by Terry Odell
"Pop said the steering gave, and he jumped before the car went into the ravine."
Ryan scoured the ground where the Mustang must have swerved, and tried to backtrack along its logical trajectory. A glimmer of metal, half buried in the ground caught his eye, and he bent to pick it up, ignoring the protest from his knee.
"Whatcha got?" Dalton asked.
"Metal scraps. And a nut of some kind. Can't be sure if it came from the Mustang, or has been here longer." He handed the bits to Dalton.
Dalton studied the pieces of metal. "Can't tell. The nut might have come from a tie rod." He slipped everything into his pocket. "You said the car's at your place?"
Ryan nodded. "I couldn't see much last night. But there was a gallon of turpentine, some wood stain and linseed oil in the trunk. Wouldn't have taken that much to set it off. A piece of metal dragging against the rocks could have sparked."
"You think that's what happened?"
Ryan lowered himself to a boulder by the side of the road. "I don't know. My mind was mush last night."
"Understandable," Dalton said.
"Like hell. We go into firefights all the time. We rescue civilians, wipe out tangos, and God only knows what can and does go wrong. I've never lost it like that."
"It's never been your daddy," Dalton said softly. "And I reckon you weren't in the greatest place mentally to begin with. Losing kids is tough."
"Shouldn't matter."
"Rehab's for more than busted joints, pard. You gotta deal with the demons."
A hunk of granite filled his throat. He choked out the name. "Carmelita. She had huge brown eyes. Wrapped her arms around me. Scared to death, but I could see the faith she put in me. And I couldn't do a damn thing for her. Same age as Molly."
Dalton rested a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Don't think of them by name. You know better. Keep 'em anonymous. You can't save them all."
Ryan knew detachment kept him from coming apart. But it hadn't worked with the Forcadas. And when he'd watched Molly—no, not Molly—the kid—racing across the parking lot, and he knew he couldn't get to her in time, a knife had sliced a jagged hole in his belly.
He swallowed hard. That was over. She was safe. Thanks to Dalton, not him.
"Let's get to it." He got up and wandered along the path the Mustang would have taken last night. The packed earth left few distinguishable tire marks, but as far as he could tell, there was nothing to indicate Pop had been driving erratically. He'd had one drink last night, and a short one at that. And he knew this road well enough to drive it blind.
"Let's go," he called to Dalton. "I want to look at the car."
"Um…I think I've got a little problem here." Dalton's voice was low and even. Ryan turned and hastened toward the sound of his voice. That Dalton had spoken told him whatever the problem was, stealth wasn't necessary. Still, he regretted that his Glock was in his nightstand drawer.
*****
Frankie's mother looked up from her dressing table when Frankie entered the bedroom. "Do you think Molly might have been playing dress-up with my jewelry?" she asked. "I can't find my elephant pin, and I know she likes it. Your father gave it to me for our tenth anniversary, and aside from its sentimental value, the stones are real. It's not a plaything."
"Molly doesn't take things that don't belong to her," Frankie bristled. I'll call the cleaners." How dare her mother accuse Molly of going through her personal belongings. Realizing she was upset about Bob, she took a breath and smoothed her tone. "I'll ask Molly about the pin. What else do you need for your…getaway?"
"This is making you uncomfortable, isn't it?" Her mother stopped rummaging through her jewelry box and turned to face Frankie. "Would you rather I stayed home?"
"Of course not. I need to get used to the idea, that's all. When I was home, you were Mom, and the elementary school principal. Then I went away, you retired, and I guess I never made the transition from you being Mom to you being a single woman who deserves to be happy."
"Thanks for understanding. When your father died, I buried myself in you, Claire, and my work. But it's been a long time, and—"
"No need to say anything else." Frankie closed the small suitcase and lowered it from the bed to the floor. "How long have you known Bob?"
"About three months—but it seems longer. We seem to complement each other. He's more…adventurous than I am. He makes me look at things with some reckless abandon. Yet he's sensible, too."
Frankie eyed her mother's wrist cast. "Yeah, like ice skating. I can't remember you ever skating when we were kids."
"And I never did. But Bob convinced me to give it a try. He felt terrible when I fell—stuck with me all the way to the hospital, waited forever while the doctors did their thing. Like he did last night. He came by every day—helped me cut through lots of red tape with the insurance. And he convinced me to use on-line banking. James was already overseas, you were at work, and Claire was bustling around in twelve directions, getting ready to move."
"I thought James took care of the books."
"He offered to, but there was no reason to turn things over to him. I think Claire had him thinking no woman could manage a budget—she always was a bit of a flibbertigibbet when it came to finances. And, as Bob pointed out, with the on-line system, I didn't need to sign checks, so my broken wrist was no problem."
The doorbell interrupted before Frankie could ask any of the million questions that had formed. She pushed them aside for now. Next week, they'd sit down and go over everything. She realized she'd been acting as badly as James, assuming Mom and Claire were equally challenged in the financial department.
Bob ambled into the bedroom. "There you are. Ready?" He bent down and kissed her mother's forehead.
Mom stoked his cheek. "Almost. Why don't you wait downstairs? I'll be down in a minute. My bag's packed."
Bob picked up the suitcase and left the room.
"He walks into your bedroom?"
"Why not? He rang the bell, after all. Molly probably let him in."
She'd have to talk to Molly about that, too.
Her mother patted her hair. "Since you seem to be in the mood for interrogations, Molly tells me you had company last night." Spock-like, her mother raised one eyebrow, a gesture Frankie had spent hours trying to mimic, to no avail. Her brows were inseparable.
"He was at the hospital. His father had been in a car accident, and he needed a place to stay. He's gone now."
"You let a stranger spend the night? In my house? With my granddaughter here? Frances Marie Castor, whatever were you thinking?"
All three names. Ouch. "He was very polite. Even offered to wash the sheets."
Another eyebrow lift. Heat rose to Frankie's face.
"Nothing like that. Honest. He slept in the guest room. Molly slept in my bed. With me. I made pancakes. He left."
Her mother turned back to her jewelry box, and Frankie knew she was checking her prized pieces.
"Mom, your pin was missing before Jack showed up. He's not that kind of guy." She caught herself before she turned things around and accused Bob of taking it.
Her mother's school principal glare reflected from the mirror. "And you know this because?"
"Because I do. Kind of like the way you knew Bob was special, I guess."
"Oh, so this stranger is special?"
How had the conversation taken this twist? "No, not like that. He's…trustworthy, I guess. He was in the Navy. Polite, and…and I don't know. But I know he didn't take anything."
"Be careful." She closed her jewelry box, patted her hair into place, and stood. "You know what can happen."
Frankie recognized her mother's look reflected in the mirror. You've got one daughter without a father.
*****
"Don't shoot," Ryan called to Dalton. "Wolf, it's okay. Friend."
The dog stood his ground, ears back, Dalton's rifle pointed at him.
"Lower the rifle, Dalt. Slow and easy." Ryan moved toward the dog, his voice calm, mut
tering reassurances that Dalton was no threat.
Dalton let the rifle barrel drop, then crouched and set the weapon on the ground. "Hey there, boy. I'm a friend. Wolf, is it?"
Ryan grabbed Wolf's ruff. "It's okay. Dalton's okay. Friend."
Wolf whimpered and pricked up his ears, the only sign he was willing to give Dalton the benefit of the doubt.
Dalton extended his hand. Wolf gave it a perfunctory sniff, then pressed against Ryan's leg.
"I guess he's still upset after last night," Ryan said.
"I gotta tell you, he came out of nowhere and took ten years off my life. I might have pissed him off with the rifle, but it was pure reflex."
"He more or less latched onto me when I got here—guess he knows what a pathetic mess I am."
"Nothing wrong with having eighty pounds of muscle on your side." Wolf begrudgingly allowed Dalton to scratch his ears. "You about ready to check out the car?"
"I take it you didn't find anything significant here."
Dalton shook his head. "Rescue operations destroyed the scene."
Together, the men walked back to Dalton's car. Wolf insinuated himself between them, but wouldn't get in the car.
"Suit yourself, boy," Ryan said to the dog. "Why don't you go home? I'm sure Rosa will be in today, stocking the kitchen for Pop's homecoming. You might luck out and get something better than kibble."
"You talk to that beast like he understands."
Ryan looked into Wolf's deep brown eyes. "Sometimes I'm sure he does. Let's go."
As they settled into the car, Dalton turned to Ryan. "Would that Rosa you mentioned happen to be the Rosa you talked about while we were living on lizards and snakes in Yucatan? The one who made chocolate cake to die for?"
"The same," Ryan said. "She doesn't live in anymore. Comes by a few times a week to cook and clean. Her pot roast is fit for a king." Ryan's mouth watered at the memory, his first recollection of wanting food in a long time. Or had sitting around a kitchen table eating pancakes with smiley faces broken the barrier and pointed him down recovery road?
From the side mirror, Ryan watched Wolf stare after the car as he and Dalton drove off. They rounded a turn, and the dog disappeared from sight. As they approached Josh's house, anxiety snaked beneath his skin like a downed power wire.
Seeing the charred remains of the Mustang brought back last night's panic. Not until he felt Dalton's hand on his shoulder did he realize he was gasping for air. He jerked away, half-stumbling toward the car and leaned on what was left of the hood. The stench of smoke, gasoline and turpentine filled his nostrils. The way it still did after missions, nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He took a deep breath, scrubbed his face with his hands and straightened.
Dalton leaned against a nearby tree, studying his fingernails. Waiting, as he always did, for Ryan to pull it together. He glanced up. "You ready to do this?"
"Yeah," Ryan said. As quickly as his panic had appeared, it dissipated, replaced by a numbness and detachment—not the exhilaration of a mission, but a hell of a lot easier to cope with.
"You take the back, I'll start in front," Dalton said. "This baby isn't designed for mountain roads. You sure it was sabotage? Might have snagged on a root or a rock."
"I've thought of that. I'd like to think I'd have noticed, but I was…preoccupied." He paused, waiting for Dalton to look up from the depths of the engine. "If someone rigged an explosive, I can't see them waiting around all night to detonate it in case I drove away. If they were studying me, they'd know I wouldn't leave until the next day, so a timer set for the middle of the night makes no sense."
"You think the explosion was a lucky side-effect?"
"That seems logical, but who knows? There wasn't much time between me getting home and Pop driving off. Given the nature of these roads, messing with the brakes or steering would be enough. Not a bomb."
"Guess we need to have a look-see."
What seemed like an hour later, Dalton crawled out from under the wreckage, tossing bits and pieces from hand to hand. "Between the fire, the water, and the crash, it's plumb impossible to tell what happened. But, far as I can tell, there's nothing here to indicate sabotage. You notice anything suspicious?"
"No. I've been here a couple of weeks, and nothing unusual's gone on."
"All the years in our line of work, we forget that accidents do happen, and these roads could shake something loose. How 'bout I take these parts back and use some of Blackthorne's high-priced techno-wizardry to check 'em out? Debbie owes me a favor." He winked. "Or maybe I owe her one. Either way, she ain't gonna talk. She might scream my name, but she ain't gonna talk."
Ryan rubbed his nose. "You ever think about settling down?"
"Like, with one woman? Forever?" He looked heavenward for a moment, as if the skies held the answer. For a moment, his face clouded. Then he grinned. "Nope. Can't see it. Too many fillies out there."
Circling his stiff neck, Ryan couldn't help but grin. Dalton assumed women would do his bidding—and they usually did.
"Tell me why the Phantom has the rumor mill grinding."
"Wish I could, pard. A couple of deals seemed to have his M.O. on them. But like I said before, that's an easy out. Unless he's got a clone or two."
Ryan mulled that one over for a few minutes. "Or he's recruiting? Training others in his methods?"
"Now that's a scary thought." Dalton stretched. "You got anything to drink inside? This is thirsty work."
They went inside, and Ryan opened the refrigerator. "You're in luck, Dalt. Pop delivered a care package the other night." He pulled out a six-pack of Heineken and set it on the counter. "Hungry? How does a turkey sandwich sound?"
"Almost as good as leftover pot roast, I guess."
"Help yourself to a beer." Ryan set to work slicing some turkey and assembling sandwiches.
Dalton hitched a hip onto the corner of the table. "You're lookin' better, man." He popped open two beers and handed one to Ryan. He raised his. "To answers."
Ryan tapped his bottle against Dalton's. "To answers." Despite the cold brew, he felt a warm glow diffuse through him.
"So, tell me," Ryan said around a mouthful of turkey. "If the Phantom isn't the likely suspect, what connects the two assignments? What does a high ranking government official's family in Colombia have in common with art smuggling?"
In Colombia, the Forcadas had been threatened into cooperating with Rafael, a sleazebag drug lord. Uncle Sam had been reluctant to get involved. Ryan comprehended the ways of the drug lords, and understood how those cases could escalate into areas the government didn't want to enter. And how Rafael would want very much to create an example so others wouldn't try to cross him. When everything went south, Ryan had been pissed, but that was always a possibility, no matter what the mission. It was losing the ones they'd been sent to protect that hurt.
But he wondered—not for the first time—or the hundredth—if he'd been too lax on his next assignment, thinking that the mission was trivial, that Blackthorne had given him a trivial op, getting him back on the horse. Stolen paintings and antiquities seemed small potatoes given the global threats of terrorism.
"Talk to me, pard," Dalton said.
"I don't know a lot—and I had no reason not to trust Blackthorne. I was supposed to go to Panama, waltz into this guy's living room, he'd hand over some computer files that would provide information about missing art. For a modest price, of course. Said he'd spent the last twenty years compiling lists—people, places, stuff. You know—crap from the pyramids, paintings the Nazis stole, smuggled pre-Colombian artifacts. Lists of forgeries hanging in museums while the originals are in basements of collectors. Low priority for Uncle Sam's finest, but a nice plug for Blackthorne, Inc.
"At the last minute, the contact calls me and says he has to move the meet. Like who the fuck is going to give a shit about him? But he insists on changing the time and place."
"Know the breed. Pains in the asses, all of them."
"So cl
iché, it would have been funny, but we go to this abandoned warehouse."
Ryan shuddered at the memory. The man's eyes, so dark his irises almost disappeared into his pupils. The tobacco-stained teeth and fingertips. A thick brush of a moustache. The ever-present cigar tubes in his breast pocket. His breath, a mixture of cigars and stale beer.
"And then it was FUBAR. Door slams open. Flash-bangs. I can't see, can't hear. I duck for cover and wait it out."
"Longest ten seconds of your life. Been there."
"Yeah. My contact is screaming, messing with the computers. The intruders are spreading gunfire. I don't give a shit who they are, I shoot back. Got two of them." Ryan rubbed his shoulder. "Third one took a little extra."
He looked up. Dalton took another swig of his beer, waiting. Ryan exhaled and went on.
"Compared to the Colombia gig, this wasn't much."
"Hell it wasn't. You were alone. Why no backup?"
Ryan snorted. "My idea. It was supposed to be a simple transaction. After losing my last team, I insisted on doing it alone. In and out. Like you said, wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. Then, when it went south, extraction was…delayed. Took three days.
"After I left Blackthorne, I tried to connect Alvarez to Rafael. I know I wasn't the leak." He stared at his Heineken. "I thought I could clear my name if I could find a connection between the two. But it's a stretch. Rafael's into cocaine, and Alvarez was using an old meth lab. I haven't found anything to hook Alvarez to any kind of drugs."
"Covered your tracks?"
"Of course. Used the public computers at the Three Elks. Downloaded files to my flash so anything I did here wasn't on line." He noted Dalton's quizzical expression. "And, yes, I have virus protection, and yes, I still have Blackthorne's magic program, although the best anyone could do would be to trace the searches to the bar." Ryan drained the bottle and set it down. "So, does anyone know what Alvarez's files were supposed to be if they're not smuggled art?"
