He might have a few minutes. Whoever had instigated his transfer expected he would accept it, so there might not have been time to get assassins on his trail yet. He wouldn’t have much time, though.
Time for what? To get to Malinche, of course. To head off the danger closing in on her. He wasn’t the primary target. Malinche was the instigator, the one who refused to give up. They couldn’t persuade her to leave, they couldn’t intimidate her. A cold chill settled in his heart. They had only one other option—to kill her.
His hands trembled as he switched on the ignition. He had to reach her in time. He cursed his pride and stupidity. He had been a complete fool to leave her. He’d been thinking that ever since he left her, but when Pasco told him he was to leave Anchorage without even a chance to say goodbye, he’d known with deep certainty that he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. He had known in the depth of his being that it was simply impossible.
He had fought his love for her, sure it would bring him pain in the future. Pain there might be, but the future without her was worse than pain. It was dark, endless agony. It was living with the knowledge that he’d had a chance for happiness and that cowardice had kept him from seizing it.
Sweat beaded his forehead, and he pressed harder on the accelerator. If it wasn’t already too late. He had acted like a jealous child because Buck Adams had left another man to protect her. Now he could only pray that man was competent.
MALINCHE AWOKE that morning with the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Drugged by the sleeping pill, it took a moment for the full remembrance to flood back. She knew what was causing her despair, her feeling that nothing would ever be right again. Brian was gone.
But she wouldn’t lie here whining about it; crying never helped. She had some difficult decisions to make. About Brian himself, of course, there was no decision to make. He had made the decision; he was gone. Probably, when she’d had time to think about it, she would realize it was for the best.
Brian had told her to go back to Seattle. He had rejected her. And just as well. His decision was right for her as well as him. Wild passion, even love, wasn’t enough to heal the wounds life had dealt them both. She had been diverted, but her real priority was to discover her place in the world.
She would get over Brian. Or maybe she wouldn’t, but she could learn to banish his memory to where it wasn’t a constant, lacerating pain. As it was now.
What was she going to do about Dimitri? Hadn’t she done everything she could, everything any reasonable person would expect? Everyone insisted that she drop it and get on with her life. Possibly they were right.
At a sharp knock on her door, she flung aside the comforter. Tying her robe around her waist, she padded to the door, trying to ignore the sliver of hope that quickened her pulse. Had Brian come back to apologize? She cracked open the door, leaving the chain in place.
Her heart fell. Her landlady, Mrs. Penman, stood outside the door, arms folded across her chest, her scarlet robe contrasting with the improbably blond hair. Malinche had never seen her before without makeup; she had never seen her so outraged before, either.
“Mrs. Penman—”
“I knew I never should have rented to a lone woman.” The landlady’s tone was as belligerent as her stance. “But you seemed quiet enough. Now, I think I’d better lay down some rules around here.”
Malinche repressed her impulse to fire back. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Penman?”
“Is something wrong! It’s impossible for anyone to get any sleep around here. Since you’ve been back from that trip, there’s been nothing but one commotion after another. First it was your boyfriend dragging that fellow out of the car and nearly beating him to death. Then there was the argument—”
“Argument?” Malinche gave the woman a cool look. The only way Mrs. Penman could have known about her and Brian’s disagreement was if she’d had her ear up against the wall. “I’d hardly call a private discussion an argument.”
Mrs. Penman blushed at the word private, but doggedly held her ground. “It wasn’t so much the argument. I don’t appreciate your boyfriend coming around at night, trying to force his way into your apartment.”
“Force his way in!” Malinche fell back a few steps into her apartment, taking the chain off the hook and opening the door. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Penman followed her in. “Your problems are between yourselves, but I figured if you wanted him in, he’d have a key—not be trying to jimmy the door or tear off the window screen. I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I told him anymore of that and I’d call the police.”
All the blood seemed to drain from Malinche’s head. She put out a trembling hand to steady herself. Someone had tried to break in. She could have been killed in her drugged sleep.
She rushed to pull back the drapes. What was Buck’s sentry doing while this was going on? The gray sedan was parked exactly where it had been the night before. She could make out the outline of the man slumped behind the wheel. He’d probably been asleep all night. Wait until she told Buck about this!
She turned shakily from the window. “Mrs. Penman, I’m really sorry that your sleep was disturbed. Did you get a look at this man? I don’t think it was my—boyfriend.”
“He kept well back in the shadows. I just assumed that was who it was. And I yelled at him through the door—I didn’t actually go out in the hall to confront him. I told him I had a gun and that I’m a good shot—which I am. I couldn’t identify him.”
She shuddered, suddenly looking vulnerable and frail. “I don’t mind telling you, even though I didn’t get a good look at him, something about him scared me. I heard him cursing and—I wouldn’t want a man like that after me. If it was you boyfriend, you’d better think twice, dearie.”
“He wasn’t” But if not Brian, who? The answer was simple. Whoever had been pursuing them for the past week hadn’t given up.
There was such a thing as courage. There was also such a thing as stupidity. No one, not even Dimitri, could say she hadn’t tried. But she had lost, and now she might lose her life. She’d been lucky so far. How long could blind luck last?
She hadn’t been successful at anything, not her relationship with Brian, not with finding her roots, not running down her brother’s cold-blooded killer; she was only getting innocent people in trouble. It was time to go home.
There was one last thing she had to do before she went back to Seattle. She spent a few more minutes talking with Mrs. Penman. Then, blinded by tears, she took her suitcase down from the closet shelf.
THE MAN IN the dark van shifted on his seat and scowled, beating his hand rhythmically on the dash. How he would love to get his hands around that busybody landlady’s neck. Oh, he’d thought about it, but, as precarious as things were, she wasn’t worth the trouble.
Still, the night hadn’t been wasted. He had put the pressure on and Kennedy was out of the way. Even if the man knew something, he’d be out of the game in Indonesia. The rest should have been simple; just slide into the woman’s room and take care of the loose end.
He hadn’t planned to kill her there and have all of Adams’s minions after him. A disappearance would do just fine. Lots of suspicions, nothing proven. He knew ways to dispose of a body so it would never be found.
He should have been more careful with disposing of that fool Stanislof. He’d never dreamed anyone would find the body until the elements had done their work. And that other snooping Native, Charlie something. The ice floe should have crushed him beyond recognition and carried him out to sea. And who would have thought Kennedy and the damned girl would be rescued from the ice? He’d been unlucky, and it was past time for a change.
He’d thought it all through carefully before he made his move on Malinche. The man Adams had stationed outside the apartment was so easy to dispose of it was laughable. No one would put up a fuss about a man like him. Then, into the apartment with a needle, drug her unconscious—
But that nosy old
woman spoiled everything. Yelling at him, saying she would call the cops. If she had just once stepped out into the hall, he could have silenced her forever.
But it wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. Kennedy was out of the way, and Malinche had to leave the house sometime. When she did, he would dispose of her, and this time he wouldn’t miss. And all the landlady could say was that she left the house on her own.
Suddenly he snapped to attention, a bird dog on point. The door to the apartment opened and Malinche came swiftly down the walk, carrying a suitcase. A great stillness came over him, a concentration of purpose, a calm certainty that this was going to be the time.
He watched her enter her vehicle and back out of the driveway, then drive down the street. He edged the van out onto the street and followed about a block behind her.
BRIAN’S JEEP SCREECHED to a stop in front of Malinche’s apartment. His tension eased as he saw the gray sedan still parked half a block away. The man, Jerry Smith, was still here, and he wouldn’t be if anything had happened to Malinche. He would be following, calling Adams, something.
Perhaps he should reconnoiter before barging in on Malinche, and find out if Smith had seen any activity. As he drew closer, he saw the man was slumped over the wheel. If the bastard was dozing when he should be watching, he’d kill him! He strode quickly to the vehicle and swung open the door.
The man toppled out onto the grass at his feet.
Brian stared down at what had been Jerry Smith. The man’s face was twisted in a horrible grimace, and his throat was slit nearly ear to ear. Blood—what seemed like gallons of blood—covered the body, dripped off onto the green grass where it sparkled like garnets in the morning sun.
The sight acted like a shot of adrenaline. Brian raced up the walk, flung open the door, and rushed into the hallway.
He skidded to a halt in front of her door. It was closed. He stilled his panting, listening for movement. Not a sound came from inside the apartment. He tried the door. Locked.
“Malinche! Malinche! Open up!” Desperate, he pounded on the frame door until it rattled on its hinges.
He’d have to break it down. He had to get to her immediately. If she was hurt or—He tried to keep the possibility out of his mind, but it screamed in defiance. She might be dead.
He didn’t hear the door open down the hall, and was hardly aware of the hand pulling sharply on his sleeve, until he heard an angry voice close to his ear.
“Here, now, that’s enough of that!”
Dazed, he turned to face a tall blond woman with a formidable expression and a revolver in her hand. He sucked in his breath; it was pointed right at him.
He let his hands fall to his sides. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
The woman took her time scrutinizing him, then slowly lowered the gun. “You must be the boyfriend, not the other one.”
“The other one?” Fear fought with frustration, as he waited for her to go on.
“I recognize you. You were the one who dragged that poor fellow out of the car. Miss Adams said you were all right, that it was someone else who tried to break into her place last night.”
“Tried to break in?” He clenched his fists, wishing he had someone to hit. “Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?” He’d like to wipe that smug smile off her face, but she was the only one who could give him a clue about what had happened. He took a huge breath, and gave her a charming smile. “Did she happen to say where she was going?”
“Not exactly. But I’m sure she won’t be back. She asked me to sell all her stuff.”
“Then she must have planned on going back to Seattle.” He had never known a man could feel so cold, so hopeless. She would be safe there, with Buck to protect her, but it didn’t assuage his feeling of utter loneliness, his knowledge that he had missed his chance at happiness. But at least she would be safe.
“I guess so,” the landlady said. “She did mention that she had to go someplace else first.”
“Where? Did she say where?” He grabbed her arm.
She shook him off. “Not exactly.” Her shrewd eyes measured him, as though deciding how much she should tell. Apparently, he passed. “She did ask me what was the best way to get to Ward Cove. I told her probably a flight into Ketchikan, and then a rented car.”
Good God, she wasn’t safe at all. She might be heading right into the lion’s den. He whirled around and headed towards the door.
“There’s another thing,” the landlady called out, stopping him midstride. “I don’t know if it means anything, but a van has been parked in the neighborhood for a couple of days. Didn’t belong to the folks who owned the house where it was parked. It pulled out right behind her. It might have been following her.”
Brian didn’t wait for another word. “There’s a body out on the grass,” he called over his shoulder. “You’d better call the police.”
He was halfway out the door when he heard her sharp intake of breath. He leaped into his Jeep and burned rubber toward his plane.
Chapter Sixteen
Malinche pointed her rented Buick Regal north on the Tongass highway out of Ketchikan on the way to Ward Cove. This bustling development wasn’t what she had expected in what had once been a desolate, forsaken stretch of shoreline. She passed the docks where the big cruise ships landed, then a modern shopping center. At Tongass Narrows, she glanced down at a floatplane dock where several small planes rocked restlessly.
The sight reminded her of Brian. Not that he had ever been out of her mind. What would he think when he found her gone? At the time, she’d thought only of fleeing and leaving her problems behind. Perhaps she should have said goodbye, but she didn’t think she was capable of it without collapsing in a soggy mess.
Not that it mattered; it might be days before he even knew she was gone. After all, she had asked him to leave. He had taken her at her word, might even be feeling relief. She would forget about him, get on with her life, as soon as she had made this last pilgrimage, this final attempt to reconcile her conflicts. She had to say goodbye to her mother and brother and all they represented.
The area was so built up that she might not even find the ancient cannery. Perhaps it had long ago been demolished. Most of what might have been canneries were now renovated, modern buildings.
But had they really exorcised the old ghosts, stilled the long-dead voices? She drove half a mile farther on, then left her car parked along the road and walked toward the water through a stand of Sitka spruce. Breaking through the undergrowth, she came upon a gap in the development along the shore: no businesses, no campgrounds, no monuments. The scene before her looked just as it might have fifty years ago.
She walked a few feet farther and gazed down on the sea from the top of a low bluff. The tide was out, exposing a deserted rocky shoreline that faded into an expanse of dark gray mud.
But this spot hadn’t always been deserted. Her pulse quickened as she saw the skeleton of an ancient building stretched out toward the sea. Deserted, dilapidated, it was apparently too far gone to be restored; it remained a solemn monument to the past. Could this be the site of the original cannery, the forlorn remains of the building that had housed the displaced Aleuts?
She stood motionless, opening her heart to the feelings that washed over her, willing the past to come alive. Had her mother, a mere child, scrounged along that shore for the clams that were all she had to eat? Had Dimitri, not knowing what the future held, been there, too? Had the children known each other? The coincidence wouldn’t have been so strange. Most of the Aleuts had been in the camp. Did she really hear the muted sound of voices, or was it the wind sobbing over the water? Such a miasma of sadness rose from the scene that she raised her hand to brush the tears from her eyes.
“Yes, it is a place of evil.” The voice came from right beside her.
She whirled, clutching her chest. An old man stood there, clothed in the Native dress of the Aleut. Where had he come from? She had been
so immersed in thought that she hadn’t noticed his approach. Stooped and fragile, his face as wrinkled as a dried apricot, he seemed as ancient and eternal as the tide.
He gazed down at the devastated building. His attention wasn’t on her, but on the panorama below.
“You know this place?” She whispered, as though not to disturb the sleeping ghosts.
He nodded. “I know it well. I was among those taken here by the army when the Japanese threatened our homes. The building is mostly gone now—destroyed, like everything else.” His voice held no bitterness, only quiet acceptance.
“How horrible that they forced you to leave your home.”
“It wasn’t done maliciously.” He gazed at the remnants of the cannery, seeing something she would never see. “They thought it was for our own good. Then they forgot about us, leaving us here in the cold, with no food Many died. They had other things on their minds, I guess.”
“How can you bear to come back here?”
“My wife died here,” he said simply. “I come back often to speak to her. Sometimes she doesn’t answer…sometimes I hear her calling in the wind.”
His pain was so real, so immediate, that Malinche couldn’t find words. Anything she said would sound pretentious, patronizing. For several minutes they stood together staring down at the site of so much past misery.
“Did you know my mother?” she asked finally. “Tara Markof? She would have been just a child. And a young boy, Dimitri Stanislof?”
She waited as the old man thought back through over fifty years of his memory. “Oh, yes,” he finally said. “A little girl, Tara. An orphan. We all did what we could but it was hard for everybody. And I remember Dimitri and his mother. Marie, she was called. A beautiful woman. She helped the little girl Tara escape when some Indians wandered close by and agreed to take her. She saved the child’s life, I suppose. The odds were that she would starve. And Dimitri, very quiet, very sad. I don’t think he spoke a word after his mother was killed.”
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