by Gayle Lynds
But she brushed the fear away. Again in the dark underground of sightlessness, she concentrated, her heightened senses alert. She heard no footsteps or any other sound to make her think the police knew about the only door on this side of the nineteenth-century mansion.
She poked out her head and looked quickly around.
The alley ran to the left and right, ending in streets. To the right was the front of the mansion. For the moment, the alley was empty both ways. She started to step out, and suddenly remembered the CIA man's shouted warning. Get rid of that blazer!
She looked down and saw how white it was in the black night. She peeled it off and threw it back into the basement. Then she stepped out and raced away to the left, to the safety of the street at the back of the grounds.
23
The cold pierced Julia's thin blouse as she tore down the shadowy alley. Opposite the mansion towered two tall apartment houses. Leaves crunched beneath her feet. The air was sharp with the odors of asphalt and the dismal damp of approaching winter. Ahead, cars rolled past on the street. She saw no police cruisers nor uniformed officers. As she pounded on, she said a silent prayer they were occupied in the house and grounds. That they were hammering down the door to the cellar. That she still had time to escape—
Urgently she glanced back over her shoulder. The alley remained clear.
She rushed on, her footsteps light. All the years of running on tracks and treadmills had given her an easy rhythm that she fell into without thinking. To her left the mansion ended and the tall wall that protected the greenhouse began. Dead vines climbed the wall ghostly and skeletal, a few brittle leaves clinging, still hoping for life.
As she neared the alley's opening, she slowed, panting. Her pulse throbbed into her ears. She took hold, calmed herself. And began to walk. She didn't want to attract attention. She returned again to the question of how the killer had become her companion. Was her name really "Norma Kinsley"? The killer must've known somehow that Julia had witnessed her mother's death, because there was no other reason Julia could see for her to have followed all the way from London to New York.
Julia needed to go back to Oyster Bay. To talk to Mrs. Roberts at the village service—
As she was thinking that, she heard something odd. . . or sensed it.
A sound. Perhaps movement. To her left beneath the wall's overhang where the thick vines formed a shadow so deep and black that—
And she smelled it. It was faint, a whiff in the crisp night air. Norma's perfume!
Terror jolted her. Just fifteen feet away the street waited with its chance of safety. As if a blow had struck her from behind, she leaped forward, heart thundering, running with every ounce of energy she had toward the protection of cars and people.
Maya Stern had patiently watched Austrian approach. Her finger ached to press her .38's trigger. Then she'd seen her victim make an abrupt movement that told her somehow Austrian knew she was there.
Stern leaped out as Austrian burst past. Inwardly she cursed. It would've been so easy to just put a bullet between her eyes as soon as she'd seen her. Now it was complicated because she had to first catch Austrian, then put the gun to her temple, fire, let her drop, and press the unmarked .38 into her hand. These were Creighton's orders. And she always did precisely what Creighton wanted.
Julia saw the killer from the corners of her eyes. Thank God she could see! Fright rocked her. She put on a burst of speed, but—
Stern's shoulder slammed into her back.
The force of the blow sent sheets of white light to Julia's head. She gasped and blasted forward, sliding on her hands down the alley as if it were ice and not the age-worn cobblestones that raked her palms. Her hands! She couldn't lose the use of her hands!
She scrambled up, but the killer threw a muscled arm around her chest and yanked her back. Abruptly the ice-cold steel of a pistol's muzzle dug into her temple—
In his Durango, Sam Keeline patrolled the streets around Brice Redmond's mansion. Two police cars were parked out front, so he guessed he was in the right place. Or at least the same place the police had figured the Austrian woman would run. He'd taken out his pistol and set it in the well between the front seats, just in case.
He drove around the block a half-dozen times. Redmond's stately old mansion took up half of it . High-class apartment buildings occupied the rest. A few pedestrians were out walking their dogs, hailing taxis, and hustling along in their winter coats for Saturday rendezvous at nearby restaurants.
Deep in his belly, Sam had misgivings. What was he getting into? Maybe he should stop. Maybe, as Pink had said, his gonads were overpowering his brains. It was true that he'd had endless girlfriends since he'd transferred back to Langley, but he'd needed them, a source of human comfort and pleasant sex without the pain of love.
If Austrian was a killer, what business did he have interfering with her arrest?
He decided to make one last round. He turned the wheel, drove a hundred feet, and outrage instantly flooded him. Illuminated in his headlights were two women frozen in a clutch just inside the alley. One was Austrian, her gorgeous face twisted in fear and outrage. Again he was struck by something compelling about her.
And the other woman—Now he remembered. He'd seen that one leave the subway. But he'd thought she was one of the city's homeless with her derelict clothes and misshapen face. There wasn't just one woman chasing Austrian. There were two!
At the same instant he took all this in, he saw the gun pressed against Austrian's head. Both women had shifted their gazes to his car as he'd paused it at the alley. Their eyes caught the light of his headlamps and reflected back to him like mirrors.
They were momentarily blinded. He had to do something before the woman pulled the trigger. The past swept over him like an icy wind, reminding him of failure. Of Irini's terrible death. He shrugged it away. He hit his accelerator and powered forward, aiming his bumper straight at the two women.
One moment Julia was struggling, trying to break free. And the next she was flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. A huge red car loomed to her right. The heat from its motor steamed the air. But Julia couldn't move. She panted with terror. A pistol was in her face, the cold barrel inches from her mouth. Unconsciously she tried to press away, back into the cobblestones. Her hands burned and ached, but she hardly felt the pain, so intent was she on the gun and the killer holding it.
For a few seconds Julia didn't recognize her. The face was dirty and lopsided, and the nose was too broad for her other features. But the eyes were the same—black granite, calculating. The eyes of her mother's killer. And there was the faint perfume.
Why didn't she shoot? "Who are you? How did you know I was here?"
The killer's finger seemed to depress the trigger. Fury radiated from her. For a moment she almost seemed to shudder with frustration. The big car's door slammed open. Despite the sound, the killer's gaze never wavered.
Her voice was low, controlled. "Next time, you're dead. Count on it."
Sam Keeline leaped out of the Durango, the motor still running. He tore around the car. Austrian was pushing herself up. She was alive, he saw with immediate relief. He wanted to know whether she was hurt, but first—
Where was the other woman? He bolted around his big car to the other side. Disappointed, he saw she was sprinting down the block, already too far ahead to catch.
He studied her. She ran just like the woman who'd first been chasing Austrian down Park and Lex. She had the same rhythmic movements, the same muscular velocity. He nodded. He understood: She was in disguise. So there weren't two women who wanted Austrian. There was just a single, very clever, well-trained one. And it was obvious she'd been trying either to kidnap Austrian . . . or to kill her.
For a few seconds longer Sam stood motionless in the street, considering what it all meant. Then he turned just in time to see Austrian's slender body crawl up into the driver's seat of the Durango. Her hips in the dark trousers were lean and provocat
ive. She quietly closed the door.
The motor was still on. She was trying to steal his car.
Furious, he dashed for the driver's door. Inside he could see her frantically searching for a way to make the electric locks work. She was pushing buttons and looking all around, her lower lip trapped in concentration by small white teeth. He yanked the handle and pulled. She grabbed the door, held on, and with a sudden click he heard the tumblers fall into place.
He glared. "Open up! I want to help you!"
She ignored him. She was looking down, examining the stick shift. Her golden brown hair was a tangled cloud. He was riveted by what she was doing, and outrage filled him. She tried to yank the stick into the next notch, but her foot didn't depress the clutch. Didn't even touch it. A high-pitched grind radiated from beneath the hood.
She didn't know how to operate a standard transmission.
Worried about his car, he hammered on the window. "Dammit! Stop!"
She yanked the transmission into gear. The car lurched. The engine died. There was the unmistakable odor of something overheating.
Sam groaned. "You're killing my car. Unlock this door. What are you afraid of? I just saved your life, dammit!"
She looked at him then. There was fear in her blue eyes, but something more, too. Fury and determination, he decided. And it was probably a good thing. Maybe it'd kept her alive the last two hours.
"Who are you?" she demanded through the closed window.
"Keeline!" he shouted back. "CIA. I told you that back on Seventieth!" He could tell she remembered because her eyelids flickered, but she wasn't ready to relent.
"What do you want?"
"To keep our appointment—" And then he went rigid. "Cops," he murmured against the windowpane.
Her head rotated. A blue-and-white cruiser had pulled alongside the alley. Two uniformed police officers jumped out. Their put their hands on the pistols lashed to their belts. With grim faces, they strode straight for the stalled Dodge Durango.
24
Sam glanced at Austrian. She'd dipped her head over the front seat as if searching for something in her purse. Except she didn't have a purse, and Sam could see her shoulders were trembling under her thin silk blouse. She was cold, afraid, and biding her face. He felt a moment of compassion.
He sighed. He hoped he wouldn't regret what he was about to do.
He turned on his heel, put on a smile, and walked purposefully toward the two approaching police officers. "Can we help you?"
The younger of the pair said, "We were just wondering the same about you." His scrubbed face was earnest, as if he'd just gotten out of the academy and the criminal justice system was, for the time being at least, paradise. His voice showed his good training: It was no-nonsense. "What's going on here?"
Sam picked up his pace. The farther from the Durango he could meet them the better. As he walked, he rapidly scrutinized the pair. He needed to make up a story to tell them, and it had to be good. Hell, with all the insanity tonight he might as well put in for a transfer at the Company—go back into the field.
He said, "I appreciate your concern, officers."
The three of them stopped about six feet from the Durango and Julia Austrian.
Sam smiled, letting an abashed expression take over his face. He knew his sandy hair had fallen onto his forehead and that he looked disheveled from chasing the woman with the gun. Now he hoped his weary appearance would back up his words.
He smiled again. "I'm sorry. The wife and I . . . well, to put it bluntly . . . she's pregnant. And you know how pregnant women get. She started to throw up, so I stopped the car for her to get some air. Then she got mad at me. Are you married, either of you?" He gazed at the other policeman, who was a good fifteen years older than the first and looked as if he could've been through three marriages at least. His face had the battered appearance of too many bad cases, bad drinks, or bad women.
With luck, Sam had chosen a tale that would fit their prejudices.
But the older policeman was giving no quarter. "Who are you, mister?"
With relief, Sam took out his identification. "Sam Keeline, CIA. The wife and I came up for the weekend. As a matter of fact, we drove all the way up from DC after we left the kids with her mother. You know, to celebrate the new baby that's coming." He sighed. "It's been a long night. And I've got another eight months of this."
The young officer took Sam's ID, examined it, and handed it over to his partner without comment. These were the moments Sam knew it was good to be a member in good standing of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Sam offered, "You can check my license plate number."
The older cop gave him a frosty stare. "Really?"
"Sorry," Sam mumbled. "I guess I'm a little strung out. I'm not trying to tell you your business, just that this is my car, and that's my wife." Now that he'd staked out his authority and cloaked Austrian with it, it was time to gamble. He frowned. He allowed an edge of toughness to enter his voice. "And I don't see any point in my standing out here freezing my ass any longer. She's giving me enough grief. Unless, of course, you gentlemen want to take us into the station house?"
He'd called their bluff. Now he waited, hoping.
Just as the younger officer shot the older one a questioning look, behind them the cruiser's radio buzzed.
The younger one trotted back to answer it. Sam could hear the message: "Julia Austrian's done a rabbit. Spread out. Find her. All units . . ."
The older cop gave the younger one a tired look.
"Sounds as if you boys are busy," Sam said. "Well, what do you want to do? Is it us you really need?"
The older man pursed his lips, his gaze on Sam's badge. "Says you're CIA. Guess that's good enough for us." He handed it back, his mind already a million miles away. Thanks, Keeline. Sorry to have troubled you. Enjoy your visit here. Let's roll."
Sometimes you got lucky. Sam heaved a sigh. He felt very lucky just then.
He put his badge back into his pocket, and the two men jumped into the patrol car. As it peeled away, he remained in the street cold sweat on his forehead. Then he grinned. After this, dealing with Julia Austrian would be a piece of cake.
Sam was whistling "New York, New York" again as he headed back to his car. He could see Austrian had moved over to the passenger side, so when he tried the door handle next to the driver's seat and it opened, he felt no surprise. Just a tinge of modest gratification that she'd decided to be helpful.
He climbed in, flicked off the interior light so no one could spot her face easily, and he slammed the door.
"You've had a lively evening," he remarked as he started the car. "I'd like to hear about it. All of it. Please feel free to bore me with the details."
He turned to her, a genuine smile on his face. The smile evaporated. He was looking down the barrel of his own Browning 9mm.
"We're going to Oyster Bay," she told him. "Drive."
Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. She didn't know anything about guns either. He could tell by the awkwardness of her grip. But she was smart enough to hold it with both hands, and her finger was purposeful on the trigger. He checked out her face. She definitely was beauty-queen material, but the look she was giving him was straight La Femme Nikita. Oddly, he liked that.
All except the part about the gun pointed at him.
He let out a low whistle. "You're resourceful, I'll give you that." And he was an idiot. He'd left his Browning in the well between the two front seats. What a jerk! He'd definitely been out of the field too long.
"Oyster Bay," she repeated. "Let's go. Now!"
She looked just like the photos in his file as she sat there in the half shadow—the oval face, the high forehead, the widely spaced eyes, and the gorgeous, sexy mouth. The eyes were remarkable. They were deep blue, the color of Wedgewood. . . no, he corrected himself—lapis lazuli. And with her porcelain skin and air of exasperation, he noted his mind was turning to sex again—
Or maybe she
was just some weird creature from another planet, because she snapped, "Put this leviathan into reverse. Let's get out of here!"
"You've got a point." He grabbed the wheel of his big sport-utility vehicle. Instantly he pulled his hands away and looked down at his palms and fingers. They were damp, and even in the dim light he could see it was fresh blood. She'd just had her hands on the steering wheel.
"Your hands," he said. "You're bleeding!"
As the consequences of her wounds jolted his brain, he heard in his mind one of his favorite CD recordings—her powerful performance of Beethoven's cerebral Variations and Fugue, Opus 35. The theme was from Beethoven's Prometheus ballet, which was repeated again in the finale of his Eroica Symphony. Sam loved the variations and particularly admired her use of the bass.
Her voice was hard. She didn't even glance down at her hands, which must've been hurting like hell. But they were steady as they aimed the gun at him.
She said, "It doesn't matter. Drive!"
He stared at her. "You're cold, too." She was trembling, and it wasn't just because she was frightened. He turned on the heat. Then he backed his big sport-utility vehicle into the street and turned toward Central Park. He decided that if she could hold the gun, she probably wasn't permanently damaged. At least he hoped not.
"Cops!" he snapped. "Turn your head away!"
Instead, she glanced at the cruiser. It'd stopped at the intersection ahead, waiting for a light. Once she saw it, she did as he'd asked. She stared south, leaving only the back of her light brown hair visible to the police car.
Sam forced himself to breathe evenly as he drove them through the intersection.
"Are they following?" Her voice was a dry whisper.
"No." His chest contracted with worry. "But I see another cruiser. It's coming up on our left. Obviously that all-units bulletin is working. Get down on the floor!"
She slid down, but the gun remained pointing steadily at him. "Tell me what they're doing."
"Looking."
