them above her head, and pressed his body down on hers, toes of his shoes digging into her ankles.
She was helpless. Utterly. Hopelessly. She tossed her head from side to side, sobbing in torrents now, a child who had been caught playing a prank that reaped deadly consequences. “That ... that I would make you ... force you to drink the drink. He ... he said it would be easy.” She was hiccupping. Hyperventilating. There was no way out for her but to confess everything.
“If I passed out, then what?”
“Give him a signal. From the patio door. You ... you didn’t drink it,” she whined miserably.
“So you let me make love to you, hoping you could make me drink it later.”
“He ... he promised me another hundred dollars ... if it worked.”
“What did he look like?”
“Dark. Handsome. Nice smile. European, I think.”
“My dear, dear Cecile. Beware of dark handsome men with nice smiles and money. It’s a good thing you didn’t succeed. If you had, I would still be alive, but you would be dead.” He backed off her and stood up, leaving her depleted on the rough ground, her body drawn into a fetal position, copious tears spilling from those dark, inveigling eyes that could swallow a man whole and spit him out on a pillowcase like a chocolate mint. “He’s killed other women just like you.”
She shook her head, balling now, tears flowing freely, figuring it out. She looked up at him. “The ... the girl on the beach?”
The jungle darkened.
“And another woman. I guess you didn’t hear about her.”
The winds whipped up.
She drew herself into sitting position. Hugged her knees. Trembled uncontrollably, like a sudden fever.
It started to rain, first in a pitter-pat and then in a gush.
“You were lucky this time,” he shouted over the deluge. “Make sure there’s not a next time.”
Thunder shook the ground.
“You ... you brought the rain.” Her words sounded crazy. "You must be a god to ... to bring the rain.”
“I am,” he said, looking down at her. “Your god.”
He turned and left, not once looking back. He could hear her snuffles and wails as he made his way out of the jungle and down the crooked path. He hoped his warning had gotten through to her. He hoped that next time she would walk away from handsome men who offered money in exchange for a favor. He knew she would not.
30
Georgetown, Washington D. C.
Wednesday, August 13
TAGGERT HAD COME over for dinner. Cordelia let him in, responded coolly to his kiss, and returned to the kitchen. He wordlessly followed. She handed him a wine glass, lifted hers, and clinked his glass. They drank to, “New beginnings.”
He had never been to her place before. They had always gone to hotels and motels, most of them squalid and out of the way where no one would recognize them. It felt odd to have him here, and still odder to steal the affections of another woman’s husband in the homey surroundings of her small apartment.
She went back to preparing dinner. He looked around, admiring her digs, but knew something was up. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers gently encircling her neckline. She nodded toward her laptop, sitting on the dinette set and open to a news site, dateline Kansas City.
Elias Kirschner, a certified public accountant with the firm of Rutledge, Sibley & Kirschner, had been the victim of a hit-and-run. The accident occurred when he left his office late on Tuesday night. When the body was found, his car keys were still clutched in his hand. There were no witnesses. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Local police had launched a full investigation.
In the morning, Kirschner was smug and infuriating. By close of day, he was dead.
Taggert sat and read, chin resting on fist, eyes focused. While he read, she returned to reheating the lamb stew she prepared the night before, eyes staring blankly at the Dutch oven.
Irish lamb stew always tasted better after the juices had time to mingle and bring out the flavors. She had browned the lamb over a medium heat. Set the meat aside. Tossed diced onions and carrots into the oven. Allowed them to cook in the meat juices until tender. Added cubed potatoes, beef broth, and salt and pepper to taste. Added back the lamb. Brought everything to a boil before turning down the heat. Covered the oven and baked the stew for an hour until everything was tender. As a final touch, she stirred in parsley, chives, thyme, a pat of butter, and flour for thickening. It was an old family recipe handed down from her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother, just the ticket for soothing her jangled nerves.
She was watching the lamb stew reheat when Taggert returned to her and folded his arms about her, rocking her back and forth, the point of his chin resting on the crown of her head. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “You couldn’t have known.”
She was grateful not to have to look into his eyes. God knows what she would have seen there. Blame? Shame? Worry? All of the above? She went on stirring the pot with a slotted spoon. “I should have. I was playing with fire. If I hadn’t interviewed him, if I hadn’t accused him of breaking the law, if I hadn’t pressed him so hard, he’d still be alive today.”
“You don’t know that.”
Having him stand behind her, feeling his muscled chest pressed against her rounded back, and sensing the heat of his body penetrate her flesh seemed more intimate than if they were lying naked in bed. “How could I be so naïve. So fucking arrogant. This is a man’s life we’re talking about. When it happened, I was celebrating with takeout pizza and a bottle of wine. Jesus ....”
“The whole bottle?”
She tried to smile, if only to herself, but his attempt at levity fell woefully flat. “You know me. I’m a two-glass toper.”
He spun her around and collected her properly into his arms, pushing her head against his breast and telling her in soothing words to let go. Damn the man. He had given her permission to slobber all over herself. And she had been doing so well, too, holding in what little was left of her dignity. Everything spilled out. She couldn’t stop herself. Her body began to quiver. Tears flowed, first in dribbles and then in a flood of wailing and sobbing. Taggert remained calm throughout, rubbing her back with the sweeping motions of his broad hands, his closeness comforting, his consideration reassuring, his patience durable, something she could hold onto. Throughout her wailing remorses, she couldn’t quite get the visual pictures out of her head. Of Kirschner peering into the bright lights of an approaching vehicle. Shielding his eyes with an upraised arm. Dropping his jaw in shock. Mumbling words of disbelief. And finally, after reality caught up with him, emitting the preliminary notes of a raw wail before tons of metal struck him head-on, leaving in its wake the remains of a man along with a trail of his blood, guts, and brain.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe not. But, you see, I am the cause.”
“He only had himself to blame. He knew what he’d gotten into. Probably been doing it for years. Didn’t think anyone would ever catch on.”
“Until me.” She gazed up at him through teary eyes.
He swiped the wetness away, first with one thumb and then with the other. “You didn’t force him to break the law. That’s on him.”
“Do you think someone was following me? Do you think that’s what happened?”
He shook his head. “Probably panicked. Made a phone call or two. Brought it down on himself.”
She thought about it. It made sense. But she still couldn’t get the vision out of her head, the exact moment when Kirschner knew he was a dead man for sure. “He left a wife and three kids.”
He wrapped her more tightly in his arms, again rocking her from side to side. He smelled like Taggert, all man and no pretense. “Were you able to track down the woman he mentioned?”
“Katya Shasenka?” Shaking her head, she pulled away from him, wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, and refilled both their glasses to the brim.
“And his partners? What did they have to say?”
“Rutledge blew me off. Sibley hasn’t returned my calls. They’re running scared.”
“Subpoena them. Get a warrant for their records.”
“Already on it.” She set down her wine glass and busied herself with setting out the meal. “Probably shredded everything by now.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we’ll catch them in the act.” His were hollow words. They both knew it. But there were other ways of trapping them. Electronic records couldn’t be shredded or burned.
She cleared away the laptop. Switched off the lights. Lit the hurricane candles. Turned on soft music. Set out the meal. Taggert gobbled up the stew with appetite while regaling her with quips and stories, anything to distract her from what happened. Dull company tonight, she couldn’t be distracted so easily. “I looked into those suspicious deaths Angie Browne mentioned.”
Taggert gave her a probing look, registered the heightened uneasiness in her face, and kept on eating, but at a slower pace.
Enemies Within Page 20
