Moonrise

by Anne Stuart

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Her sudden acceptance brought all his usual suspicions into play. People weren’t as straightforward, as honest, as trusting as Annie Sutherland seemed to be. She’d probably stick a knife in his back before they were halfway to the car.

  Or at least she could try. If Mary Margaret Hanover couldn’t take him, then Annie Sutherland wouldn’t be able to either. He half hoped she’d go for him. Then he wouldn’t have to think about it, wouldn’t have to decide. It would tie matters up quite neatly.

  But life wasn’t made of neat packages. She followed him down the stairs, and while half of him was tempted to push her up against a wall and run his hands over her, to make sure she wasn’t carrying a weapon, the other half knew the worst thing he could do was to touch her.

  He headed out onto the front porch. There were three corpses out back there. If he just kept her going straight down the path that paralleled the ocean, she would never know what had gone on here this morning.

  “Aren’t you going to pack?” she demanded.

  “Don’t worry about me, Annie,” he said, waiting for her. “I can take care of myself.”

  She shrugged, stepping off the porch. And then her perfect, freckled nose wrinkled in sudden distaste. “What’s that smell?”

  “There are some pretty rank tropical flowers growing around here. That’s probably the blood lily you’re smelling.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “They’re endangered.”

  “Good thing,” Annie muttered. “Anyway, it smells more like a septic tank.”

  She was too damned observant. “There’s that too,” he said. “Are you going to stand around sniffing the toxic waste or are you coming with me?”

  “I’m coming with you,” she muttered. “Whether I want to or not, I trust you.”

  For some reason he didn’t find that reassuring.

  * * *

  He had had the strangest expression on his face when he’d come up on her in the bedroom, Annie thought as she trudged along behind him, the tiny cottage receding in the distance. It had been dreamy, erotic, and oddly threatening, and it had taken all her force of mind to say something sharp.

  It had vanished, that expression, and she’d let out her breath. It was only now, following him through the thick undergrowth, that she realized how unnerving it had been. His black, empty eyes staring down at her, his hand upraised.

  Had he been about to make a pass at her? It was the only logical explanation, and she was experienced enough to recognize that part of the tension that stretched between them was probably sexual. She didn’t want to remember thinking of James in a sexual light. She was much safer thinking of him as older, unthreatening, as she had for the past few years. For a while she’d even wondered if he was politely, discreetly gay, but then she’d decided he didn’t have even that outlet.

  For some reason it had been important to her to see James in an asexual light. Plight now, looking at his strong back, she wondered how she’d ever managed to do it. Memories tugged at the back of her mind, things she wasn’t ready to remember. She’d had no more than an adolescent crush on him, for heaven’s sake, one she’d outgrown swiftly enough when she met a real man, an appropriate man for her. Even if it hadn’t worked out, her marriage to Martin had been reasonable.

  She looked ahead at James, and a stray shiver crept over her. She didn’t want to remember. James was empty. Soulless. He was a machine, one of Win’s making.

  Once more she tried to shut off that disloyal thought. Those harsh judgments were creeping in when she least expected it, and no matter how vigilant she was in trying to wipe them out, they always trickled back, in new and disturbing form.

  Her father hadn’t been a saint, for God’s sake. He’d been a clever, admittedly manipulative man, good at controlling his surroundings and making everyone dance to his tune. Annie had been his puppet, and so had James. But the puppet master was gone, the strings were cut. And she was still struggling to stay upright.

  “James,” she said. “Who do you think killed my father?”

  She waited for him to deny it again. He kept walking, his gait smooth and graceful. “Someone he loved,” he said finally. “No one else could’ve gotten close.”

  Annie sucked in her breath. Round one. “Do you think he knew?”

  James glanced back over his shoulder. “Without a doubt,” he said. And he walked on, head bent, shoulders taut.

  Chapter Five

  He didn’t drink on the plane. She noticed that right off, though she had the tact not to mention it. Their seats were first-class, the liquor flowed freely, and James McKinley drank mineral water, without lime.

  Annie was amazed at how efficiently he’d got them there. The hike to the car had been the worst part, what with mosquitoes ravaging her skin, that awful stink lingering in the air, overpowering the fresh ocean breeze. He hadn’t allowed her to take her time, and it wasn’t until she was safely buckled into the front seat of the plain gray sedan that her instincts came alive.

  “What’s back at the house?” she asked.

  James had already started the car, and he pulled into the narrow, rutted road without glancing in either direction, driving too damned fast. He didn’t answer her, but she saw him glance down at the clock on the dashboard.

  “James.”

  “What?”

  “What’s back at the house?”

  An explosion answered her question. The force of it shook the road, sending the car skittering sideways before James ruthlessly straightened it. He didn’t waste a look at the billowing tower of smoke in the distance where his cottage had been.

  Annie swallowed her shock. The cool efficiency of it was almost worse than the destruction, and she felt anxiety eating into her stomach. It took her a moment to speak.

  “Wasn’t that a little extreme?” She managed to sound deceptively wry.

  “No,” James said. After an endless moment he continued. “There’s always the remote possibility that they’ll think we died in the explosion. At least it’ll slow them down for a while.”

  “What are you talking about? Slow who down?”

  He did turn to look at her then, and she almost wished he hadn’t. “The people who killed your father. Isn’t that what this is all about? You said you wanted to find out. You put yourself right in the middle of it when you came down to find me, and now there’s no backing out. This is the way the game is played, Annie. Time to grow up and face the music.”

  “I don’t feel like dancing.”

  “It’s a funeral dirge.”

  After that she hadn’t said a word. They’d taken a small boat off the island, and he’d handled it with the same cool dexterity with which he did everything, and she’d followed him blindly.

  This was the third plane they’d been on that day. He’d paid for this one with an American Express gold card under a name she’d never heard before. She’d said nothing.

  But now, as they flew into the sunset, she took a glass of cool champagne, downed it in one gulp, and stared at the man sitting next to her.

  “Why are we flying west? I thought we were going to Washington. Last I knew, it was on the East Coast. Or has the CIA managed to change things around?”

  “I’d watch my mouth if I were you,” he said pleasantly enough, but there was no missing the light of warning in his eyes. “You never know who might be listening.”

  “I don’t believe in your Cold War paranoia.”

  “You don’t have to. You just have to do as I say.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To find the answers. We’ll start in Los Angeles and go from there.”

  “Any particular reason for the detour? Or is it just that three planes in one day aren’t enough for you?” She reached out for the second glass of champagne, knowing she shouldn’t do it. She was too tired, too edgy, too hungry to be scarfing down champagne.

  “I like-southern California.”


  “You always said you hated it. I remember you and Win bemoaning the fact that you were going to have spend three months there.”

  “You have too good a memory,” he said casually. “I lied.”

  “When? Now or then?”

  “All the time, Annie,” he said gently. “All the time.”

  It took five glasses of champagne to put her to sleep. He was about ready to give her a little help—the CIA version of the Spock pinch—when she finally closed those damnably astute blue eyes of hers.

  Damn, she was trouble. It didn’t matter how tired she was, how much pressure he brought to bear. With Win’s death the veil had been lifted, and she saw everything he didn’t want her to see.

  He could have used a little of that free champagne himself. Scratch that—he could have used a couple of bottles of the stuff, washed down with a fifth of tequila. He didn’t dare touch anything harder than Pellegrino.

  He was back in the real world now. On the island he had controlled his environment. No one could get close to him without him knowing. But now the cottage and at least a half dozen surrounding acres were toast, including all trace of his most recent visitors. And he had brought Annie out, into a danger he was no longer certain he could handle.

  There was a piece of the puzzle missing, he was sure of it, but for the past few months he simply hadn’t given a damn. He’d holed up, just waiting for them to send someone after him, and he’d kept his mind and his memories successfully dulled. He hadn’t wanted to remember, not the night of April second, or the nagging questions that surrounded it.

  He didn’t want to think about how he’d got there in the first place. The organization, small, quiet, efficient, meting out justice and cleaning up political messes where overt organizations were helpless. He had done his share, never realizing he was part and parcel of making things worse.

  All the tequila in Mexico couldn’t burn that knowledge from his brain, and then Annie showed up, and all those questions flared into the open again.

  Win Sutherland hadn’t been alone. In his schemes, his tricks, his games. In his lucrative little sideline, ordering death for the right price and sending out his loyal minions. His stooges.

  Carew might be fool enough to think the organization had stopped with Win’s death. James knew better. Up to now he hadn’t given a shit. Let them all keep killing one another. He was out of it, just waiting for someone good enough and fast enough to finish him.

  But everything had changed. He wasn’t through yet. He couldn’t just let it go and let them sort things out, not with Annie poking her nose into things. He couldn’t count on Martin to protect her—he was good, but he’d never done any wet work. As far as James knew, he probably couldn’t even shoot a gun. He’d be no protection at all for those who’d come after Annie.

  So he was back, whether he wanted to be or not. And this time he wasn’t going to let go until he found the answers. He’d take Carew by his scrawny little throat and force him to tell him everything. Carew wanted him dead, just as Win’s associates did. At least he could bargain with Carew for a cease-fire. Just long enough to find the answers.

  What the hell was that stupid embroidery Annie kept yammering about? Probably a red herring, or maybe some kind of code. He wished he could just ignore it, concentrate on whom Win had seen last, where he’d been.

  But he was good at his profession. And he knew he couldn’t afford to discount anything, even some tacky “luck o’ the Irish” wall hanging.

  He needed answers, and he wasn’t going to stop until he got them. Knowledge was power. Knowledge was control and a faint modicum of safety. He doubted he could buy his own safety, but he might be able to buy a life for the tart-tongued woman sleeping so soundly beside him. With luck, it just might be enough.

  “We’ve got a problem, sir.”

  “So what the hell else is new?” the general snapped. It was early evening, but this time the office was far from deserted. The man standing opposite him had an ostensible reason for his visit, but one that wouldn’t hold up to too much scrutiny. It had to be something pretty damned bad to get him over here. “You’re going to tell me McKinley got away, aren’t you? I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I’m not sure. The place blew up, and we haven’t been able to contact our operatives yet. With any luck Hanover will have set it and taken care of both of them.”

  “Who says we can expect luck in this business?” the General said sourly. “McKinley’s an expert in explosives—better than Hanover ever was.”

  “Was, sir?”

  “You may not be sure, son, but I am. Your people are gone. McKinley got away again, damn his eyes. And he probably took Sutherland’s daughter with him. We’re in deep shit, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The General leaned back with a weary sigh. He was getting too old for this. It was time to think of more pleasant battles to be won. He had his future all nicely mapped out for himself. He’d start small—secretary of defense maybe. He knew how to twist arms, how to grease palms—he was a consummate politician as well as tactician, and he’d been working on his public image all his life. It was time for it to pay off. His lucrative sideline had gone bust—he was a smart man and he knew when it was time to cut his losses. There was the future to look forward to. He wouldn’t settle for less than complete power. Preferably chief of staff. Or maybe the lesser job of president.

  But he wasn’t getting anywhere near the White House with a loose cannon like McKinley waiting to go off. He had to make sure there were no skeletons rattling in his closet. And McKinley’s bones were already making a hell of a racket.

  “All right, son,” he said heavily. “I’ll take it from here.”

  The yuppie scum in his damned Italian suit and too long hair looked surprised. “Sir?”

  He wouldn’t have lasted a week in the old army. Of course, with the new one, chock-a-block full of women and faggots, he’d probably fit right in.

  “I’ve got alternatives. You’ve failed, son. Time to let an old soldier take over.”

  He didn’t like that, the General thought with cool amusement. But he knew there wasn’t a blessed thing he could do about it. There were times, he thought, when life could still be sweet. And squashing an Ivy League dickhead was one of those moments.

  “I’ll have McKinley and the girl taken care of. Don’t you worry your head about it,” he added grandly. “You can stop wringing your hands.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, son?”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate McKinley if I were you. They don’t call him Dr. Death for nothing.”

  The General frowned. The boy didn’t stay squashed for long. “I think you can count on me to handle him. I have resources unconnected to your little operation. McKinley won’t be expecting it. As soon as I find out where he is, I’ll have him and the girl taken out.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “You sound doubtful, son. Would you care to place a little bet?”

  The man grimaced. “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Think it’s in bad taste, do you, boy?”

  “No, sir. I just don’t make bets that I think I might lose.”

  The General leaned back, suddenly more in charity with the world. “You’re a smart man. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I’d appreciate that, sir.”

  Dickhead, the General thought genially as the door closed behind him. But a damned clever one at that.

  He moved her through customs swiftly, and she stumbled after him, temporarily obedient, unable or unwilling to ask any more questions, put up any more arguments. He expected that if it had been up to her, she would have stayed asleep the moment the plane landed and let him cart her around over his shoulder.

  But he would have put his hands on her, and that might have been a very big mistake for both of them. She was exhausted and not quite sober, and while he shared the first condition, he would have given anything to share the second.

  Clancy was w
aiting for them at the prearranged spot, and the moment he caught sight of McKinley he started toward the exit, secure in the knowledge that they’d follow at a discreet distance. Annie didn’t murmur more than a token protest when he put her in the backseat of an aging Toyota and then closed the door after her, taking the front seat beside Clancy. He could feel her glaring at the back of his head as they pulled into the pre-dawn traffic, and he glanced at her. “Go to sleep, Annie. Everything’s under control.”

  She didn’t say a word. She simply lay back and closed her eyes, but McKinley wasn’t fooled. He had no doubt she would listen to every word they said.

  Clancy kept his gaze glued to the road. “Who is she?”

  McKinley considered his various answers. He was tired himself, and the memory of the brief, efficient blood bath that morning still lingered in the hidden recesses of his brain. Haunting him, as it always did. “Someone I’m sleeping with,” he said in an offhand voice.

  “I don’t buy that. You never let your cock tell you what to do, and you wouldn’t have brought her along unless you had a reason.”

  “You really want to know, Clancy?”

  He watched Clancy consider it. He’d been in the business for more than ten years, but for the past three he’d been retired, providing occasional consulting services and living off his pension. Win had kept his operatives and their targets carefully segregated, but occasionally their paths would cross. James had run across Clancy in Panama, each on separate missions, sent by the same man. Both stained with blood.

  Clancy had been the pragmatic one. It was a living, and none of the people he’d taken out was of any benefit to the world. They caused far more harm than good, and Clancy figured he was doing society a favor.

  James couldn’t see it quite so clearly. That Catholic guilt haunting him. The memory of a corpse-strewn square, and women crying, lingered in some dark part of his mind.