by Anne Stuart
She stopped for a moment, staring out the window into the black of the night. There was a flash of something white, a muffled cry, and like a fool she put her hand on the door, ready to open it, when the cry came again, and she recognized it for the frankly sexual sound it was. Someone was out there making love. Having sex. And the thought that it might be Luke chilled her to the bone.
She couldn’t move. She could almost see them, a blur of pale skin, the faint, grunting cries just carrying to her ears. Her stomach knotted, and she wanted to run, but she was glued to the spot, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe.
“If I’d known you liked to watch I could have arranged something.” Luke’s soft, drawling voice came from directly behind her, and she whirled around to stare up at him in shock. Her relief was so powerful it sickened her, and the need to touch him, to fling her body against his, was overwhelming enough to make her shake. But she didn’t move.
“Who’s out there?” she said finally.
“I don’t have the faintest idea. I don’t care—they’re not hurting anyone. Anyway, I’m more interested in being an active participant than a voyeur.”
She backed away from him, coming up against the metal door with a solid clanging sound. The sounds beyond stopped abruptly, and she had no doubt the lovers had been frightened off. They weren’t the only ones who were frightened.
He was moving in on her, his body almost touching her, so dangerously close that she wasn’t quite sure where her fear was coming from. “You still didn’t answer my question,” he murmured, and his voice was low and Southern, the seductive drawl of Alabama that she hadn’t heard him use in this place before. “Why did you come back here?”
She looked up at him, and knew, with sudden terrible clarity, the answer to the simple question. She had come back for him.
It was a horrifying realization, one she was afraid he could read all too clearly on her face. “You owe me five hundred thousand dollars,” she blurted out, desperate for an excuse. “We made a deal.”
He didn’t move. “I forgot about that,” he said mildly. “Cash or traveler’s checks?”
He’d managed to shock her even more deeply, so that she blinked, staring at him. “Whichever …” she began, but it was too late.
“Neither,” he said. “And that’s not why you’re here, is it?”
Strength was flowing back through her. She didn’t know its source, and she didn’t care. “Of course not,” she said, lightly sarcastic. “I came for sex. I’m absolutely panting for your touch.”
“That can be arranged …” He reached for her, but her cynical bravado failed.
“No!” She wasn’t going to cower from him, run from him, but with the metal door up against her back she had no place to go. He knew it. He put his hands on the door, on either side of her head, and leaned close. Not touching her. It was almost worse that way.
“You’ll come to me,” he whispered in a low, beguiling voice that corroded her fear and resolve. “Sooner or later you’ll stop fighting. You know what I can give you, and you want it.”
She rallied. “I’m sure I can find any number of people willing to provide me with sex and multiple orgasms,” she snapped.
“I’m sure you can.” He let the side of his face brush against her, and she could smell the shampoo in his long damp hair, the shaving cream on his skin, the mint of toothpaste. “You can find yourself a decent, honorable man, one to love you, respect you, cherish you. Someone with morals, with a decent job and a good future. That’s what you think you want, isn’t it? Not some white trash from Alabama. Not some ex-con who’s running the scam of a lifetime. You’re so good and decent, the very thought of me disgusts you, doesn’t it?” His voice was low and seductive as he pushed the words at her.
She met his gaze with what she hoped was a fearless one of her own. “Yes,” she said.
“Then tell me, Rachel,” he said, letting his hand toy with the loose neckline of her tunic, “why aren’t you out somewhere, fucking your little gentleman’s brains out? Why are you here with me, quivering when I touch you?” He brushed his mouth against her cheekbone, moving toward her ear, and his hypnotic voice was barely a whisper. “It’s a hot night, Rachel. Why are your nipples hard?”
“You’re a monster,” she said in a low, furious voice.
“No, I’m not. I’m just a man. Even if you think they’re the same thing.”
It was enough. He knew her too well. Her breasts were tight and burning, her stomach twisted, and she was hot and damp between her legs. She could either fight or admit defeat. And she was a born fighter.
She put her hands against his chest and shoved him as hard as she could, taking him by surprise. He fell back, and she took off, refusing to look back, half expecting him to call after her. He didn’t say a word, but it wasn’t until she turned the second corner in the long, narrow hallway that she felt safe.
She hadn’t exactly been running—she hadn’t wanted to give him any more proof of just how much he unnerved her. But she gradually slowed her pace, taking deep calming breaths, telling herself that he wouldn’t come after her, he didn’t really want her, he just delighted in upsetting her, disturbing her, throwing her off balance.
She turned another corner and then stopped abruptly, staring at the dead end, and the realization came to her with crushing force. She had absolutely no idea where she was. There was a door at the far end of the closed corridor, and her choice was simple. Either she could go back the way she had come, and risk running into Luke again. Or she could go through that closed door that led to God knew where.
She was drained, exhausted, and one more encounter with her nemesis would finish her off. If the solid metal door in the dark corridor was locked she would simply curl up outside it and go to sleep.
It wasn’t locked. It didn’t need to be. There was a sign in small, neat letters. NO ADMITTANCE. DANGEROUS MATERIALS. The good little scouts of the Foundation of Being would never think of going against orders, whether they came from Luke himself, the Grandfathers, or an anonymous sign.
Rachel wasn’t troubled by any such scruples. The heavy metal doorknob opened easily enough, and she slipped inside, into the darkness, pulling the door shut behind her.
It was some sort of utility room, with machines humming a steady drone. There were storage shelves lined up against the cement walls, boxes and plastic canisters, metal containers with warning signs on them. She glanced around her, guessing that one giant piece of machinery provided the air filter and conditioning that made Santa Dolores habitable in the summer. The other complex system must provide the water.
She moved past the equipment, searching in the murky darkness for another way out. There were utility lights at scattered intervals, and she didn’t dare look for anything more powerful. A door shouldn’t be that hard to find.
If the lights had been on she probably wouldn’t have tripped over the round plastic canister tucked out of sight. If she hadn’t gone sprawling her face wouldn’t have come in proximity with the pesticide label on the can. She shrugged, scrambling to her feet, ignoring the odd feeling that assailed her. Something wasn’t right, something wasn’t making sense.
But then, she’d always felt that about Santa Dolores, from the first moment she’d set foot on the premises. Even before, when she’d read everything she could find about the place. The reality seemed so peaceful, accepting, warm. But beneath the benign, smiling faces something dark and rotting lurked.
She’d always wanted to blame that sense of nameless evil on Luke. He was the center of the Foundation, the heart, the brains. If there was evil, who else would it come from?
But that sense of evil had felt stronger than ever before when Rachel arrived back in New Mexico. And she knew, better than anyone, that Luke wasn’t anywhere around.
She’d scarcely seen anyone in all that time. Catherine had explained to her that most disciples came for a two-month stay, to cleanse their bodies and souls. Rachel had a pretty strong susp
icion it cleansed their bank accounts as well. Then they returned to their lives to earn more money to give to the Foundation. Only the Grandfathers and a few long-term followers were always in place. She’d spied Calvin from a distance but she’d instinctively ducked out of the way, justifiably nervous. But, oddly, Bobby Ray Shatney was nowhere to be found.
She had just managed to summon her flagging courage, to work her way back along the deserted hallways and risk running into Luke again, when she heard the sound of voices. She immediately ducked behind a wall of boxes, lying on the cold cement floor, barely daring to breathe.
She hadn’t the slightest idea what she was so frightened of. She only knew that she was utterly terrified.
The sound of Catherine’s gentle voice reassured her, and she was almost ready to pull herself to her feet, to confront the newcomers, when she recognized Alfred Waterston’s magisterial tones. The words made no sense, but Catherine did little more than make noncommittal noises.
“No need to take on new cancer patients,” Waterston murmured. “We managed three of them this last go round, and I imagine that’ll keep finances in good shape. You were probably wondering why I sent most of the caregivers away. They’ll need to be replaced. We can’t continue our work and expect them not to notice. It’s a foolish man who underestimates the intelligence of his staff. Some of those nurses are damned smart. They know phony test results when they see them, and they’ve seen enough people succumb from the real thing. No way I can trick them into thinking every case at Santa Dolores is an anomaly.”
“Whatever you think best, Alfred,” Catherine murmured.
“We’d be wiser to hold off for a month or two. No need to be greedy. Besides, we’ve still got that Connery girl causing trouble. I can’t imagine why you let her back in.”
“That’s your problem, Alfred, too little imagination,” Catherine said smoothly. “We’re much better off knowing where she is and what she’s thinking.”
“You know what she’s thinking?”
“I can make a very good guess. Luke’s managed to get to her.”
“Why should that surprise you? He gets to everyone, sooner or later.”
“He hasn’t done a very thorough job of it, though. She may think she’s half in love with him, but she hates him more than ever. I’m certain we can use that to our advantage.”
“You’re very good at using everything to your advantage,” Alfred murmured, and there was an odd note in his voice. Rachel rose slightly, unbearably curious, and was shocked to see the pompous Dr. Waterston groping Catherine.
She didn’t look pleased by the attention, but she endured it with her usual elegant grace. “Alfred,” she said gently, “I thought we had a reason for coming down here.”
“I wanted some time alone with you.”
“It isn’t safe,” Catherine said gently.
“But it took me so long to find you! Besides, what were you doing out in the garden with that sick young man?”
“Billy Ray sees me as a maternal figure.”
Alfred snorted in amusement. “Better watch out,” he said. “Remember what he did to his own mother.”
“I can handle Bobby Ray.”
“And Rachel Connery as well?”
“Haven’t you noticed how docile the little dear has become? At least as far as we’re concerned. She may still hate Luke, but she’s being seduced by the Foundation. She’s just as willing as the rest of the followers.”
“Then get rid of her. We don’t need her here. The fewer witnesses the better.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Catherine said firmly. “A martyrdom is always more effective if the martyrdom is public. Rachel stays. I have plans for her.”
“If you say so,” Alfred said testily. “Maybe we can talk her into giving him the coup de grace. There’d be a nice dramatic resonance to that.”
“I don’t want Luke murdered by a spurned lover, which is what the press would make it. I prefer to keep his death an act of spiritual insanity.”
“Then how are we going to do it?”
“Leave it to me, Alfred. You’ve always trusted me to handle the practical side of things, just as I’ve trusted you to handle the cancer research.”
Alfred’s snort of laughter was eerie. “Research. That’s a good one.”
“Be patient, Alfred. Trust me. I have things well in hand.”
“I do, my dear. I do.”
Rachel almost didn’t notice that they’d left, closing the heavy metal door behind them, closing her into silence once more. She lay facedown against the cold concrete and shook in horror and disbelief.
Bobby Ray had been right. Patients weren’t dying of cancer at all. They were being murdered. By pompous Alfred Waterston, the world-famous oncologist. No wonder no one suspected. No one but Bobby Ray, who’d then been drugged into oblivion.
And then there was Catherine, the epitome of gray-haired sweetness. Catherine was planning Luke’s murder.
She lay on the floor and shook, chilled to the bone, afraid to move. Afraid to walk out the door and face someone, anyone. They all knew too much, and there was no way she could look them in the eyes and pretend everything was all right. They were going to kill Luke. And she wouldn’t be surprised if they were planning on killing her as well. The only question that remained was where and when.
And why did a group of new age disciples, vegetarians who practiced healthful living and organic gardening, have a huge amount of cyanide-based insecticide hidden in the storage room of the meditation center?
She rose to her feet, slowly, her body aching for no sensible reason. She walked over to the heavy metal door, trying to still the fear inside her. Catherine and Alfred would be long gone. She had to get out of there, to find help, somewhere.
She put her hand on the cold metal knob and pushed. It was, of course, locked.
With a tiny moan of despair she sank down on the floor, shoving a fist in her mouth to still her panic. There was no way out. Not unless someone found her, and then the two old ones would know she had overheard them. They would kill her.
And she didn’t want to die.
20
Luke had never been a stupid man. He wouldn’t have made it to his fifth birthday if he hadn’t possessed more than his share of intelligence, coupled with a gift for observation. He knew Rachel’s blind, panicked run would take her nowhere but the main utility plant, and there was no way out. Sooner or later she’d have to come back this way, and he was fascinated to see how she would handle herself. Whether she’d gotten back her bitchy, you-can’t-hurt-me persona.
It was simple enough to vanish back into the shadows when Alfred appeared. He wasn’t in the mood to start fussing about entailments and mutual funds and the like, particularly since none of that had anything to do with him. Alfred hadn’t the faintest idea that he only retained control over forty percent of the Foundation’s massive income. And that the rest had already found its way into Luke’s pockets.
He didn’t expect Catherine to wander in out of the garden, however, brushing twigs from her scattered gray hair. So she’d been the one sounding like a cat in heat. Who would have thought it of one of the Philadelphia Biddles? The notion filled him full of cynical amusement. Catherine hardly seemed the type to be enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, and indeed, there’d been a recognizable amount of pain in those cries of pleasure. He wondered idly who her partner had been.
He listened to the Grandfathers’ hushed conversation for a moment, but it was nothing of particular interest. Something to do with the medical facility, which he left in Alfred’s more than capable hands. He heard Catherine mention the water supply, but he ignored it as he ignored most mundane matters. The only thing that interested him was that they were heading in Rachel’s direction.
He would have liked to hear her excuses. She didn’t babble with anyone but him, a small tribute to the effect he had on her. She’d probably come up with a perfectly reasonable response for wandering into a fo
rbidden part of the retreat center. Catherine would probably chide her gently and impose some sort of penance, and Rachel would have safe conduct back to her rooms.
He needed to find out where she was sleeping.
He needed to stop thinking about sex and think about how fast he could get out of here. His money was safe, escape was relatively easy. He’d promised Calvin enough time to get his affairs in order, but now that he’d made the decision to go every minute was torture.
He’d be taking Rachel with him. Whether she was glassy-eyed and pliant, or kicking and screaming, he wasn’t leaving her behind. No, he wasn’t going to let go of Rachel until he was good and ready. This time he wouldn’t let her run away. This time he’d take her, calm her, tame her, until she was smart enough and brave enough to walk away, without looking back, and to hell with him.
There was no sign of Calvin in his rooms. He moved to the inner room and sat silently, staring at the bank of television monitors. He saw Catherine and Arthur as they returned from the utility complex, but there was no sign of Rachel. She must have managed to hide from them, though he couldn’t imagine why she would. She adored Catherine—he’d seen to that. And Alfred Waterston was the epitome of the slightly pompous, genuinely kind older man, well aware of his worth in this world, but willing to care for others as well.
Very interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that he could see who Catherine had been dallying with in the garden, and he found that even he could, occasionally, be shocked. Things were very, very odd at the Foundation of Being. Maybe he’d tell Calvin he was getting out tonight.
He waited. Too long, he realized, as the hour grew later. It was almost ten o’clock, and there was still no sign of Rachel. The security system he and Calvin had installed couldn’t possibly begin to cover all the spread-out areas of the retreat center, but it gave him enough of an overview to know that Rachel had not yet returned from her fearful dash. And he had no choice but to go in search of her.
