“The bad guys,” he said. “If there really are any, and if they’re on this end of the continent. Personally, I’ll bet this is all a lot of hooey about nothing. I’m telling you, these jobs are never exciting.”
“Hope you’re right.”
They arrived at baggage carousel eight as the first bags were tumbling down the chute. Kellen was pleased to note that Horst was out of breath, and she was not. A few weeks off for injury and she was still in good shape.
They both watched, poised to leap at the first black bag with an attached lime-green yarn fuzz ball. As time wore on, the waiting grew tense and worried, and Kellen scanned the crowd, looking for someone who fit the physical profile of a thief and killer. Foolish, that; last winter she had learned the hard way that killers hid in plain sight. Still, she watched for suspicious behavior.
She saw a large family having a rambunctious reunion...how easy to steal a bag and pass it from one person to another.
She saw a businessman standing right in front of the chute and staring hard, intent on grabbing his bag even before it slammed against the carousel’s bumper.
She saw a woman watching her and smiling, as if they were acquaintances. With a shock, Kellen realized they were; last December, that woman had vacationed at Yearning Sands Resort with her girlfriend and their children. That was the trouble with having worked for a well-known Washington resort—a lot of people knew Kellen Adams.
Kellen waved, and Horst elbowed her. “She your special friend?” He had that smarmy tone people get when asking personal questions that are none of their business.
“No.”
“You have a special friend?”
Kellen didn’t want him to develop any ideas, so she said, “Yes. Max Di Luca. He found me this job.”
“Sounds like your special friend wants you to scram.”
Kellen smiled with chilling precision. “Maybe. But mostly, he knows I can take care of myself.”
“There it is!” Horst dived for the small black bag with the fluorescent green yarn fuzzy.
Kellen stood back and observed, ready to spring after him if he ran with the bag.
He didn’t. He pulled the handle out full-length, walked it over to her and handed it over. “You take it. That yarn poof makes me feel like an idiot.”
Leaning down, she unwound the yarn ball and tossed it in the garbage. “Let’s go.” She headed for the exit.
“Wait a minute.” He started toward the men’s room. “I need to take a leak.”
She kept walking. “You should have thought of that before.”
“I wasn’t allowed to leave you alone to pick up the bag by yourself!”
“You’re not supposed to leave me alone with the bag at all.”
“I’m going to pee.” He took more steps toward the men’s room, as if that would make her halt.
“Meet you at the van,” she said.
He stopped and said, “I’ve got the keys!”
She stopped and viewed the spoiled, frustrated man. “Do you really imagine I can’t break into that van and start it?” She turned and headed out of the terminal.
He joined her on the sidewalk, puffing like a steam engine. “What am I supposed to do? Hold it all the way into the mountains?”
“When we get to a rest stop, you can visit the little boys’ room. In the meantime, we’re a sitting target at the airport.” The parking garage was dark and cool, and she observed every person who passed, listened to every footstep behind them.
“Let’s go back to the airport so I can pee. Who’s going to grab the bag with all these people around?”
“Someone who has the proper ID to match the bag. Which we don’t.” She reached the back of the van.
He unlocked the doors.
She flung the bag into the back. It was heavy, forty or fifty pounds.
Mummy’s head, indeed. No mummy’s head would weigh so much.
“Here!” Horst tossed something at her.
She snapped to attention and caught it. The keys.
“You drive,” he said.
Hmm. Unusual behavior for a macho man, allowing the female to control speed, route, stops. Really unusual behavior for a man who claimed he had a pressing bladder situation. That, combined with his determination to stop in the airport and leave her alone with the bag, gave her reasonable grounds for doubt. Horst Teagarten was now officially on her List of Suspicious Characters.
“Sure.” She stuck the keys in her pocket and pulled off her jacket. Her T-shirt fit snugly, showing off her toned arms and clearly proving she had no pistol or holster hidden around her narrow waist.
His eyes widened and she would swear she saw his brain empty.
Yep. Distraction of the female form plus reaffirmation of her vulnerability. Maybe he was going to try to steal the mummy’s head, maybe he wasn’t, but she had nailed him right in the stupidity.
She slammed the back doors closed. “Where am I driving?”
“The map’s inside.”
She walked around to the driver’s side, and as she slid into the seat, she smoothly pulled the loop at her waistband, bringing the nylon holster up and putting the pistol grip high on her left hip, where she could reach it...just in case. “Let’s see the map,” she said.
8
The route took them north on I-5 out of Portland, across the state line into Washington, then cut west on Highway 12 toward the Olympic Peninsula. Yearning Sands Resort was on the Peninsula; during her time there, Kellen had studied the terrain, learned the flora and fauna, read the maps. For her, who had fought in a war zone, knowing your environment made good tactical sense.
What she had learned filled her with awe; the isolated peninsula was like no place else on earth. The Pacific Ocean battered the wild coast with storms. The earth moved with the roiling fiery hell beneath; earthquakes were always a threat, and for as long as the ocean had existed, cold blue tsunamis had swept the beaches clean and white. The mountains grew with every earthquake; every violent storm fought to bring them down with torrents of rain and wind and snow.
Wildlife—bunnies, bears, wolves, birds—thrived. Tourists passed through to gape and wonder. And of course, a few hearty, marvelous, eccentric souls lived there through warm summer days and long dark winter nights.
Kellen stopped along a lonely stretch of coastal road and let Horst out to take his leak. He’d been complaining ever since she took the “wrong” turn onto a highway small enough to barely be a mere scratch on the map. But she knew where she was going, and her sense of wrongness increased every time Horst picked up his phone to text. He cursed furiously when he discovered this region was so isolated cell service was sporadic and cheered when they drove through a tiny town and he was able to send his barrage of texts.
Now she watched him in the rearview mirror, and yes, he did take a leak, but as soon as he was done, he had his cell in his hand again, and when he glanced guiltily at her, she used her finger and pretended to be applying lipstick. When he glanced away, she adjusted the pistol on her left hip so she could grab it with her right hand, aim and shoot. Maybe she wouldn’t have to. But that sensation of odd continued building, and she had learned to trust her instincts or die.
Horst climbed back in. “Whew! I feel better. You need to go?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“You’ve got the bladder of a camel.”
“You’re not the first guy to notice.” What was it with some men that even urination was a contest? “Ready?”
“Let’s go.” He didn’t fasten his seat belt. He wanted to be ready for action.
They reached the junction of Highway 101 and Kellen turned onto the Olympic Mountains.
“You seem to know where you’re going.” He sounded annoyed.
“You showed me the map.”
“If you remember so goo
d, how come you took the wrong road back there?”
“There aren’t very many roads out here, so a little diversion in case we’re being followed is a good idea.” She gave him time to digest that, then, “How much do you think that head is worth on the illegal market?”
“I don’t know.” His hand inched toward his pistol. “Maybe not so much.”
“Enough to kill for.”
“The courier could have died by accident.”
Earlier, he had pretended not to know about the courier or his death. Horst had just officially become one of the bad guys. In a calm voice meant to soothe and explain, she said, “The trouble with trouble is, if you get mercenaries involved, and they kill one person, they’re not going to stop. You were in the Army. You know what mercenaries are like. They’ll keep coming. They’ll betray the people who work for them to keep an extra dollar.” She felt like she had to give him warning before this went any further.
“What do you know about it?”
“I’ve got experience. Why do you think I got called on this job?”
He stared as if he couldn’t decide whether to believe her or not.
She added, “No honor among thieves and all that.”
For one moment, his hand stopped inching. But he’d already proved he wasn’t the brightest guy, and now he moved more quickly, as if he wanted to handle the matter before she talked him out of it.
He pulled his pistol.
She heard him release the safety.
He turned toward her, pistol leveled at her, arm outstretched to grab the wheel.
She slammed hard on the brakes.
His head thumped the windshield hard enough to send a spiderweb of cracks across the safety glass. The pistol flew out of his hand. Didn’t go off. Thank God.
She goosed the van.
He slapped back into the seat hard enough (she hoped) for whiplash. But no—he recovered fast, proving he had great reflexes and not much in the cranium. He lunged at her.
She leveled her pistol and shot him in the chest.
The impact drove him against the passenger-side door. He looked surprised—but not dead.
Figured. He was a professional. He wore body armor.
He gasped in agony. Taking a shot from that close, he probably had a couple of broken ribs.
Good.
She slammed on the brakes again, released her seat belt and kicked him against the passenger side, a good solid blow to the chest, then leaned past him, opened the door and shoved him on to the road.
She drove off, door swinging, moving as fast as she could along the narrow rutted road. Dust boiled in the still-open door, and she watched the rearview mirror for a cloud created by a following vehicle. She saw nothing.
This road headed toward a trailhead that led to Lake Rannoch and the falls. Pure wilderness, and no chance of help.
She turned onto President Roosevelt Road. If the map was right, President Roosevelt Road would wind up and down and around the mountains, cross into the Olympic National Forest and eventually end in a paid parking area. Hikers and mountain bikers took off from there on their jaunts to lakes and peaks, and if she was lucky, there would be a national park ranger around. The rangers were the law enforcement up here, and she needed help.
If she was unlucky, there would be an unmanned payment box.
In the last year, luck had been scarce, and victories hard-fought and won with a lot of pain.
She drove unhurriedly, making sure she raised no betraying dust.
What with crazy Roderick on the roof sending a tile down to pierce her hip and then telling her, “Run, bitch!”... Well, no one could call the last month lucky. She’d played enough cards in the Army to know when luck had deserted you, you should throw it in and walk away. She intended to do just that...but!
She’d taken this job in good faith. She couldn’t abandon the head. At best, it would disappear into a private collection, never to be seen again. At worst, it would be sold to finance terrorist operations around the world.
Run, bitch.
When she had gone several miles and seen the National Forest sign, she came to a halt and allowed herself one despairing moment with her head on the steering wheel.
She was in trouble. She needed help, and she didn’t know who to call. Max? Nils? Birdie and her Army buddies? None of them would get here fast enough to help her. The park rangers? Yes, maybe, but there was money behind this operation and a uniform would be easy to rent and wear.
She had to help herself and save that head, and she didn’t know how her situation could get any more dire.
She groped for her phone to text Birdie, give her a heads-up that she needed help, ask her to call Max, give her the general route she was traveling.
Something rustled behind her.
Her pistol leaped into her hand. She turned and pointed it, straight-armed, into the back seat.
Rae sat there, a bruise on her cheek, eyes wide, trying to smile through trembling lips. “Mommy, I came to bond with you.”
9
Arthur Waldberg sat across the polished table from Max in the tasting room’s private dining room and sipped from each of five glasses. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Please do.”
Arthur pulled a small leather notebook out of his shirt pocket, removed the miniature stainless steel pen from the loop that held it closed and meticulously marked 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 on the sheet.
Max watched in amusement and some relief. If this man had the slightest knowledge of wines, and his résumé claimed that he did, he was their new wine room manager. They needed someone who was organized, precise and who understood how to hire and supervise the personnel necessary to run a busy and successful winery tasting room. Max had been handling everything since their last manager had been lured away by the rival Whistling Winds Winery, and it had eaten into the time Max needed to be spending with Kellen and Rae.
If he could somehow figure out how to bring those two together, he knew they would relate as mother and daughter. He saw the similarities between them every day and saw, too, that fear Kellen so carefully hid; to fall in love with a man, with him, would leave her vulnerable, but to fall in love with her own child... Nothing could hurt so much.
Arthur tasted again, clearing his palate between each sip with a sliver of bread, finished his notes and said, “This glass—” he pointed “—is a classic Italian blend. Sangiovese, cabernet sauvignon and cabernet franc. This glass is, not surprisingly, pinot noir. This wine has cork taint.” He pushed it away. “The white is Arneis, a wine I haven’t tasted since my last visit to Northern Italy. And this last is a quite insipid rosé.”
Max met his eyes steadily, sternly. “What if I told you I blended the rosé?”
“Then I would tell you to keep to the organizational part of the winery.”
“That’s what my vintner says, too.” Max sighed. It took a special knack to blend wines, and he had proved time and again that he didn’t have it. For a man who was used to being good at everything, it was a lowering experience. “Your references are impeccable—” for a relative unknown in the wine world “—but at this moment, I can safely say I’d like to discuss the conditions of your employment.”
“I’m not worried about salary. You have a reputation for being openhanded with your employees. Insurance is important, of course. But my only real condition is that as the positions open, I’d like the opportunity to bring in some of my people.”
Max was taken aback. “Are you saying you’d run off the current employees to bring in your friends?”
“Not at all! I have the greatest empathy for those who are gainfully employed and are willing to work to stay that way. But inevitably in this business, there is a turnover. Young people go back to school, better job offers come along, the chance to travel becomes irresistible.”
“Is that why you’re here? You wished to travel beyond European wineries?”
“I wish to take a good winery to a great winery. I wish to grow a label from regional renown to world dominance. It takes the right wine for that kind of success, and the Oregon Di Luca wines are capable of making the transition.” Arthur preached like an old-fashioned evangelist who had found his audience. “Are you interested, Mr. Di Luca, in that opportunity?”
“Hmm. Sure.” Max scratched his cheek. “How?”
“You’ll see. You’ll be the person interviewing my friends, so of course the final decision to hire permanently or not would be yours. But I can safely promise that if you’re on board with the idea of expanding Di Luca wines into a greater market, you will be satisfied with my suggestions.”
Max stared at the prissy, exacting man across the table. Max knew he was good—anyone employed by top-end wineries in Germany, Spain and France had to be good. He’d proved his expertise with the wine tasting. But the man was frankly odd and something struck him as not quite right...
The door opened, and his mother stuck her head in the door. In an impatient voice, she asked, “Max, where is Rae? I’ve been waiting in the car. She’s going to be late for camp.”
Max looked up without surprise.
Arthur got to his feet and bowed formally from the waist.
“Mother, this is Arthur Waldberg. He’s interviewing as winery manager.”
Verona looked at Arthur in disbelief. “Are you?”
Max knew why she was surprised. Most wine room managers were younger, disheveled in a trendy way and very aware of themselves. Arthur Waldberg looked as if he was sixty, thin, clean-shaven, wore an expensive tailored black suit, white shirt and discreet blue tie with a diamond tie pin. To Max, he was as fussy with his dress as he was with his tasting, totally uncaring of what was trendy, and those were more points in his favor.
Verona came forward to shake Arthur’s hand. “Where have you previously worked?”
“Mostly Europe.” He cradled her hand.
What Doesn't Kill Her Page 6
