They huddled there for a long time, clutching each other, until it was impossible to tell who was comforting who.
The batwing flutter of a shadow across her face jolted Becca out of the doze that had overcome her. It was that big black SUV. Adrenaline jolted through her. A Mercedes, she noticed now. Too late to catch the plate number, damn. The vehicle had already turned perpendicular to hers, and pulled to a stop in front of the hotel’s back entrance.
It pulled away again, leaving Diana behind, clutching a white box to her chest. The SUV accelerated away, as if it were glad to be rid of her. Diana stared after it, looking dazed and lost. Her eyes looked huge. The raccoon effect of tear-smudged makeup. Becca was very familiar with that particular fashion statement these days.
She firmly squashed a niggling feeling of sympathy for the woman. Save it for someone who deserves it, she lectured herself. If Diana was in cahoots with that poisonous snake Mathes, who was involved with that monster Zhoglo, then she was up to no good, and that was that.
Diana stumbled over her feet on her way to the rear entrance. She seemed baffled by the fact that it was now locked, and stared blankly at the door for several seconds before fishing out her key card.
Becca chewed her knuckles and thought it over. At this point, it was unlikely that Diana would leave the hotel again. Whatever she’d been planning to do, she had done. There was little else that Becca could usefully do here—other than call Nick, come clean, and hand the whole thing over to him. Which meant she needed a phone.
But she was unwilling to leave and lose track of Diana again, after all this chasing around, losing her and pinning her down again. The pay phone in the corridor of the hotel had a clear view of both entrances. She would hang around the door and wait for an opportunity to slip in after the next legitimate hotel guest.
God, this skulking and loitering made her nervous. She sauntered towards the hotel, fishing out her dead cell phone for cover, and wishing, for the first and only time in her life, that she smoked. Just to have a believable excuse for lounging around in doorways.
Before she got halfway across the parking lot, Diana exploded out the back door and hurried to her car. No white box. She did not appear to see Becca at all—even when Becca abruptly changed course and headed back to her car. Diana was swept up in her own inner drama, thank God.
Becca pulled out after her, her heart thudding, and forced herself to keep a discreet distance. She didn’t have far to go. Diana pulled over at the nearest roadhouse bar, a seedy windowless cement building with a neon sign that read Starlight Lounge.
Becca parked as near as she dared, and slumped in her seat. She held the phone to her ear and watched as Diana took off her glasses, covered her face with her hands, and wept for ten minutes. Then she sprang out of the car, lurched over to the curb, and vomited.
Becca flinched in involuntary fellowship. Ooh. Nasty. So Diana belonged to the Mighty Sisterhood of Stress Urpers. Bummer for her, that she’d chosen a life of despicable crime. If she kept this crap up, she was going to be hurling her hash left and right.
Diana dabbed her face with a tissue and stumbled into the bar. Becca got out of her car, feeling like a puppet being manipulated by an unfamiliar entity. She strode over to Diana’s car and peered in.
The passenger seat was cluttered: paper coffee cups, sunglasses, a comb, used tissues smeared with mascara, a ripped open package for a digital voice recorder. The plastic bubble that had held the small rod was empty.
A crazy, half-baked idea began to form as she stared down at the sunglasses. She gazed at her own reflection in Diana’s car window. Her own hair was slightly shorter and not quite as floofy, but—hmmm.
Half of her screamed no, stop, back it up, call it off. The rest of her shrieked go for it before you chicken out you pansy ass airhead, go!
She looked for a big rock, found one a safe distance from Urping Ground Zero, and screwed up her courage. This was going to be the hardest part. Going against all her social conditioning. If anyone saw her smashing in another woman’s car window, she would just start shrieking that bitch is screwing my husband!
She lifted the rock, fingers white, arm trembling…and hesitated. She reached out with her other hand. Tried the door.
Unlocked. For God’s sake, any stress urper should know that a woman who had just puked her guts out probably did not have the presence of mind to lock her car. Unless she was a superwoman. And superwomen did not urp. No siree, no superwomen in the Sisterhood.
Becca felt like a total idiot, jittery from having worked herself into such a state. No time for dithering, though. She grabbed the sunglasses and the lipstick. She was now officially a thief. It felt odd.
She raced back to her car. Tore out of the parking lot, zoomed back to the hotel, tires squealing. No time for cogitating or knuckle chewing. She had to be quick, decisive. And as cool and smooth as soft-serve vanilla ice cream. She switched on her dome light, yanked her comb out of her purse and tried to tease her hair out into Dianaesque proportions. She slicked on some of Diana’s crimson lipstick, and was startled by the harsh effect. She needed dramatic eye makeup to balance it out. Fortunately, she had Diana’s Zsa Zsa Gabor sunglasses. She stuck her black-framed specs in her pocket, and donned the sunglasses. She would be virtually blind, but hey. Vision, schmision.
She glanced in the mirror and winced. She looked like a celebrity battered wife, but whatever. Becca shrugged off her coat and marched around the building, then flounced in as if she owned the place, squinting to get her bearings.
There were two desk clerks. One was the redhead who had checked Diana in. She sailed past them, down the hall, into the stairwell, knees wobbling. Estimating the time it would take a guest to get to her room and discover she’d left her key card inside.
She swept out again, grateful to find the big-haired redhead busy on the phone. She smiled at the other, an older woman with gray hair.
“Hi. I’m Diana, in room 317,” she said. “I’m so embarrassed, but it looks like I’ve locked myself out. Could you do up a new card for me?”
The woman smiled, tapped into the computer, and nodded. “Sure thing, Ms. Evans. I’d be happy to do that for ya.”
Please don’t ask for picture ID. Please.
Fate was kind. Moments later, card clutched in her sweating hand, Becca floated down the corridor, disbelieving, over her own sprinting feet. Terrified that it had worked. She was getting ever more expert at digging her own grave. Look at those shovelfuls of dirt, flying wildly this way and that.
She let herself into Diana’s room. The door slammed shut behind her. She felt a moment of letdown. No immediate revelations. It looked and smelled exactly like a million other economy hotel rooms. Two beds, quilted synthetic spreads, bathroom near the entrance, TV, wall unit air conditioner, ugly art. Empty. No suitcase, no purse. The box, the box. She had to find that white box.
She found it in the bathroom, perched on the fake marble counter-top. She approached it with a feeling of dread in her belly.
Becca took a deep breath, and lifted off the top. OK. Not a human head, or an embalmed space alien. Just a rack, with seven neatly labeled vials of dark liquid suspended in it. She lifted one out, and realized that the liquid inside was blood.
Beneath the rack were several small containers containing clear yellow liquid. Urine, for sure. Then there was a handful of sealed plastic bags with big cotton swabs inside them. The blood, urine and bags were neatly hand-labeled. F-121396-88991. The numbers followed a pattern. Two Fs, the rest Ms, which she assumed referred to male or female. Then a six digit number that she assumed was a birthdate. Then a five digit number. No names. If they were birthdates, 96 was the earliest year. Then a 98. The others were all in the oughts: 01, 02, two 04’s. One 06.
Children. Small children.
Another shudder went up her spine. Shadows, monsters, slithering in the dark, out of plain sight. She was afraid to know the answer to this riddle, afraid it would be something very bad.
She wished, piercingly, that Nick were there. Then she dragged a pen and scrap of paper out of her purse and hastily copied down all the numbers on the vials. Why, she had no idea. But it couldn’t hurt.
Rattle, fumble, click. Someone was trying to open the door.
Becca’s heart practically leaped out of her mouth, she was so startled. She looked around wildly for a hiding place. Closet? Bathtub?
She heard low, tearful cursing, a few futile thuds, as if someone were swatting the door in a fit of frustrated pique. The muttering receded.
Guarded relief flooded through her. Of course. Diana’s key card no longer worked since they had reprogrammed the lock for Becca. Thank God. Becca waited what she hoped was long enough for the woman to get down the hall, measuring time in galloping heartbeats.
She peered out the door and bolted like the hounds of hell were after her. The desk clerks had seen her and so had the security cameras. Chances were good that Diana would know in seconds that her privacy had been violated and would start making a big, fat fuss about it.
Becca really did not want to get into a catfight and exchange bitchslaps with Mathes’s whining, weeping, urping mistress. Besides, if Diana wanted to call the cops on her, she would have the moral high ground. Becca would be printed and booked, have a record. Before Zhoglo subsequently slaughtered her, of course.
Once she got on the highway, she fought to keep under eighty miles per hour, she was so eager to put distance between herself and that woman. She was so rattled, she shrieked when her phone beeped to inform her that she had finally entered her cell phone’s calling area.
It rang, seconds later. She checked the display. Mr. Big.
Hah. Why was she not surprised?
Ringing, thank God. Three rings, and she finally picked up.
“Hello? Nick?” She sounded wary.
“Becca. Where are you?” He tried to keep his voice expressionless.
All activity in the workroom abruptly froze. Davy swiveled his head from the computer screen. Seth, who was overhand chinning on the exercise bar, stopped in midpull and just hung there, muscles locked, eyes slitted. Alex Aaro, the ex-Ranger from Brighton Beach whom they had just briefed, crossed his thickly muscled arms over his broad chest and listened, his broad Slavic face impassive.
“Uh. Well, it’s a long, complicated story,” she began. “I—”
“Where the fuck are you?” This time, anger and fear punched through, undisguised.
Becca was unnerved by its force. “Calm down. I’m fine. And I—”
“You told me you were working at the club until midnight!”
“And what makes you think I wasn’t?” Her voice was tart.
He was ready for that one. “Because your phone was out of area. I know Bothell’s covered. We were messaging the entire goddamn day. So don’t even try to jerk me around.”
Desperate subtext. Please do not lie to me. Do not lie. Do not.
“Oh,” she said, more subdued. “That’s true. I’m sorry if I worried you. I haven’t had a chance to stop and call from a land line—”
“Where are you?” he bellowed.
Becca made an irritated chuffing sound. “Don’t yell, and stop interrupting me. My nerves are shot to hell already. I’m on the highway. I was in Kimble. I saw Mathes at the banquet, and got fired from my job—”
“Fired from your job? What the hell—You saw who? Who the fuck is this Mathes?” He felt like he was about to hyperventilate.
“Richard Mathes. The guy who came to see Zhoglo on the island. He’s a famous surgeon, apparently, and he was there, at the banquet. That I organized. And I—”
“Holy Jesus. And you didn’t call me?” His voice crackled with outrage. “Did he see you?”
“I don’t think so. And I would have, except that I overheard this weird conversation he had with his mistress, and then I ended up following her car. It all happened really fast, and by the time I thought to call you, my cell was out of area, but I couldn’t stop—”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You saw Zhoglo’s dinner guest at your banquet. You chose not to call me. Then, you spied on his conversation with his mistress. You chose not to call me once again. Then you followed her goddamn car?”
The other men in the room exchanged glances. Seth thudded to the ground and whistled.
“That’s about the size of it,” she said, sounding sheepish. “I lost her for a while when this black Mercedes SUV came to pick her up, and I couldn’t get out of the parking lot fast enough to see where they—”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” He was on his feet now, yelling into the phone. Seth grimaced, made a cut-it-out slicing gesture with his finger. Davy waved his arms, mouthing cool it, cool it.
She paused for a moment. “Not at all,” she said, in her haughtiest voice. “I’m making an effort to help. That’s quite a different thing.”
“Like hell it is!” he shouted.
“I was heading for that hotel where I was supposed to meet you, but if you’re just going to scream and carry on, I’ll pass, and go home.”
“No!” He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and struggled to get a grip on himself. It was like grappling with a gigantic, muscular, greased octopus. “It’s not safe. Go to the hotel. I’ll meet you there.”
“What for? To scream at me some more?”
He spoke slowly and carefully through clenched teeth. “Please, go to the hotel,” he said. “You scared the living shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” she murmured, finally sounding a little contrite. “OK, then. I’ll tell you the whole story at the hotel. Till then. Bye.”
The connection broke, and the force that had been holding the phone up to his ear deserted him. His arm flopped to his side and his knees gave way, dumping him into his chair.
So. She hadn’t been abducted, tortured, murdered. And she was not running away from him. She was not lying to him, either. No, she was just off her rocker. Which was a whole different problem.
He breathed down the bizarre urge to burst into tears. Not in front of these guys, who were giving him assorted funny looks.
“Chick’s got nerve,” Davy observed, his voice dry.
“Bug-fuck crazy,” was Aaro’s comment.
“Those are the fun ones,” Seth said with relish. “So she tailed this bad guy’s mistress, huh? Hot damn. I can’t wait to meet this girl. She sounds like a real firecracker. I’ll tell Margot to put her at our table.”
Nick barely heard them. “I’ve got to go,” he said, distractedly.
“Yeah, you do,” Seth said. “We’ve got things under control. We’ll analyze the vid at Pavel’s house and get something cobbled up tonight. Aaro’s on the Ludmilla monitors. So go on, have some fun. Go get ’em, tiger. Show that chick who’s boss.”
Nick didn’t have any extra mental energy to bother with Seth’s bullshit. He turned to Davy. “Can you check out that guy she saw at the banquet? Richard Mathes is the name. Famous surgeon.”
“Will do,” Davy said. “Yo. Nick?”
He jerked around on his dash to the door. “What?” he snapped.
“Chill,” Davy said quietly. “Step back. Watch yourself with her.”
Like it was that easy. That was like telling a fire not to be hot. You could try all you wanted, but there wasn’t a whole lot of point in it.
Chapter
21
Nick’s giant black pickup loomed over the tame sedans lined up in the hotel lot like some big, sleek, crouching predator.
Becca pulled her suitcase out of the trunk of her own pussycat of a rented sedan. Tomorrow, she had to take it right back where she’d gotten it. Back to riding the bus. Rented cars were not in the budget of a recently fired person. Not that a recently fired person could really be said to have a budget at all. Such a person had, at best, an emergency fund. In her case, an almost nonexistent one.
Even with Carrie and Josh almost on their own
, she barely scraped by from month to month. No margin for error now.
Stop it. She had bigger problems right now than her pathetic bank account.
Like her complicated, volatile new lover.
A part of her coolly observed the chattering voices in her mind, how they generated a cheerful fake buzz of white noise to hide from herself how incredibly nervous she was about seeing Nick.
But it wasn’t working. She was on to the trick. What was the point of all this energy expended in self-deception if it didn’t even work?
Habit, she supposed. She smiled at the desk clerk. A shivery sense of déjà vu went through her. “Hi. Has my husband, Rob Steiger, arrived yet?” The H word gave her a shivery rush of emotion.
The chubby brunette behind the desk smiled and passed her a key card. “He sure has, Mrs. Steiger, just about ten minutes ago. He told us to be on the lookout for you. Have a good night!”
She took the elevator up and walked slowly down the hall. Knees wobbling, heart thudding, head dizzy, breath shallow, hands damp and cold—symptom for symptom, she was in more of a nervous tizzy now than she had been while breaking into Diana Evans’s hotel room.
How ridiculous was that. She needed to grow a backbone. Right now. She took a deep breath, and stuck the key card in. The light flashed green, and she pushed the heavy door open.
Nick sat on the bed in the dim room, framed by the room’s dark entryway. Facing the door, simply waiting.
He smoldered at her. There was simply no other word for it. The harsh lines of his handsome face were grimly expressionless, but his eyes burned. The power of his anger pulsed at her. The hairs on her neck tingled.
Something sinuous and powerful moved inside her. Behind the fear and the white noise. A hungry pull of hot desire, as she sensed that simmering power in him. Hers to use, if she could rise to the occasion. If she could handle him.
“Hello, Mr. Steiger,” she said.
Extreme Danger Page 28
