White Mountain

by Dinah McCall

  “He kept talking about a guitar.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s all he talks about…that and going to find his mother. Isn’t that crazy? He’s never been out of Montana in his whole life, and he thinks his mother is in Memphis. Poor thing.”

  The lost sound of the man’s voice was haunting him. Suddenly he didn’t want to talk about John Running Horse any longer and made his purchases without bothering to linger.

  As he drove out of town a short while later, he saw the man again, walking in the opposite direction on the side of the road. He thought about going back and picking him up, then decided against it. Something told him that the only place John Running Horse wanted to go was to Memphis, and Jack was going in the wrong direction.

  Later, after getting back to Abbott House, he went to his room to go over his notebook and the bits and pieces of Frank Walton’s life that the townspeople of Braden had been willing to share. All he had learned that he could easily verify was that the man had been here for years, and that he had claimed to be a botanist. Also, while no one knew all that much about his profession, everyone agreed that Isabella Abbott had called him Uncle. That was all well and good, but it told him absolutely nothing about why he’d faked his own death and hidden out here. Had he come on his own, or was there an accomplice? He’d had to get fake identification from someone, somewhere. And the bigger question was why? For some reason, Jack had gotten the impression from the director that Vaclav Waller had been involved in something valuable at the time of his disappearance. Something that, even now, would be worthy of rediscovery. Jack shook his head in disbelief, unable to think of even one thing that other doctors and scientists had not already discovered—even perfected—in the ensuing thirty years. What possible knowledge could an old man have that would warrant his murder?

  Nothing occurred to him. And he was still bothered by the fact that he was deceiving Isabella Abbott. It shouldn’t matter what she thought. She wasn’t his concern. But knowing that and accepting it were two different things, and he was having difficulties with living the lie.

  While Jack was struggling with his moral dilemma, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the ID screen and frowned when nothing came up. When he answered and heard the director’s voice, he knew that their call was being scrambled.

  “Sir?”

  “Dolan, we’ve come by come interesting news that you should know.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We have reason to believe that the man who killed Walton used the old man’s return ticket to Braden.”

  Shock spread slowly through Jack’s system as he absorbed the news.

  “You’re sure, sir?”

  “As sure as we can be without an actual sighting.”

  “Do we know what he looked like? The man who used the ticket?”

  “No.”

  “Are we still assuming it was a foreign hit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit, sir.”

  There was a low chuckle on the other end of the line.

  “My sentiments exactly,” the director said, and then was all business once more. “In light of these facts, I am telling you to use extreme caution. We have no way of knowing exactly what he or she is after.”

  “Yes, sir, but do we know who might be in danger?”

  “No.”

  There was a moment of silence on Jack’s end, and then he sighed.

  “Okay, thank you, sir. That clears up a lot of questions I was going to ask.”

  “Do you have your laptop and printer with you?” the director asked.

  “Yes. No self-respecting writer would be caught dead without them.”

  “Good. I’m having an attachment sent to you that contains everything we know about Vaclav Waller, including all the pictures we have on file of him. Unfortunately, there are only three, the last of which is of him boarding the plane on which he supposedly went down. I don’t know if it will be of any use to you, but at least you’ll know everything we know.”

  “Thank you, sir, and if you find any pictures of Russian assassins, don’t hesitate to send them, too. I can always use a little midnight reading.” Then he added, “I suppose I’m still undercover?”

  “Yes, until the situation warrants a change. As for now, you’re going to have to settle for a good paperback instead of a photo album. Keep in touch.”

  There was a dial tone in Jack’s ear; then he hung up the phone. He sat down with a thump and thrust his fingers through his hair in frustration.

  Christ Almighty. Working this case was like sending a blind man into a room with no walls. There were no boundaries or starting places, no matter where he turned.

  It was fifteen minutes to seven when Leonardo Silvia got home from work. His back was aching, and he’d smashed his thumb in a drill press just before noon, so he was looking forward to a home-cooked meal and an early night. Yet when he walked in the door, he could tell his expectations were slightly off.

  Maria was lighting candles on the dining table. There was a bottle of wine chilling on the sideboard, and he could smell pasta sauce simmering on the stove. His mind began to race, going through every anniversary they shared, certain that he’d forgotten something important.

  Maria heard the door open and looked up. When she saw Leonardo, a wide smile spread across her face. She opened her arms, and he walked into them, burying his face in the sweet curve of her neck and closing his eyes. For a few moments his weariness and pain were forgotten.

  “I have forgotten something important, haven’t I, cara mia?”

  Maria laughed at her husband’s woeful expression.

  “No, no. You forget nothing. I made us a special celebration meal because today the doctor called.”

  Leonardo went limp with relief. At least he wasn’t in trouble, and then his mind shifted gears as he realized what she was saying.

  “You mean the doctor from the Montana clinic?”

  “Yes!” Maria cried, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “We have an appointment for next Tuesday. Is that all right? You said all you needed was a couple of days notice.”

  Leonardo could feel the trembling in her body as he hald her close.

  “Yes, it’s all right. I’ve already talked to Gus. He says I can have up to two weeks off if need be.”

  Maria kissed him hard on the mouth and then spun out of his arms as she danced around the room.

  “This is it,” she said, waving her arms over her head as she made dainty pirouettes. “I can feel it, Leonardo. This time it will be different.”

  Leonardo made himself smile, although he wanted to cry. They’d been through so many disappointments before, he wasn’t sure he could bear seeing her heart break again.

  “Just don’t get your hopes too high,” he said softly.

  She stopped abruptly, her hand clasped beneath her chin.

  “You don’ understand, Leonardo. This time it will happen.”

  “How can you be sure?” he asked.

  “Because I promised God, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Good!” she said, hurrying from the dining room toward the kitchen and calling out behind her as she left. “Go wash your face and rest your feet a bit. I’ll call youwhen dinner is ready.”

  Leonardo smile at her as she hurried away, but his steps were dragging as he left the room.

  It was almost dark. Sunset had come and gone, and there was nothing to be seen beyond the terrace of Abbott House but the silhouette of White Mountain against a navy blue sky.

  Isabella hugged herself against the chill and resisted a shiver as the night breeze lifted the hair from her neck. Even though she was wearing wool slacks and a heavy cable-knit sweater, she could feel the cold through her clothes.

  Behind her, the dinner hour was in full swing. Patrons from the two surrounding communities often patronized Abbott House for its food, as well as the ambiance of reliving a gentler time in the nation’s history. If it were not for the comput
er at the check-in desk and the occasional ring of a diner’s cell phone, one could almost believe that time had passed this house by. Samuel Abbott had transferred his love for old-world, understated elegance to both his hotel and his only daughter. Even wearing the most recent fashions, there was an air of reticence about Isabella, a quiet dignity that was foreign to most young women of her age. It was as if she’d been born a generation too late.

  Isabella ran her tongue along her lower lip, testing the cut that she’d incurred in her altercation with Bobby Joe and wondering how he had explained his broken nose to his father. Thanks to Uncle David and Uncle Jasper, her car was back in the garage, complete with a new tire. And, thanks to Jack Dolan, she had nothing worse to show for the incident than a fat lip.

  As she stared up at the heavens, a falling star suddenly streaked across the sky, burning out before her eyes as it hit earth’s atmosphere and disappeared.

  “Daddy? Is that you?” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do. How can a world as perfect as ours seemed to be come apart so fast?”

  She started to cry, huge, quiet tears that streaked down her cheeks as swiftly as the star that had burned out in the sky. Despite her tears, she continued to talk as if her father was standing beside her in his usual manner, with his head tilted to one side and a half smile on his lips.

  “Uncle Frank is dead, too, you know. I’m guessing that the pair of you are somewhere deep in a game of chess.” She swiped her hands across her face, clearing her cheeks of the tears as she managed to smile, remembering their heated debates over the chess board during the long winter nights. “Can you argue in heaven? If not, you’re both in for a big shock, aren’t you?”

  She paused and looked up, as if waiting for an answer, but it never came. Finally she dropped her head and then covered her face, her shoulders shaking as she stifled her sobs.

  That was how Jack Dolan found her—standing in the moonlight at the edge of the terrace, her head bent in sorrow. The only other witness to her misery was a nightbird calling from a nearby tree. He hesitated, considering whether to go back inside, when she suddenly stiffened and then turned.

  He cursed beneath his breath, angry with himself for waiting too long. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass her further. Today had been more than enough.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just coming out to get some air. I can go—“

  “”No,” she said shortly. “Don’t apologize. You’re a guest. You have every right to all of the amenities Abbott House has to offer.”

  The pain in her voice was palpable. It drew him toward her like fire to tinder. Even in the darkness he saw the trembling of her lower lip and the dampness on her cheeks, and something deep within him tore loose and fell free.

  “Miss Abbott…”

  Her lips twisted wryly. “I think we’ve moved beyond that formality.”

  His gaze centered on her bruised mouth. He though of the blood that had been there earlier. Now it had been tracked by her tears.

  “I know there’s nothing I can say that will make your grieving easier, but if there’s anything I can do, all you have to do is ask.”

  Isabella’s stare cut through the shadows as she judge the big man’s face. Her father had always said she was a good judge of character. She hope he was right, because she was about to do something quite out of character for her.

  “Yes, actually, there is.”

  Jack was surprised but secretly pleased.

  “Name it,” he said.

  She walked into his arms.

  “I need to be held.”

  His first and last thought was Sweet Jesus, and then her arms slid around his waist. When the weight of her cheek hit his chest and he smelled the sweet citrus scent of her shampoo, he wrapped his arms around her and did as she asked.

  8

  Time ceased as Jack’s awareness centered on the woman in his arms. Not even the bulk of her sweater could disguise her fragility. He pulled her close, and as he did, the weight of her hair on the backs of his hands was like warm silk against his skin. He felt her sigh and then shudder. Instinctively, he braced himself, readying for her collapse, but it didn’t come.

  Her fingers dug at his back, clutching the knit fabric of his pullover for leverage as her breasts pillowed against his chest. He felt her inhale deeply, then pause, and he caught himself holding his breath, waiting for her to exhale. When she finally did, his breath flowed from him in unison. He laid his cheek against the crown of her head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  The she answered, her voice so soft he had to bend his head to hear.

  “Everything is coming undone.”

  Thankful she couldn’t see his expression, he slid his hand beneath the hair on her neck, gently massaging the strip of skin between her hairline and her sweater. If she knew what was really going on, she would know it was already undone. The only question that remained was whether there would be anything left of her life to fix when jack’s investigation was over.

  “Not really,” Jack said. “It’s only changing.”

  Isabella stilled and then slowly lifter her head.

  “Changing? That’s an understatement, don’t you think?”

  Resisting the urge to brush the hair from her forehead, he had to be satisfied, instead, with the scent of her perfume.

  “Nothing ever stays the same, Isabella. We’re born. We live. We die. And if you think about it. We are thrust abruptly into a world without warning, torn from the relative comfort and safety of our mothers’ bellies. Then we struggle through the business of living, rejoicing in the highs and weeping through the lows, and just when we think we’re about to get the hang of it, we find ourselves at the end, looking back over the years and wondering where the hell the time went. My Philosophy is to try and cram as much into the living part of it as possible, so that when the dying comes, my regrets are few.”

  Isabella stared at him, absorbing the way the moonlight and shadows lay soft upon his face, and hearing the tenderness and empathy in his voice. Finally she spoke.

  “How old are you?”

  Jack was surprised by the question but answered without hesitation.

  “Thirty-eight.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, repeating what he’d said. “Thirty-eight. Your wisdom seems more suited to someone of my father’s era.” Then she smile. “I will say this. My father would have like you. He would have like you a lot.”

  Before Jack could answer, Isabella rose up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

  She walked away then, leaving Jack alone in the moonlight with the taste of her strong on his lips. Unwilling for the moment to end, her turned abruptly to call her back, but she was already inside and out of sight. He leaned back against the retaining wall around the terrace, his shoulders slumping with defeat. He was getting in over his head with this woman. The problem was, if it came to choosing her welfare over his duty, he wasn’t sure what his choice would be.

  Frustrated, he cast one last look at the surrounding area, noting absently a faint light in an outbuilding on the edge of the grounds. He stared at tit for a moment and then shrugged off the momentary concern as he stepped off the terrace and headed into the shadows. Thinking of the killer who’d used a dead man’s plane ticket, he started to circle the hotel, expanding the perimeter of his search as he walked. It wasn’t much, but right now, it was about all he could do. If they only knew why Frank Walton had been murdered, then they would have a place to start looking for clues. As it stood, there was, literally, nothing to go on but false identities and assumptions.

  A short while later, satisfied that all was well at Abbott House, Jack went inside and up to his room. He needed to check his e-mail for the information the director was going to send, then go back over the notes from the interviews he’d had today with some of the citizens of Braden. One way or another, he had a job to do, and the sooner he got at it,
the better off they would be.

  Rostov sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed with the diary in his lap. An empty soup bowl was on the end table by his bed, as was a partially filled and melting glass of iced tea. Thanks to his ruse at playing sick, he’d been served supper in bed. But as soon as he’d finished the soup, he’d resumed reading the diary, convinced that it was going to be his ticket to a new life and identity in the United States.

  He turned the page, noting the date as well as the brevity of the entry, and frowned.

  January 31, 1973

  One Isabella dies. Another Isabella is born.

  That would be about the right age for Isabella Abbott, the woman who’d hired him. He’d seen the painting in the hotel lobby, but he’d assume it was the same woman. If it was her mother, instead, then he supposed that she’d died giving birth to her child. He shrugged. It wasn’t uncommon, especially in his country, where medical attention was not the best.

  His gaze slid to the opposite page, and his frown deepened.

  February 3, 1973

  Isabella was buried today. Samuel is distraught, blaming himself needlessly. There was no way to foresee the complications of childbirth, but his is not dissuaded. He spends night and day in the laboratory, leaving his baby daughter to the care of others. It is a tragedy.

  Rostov turned the page, hoping for something more volatile that the musings of an old man, but it wasn’t until a notation made about six months later that things began to get interesting.

  July 29, 1973

  We’ve done it. Samuel is ecstatic, as are we all. The woman is pregnant, and with the new method of implantation. We’ll keep track of her progress, of course, but technically, our job is over. The birth of her child will also mark the birth of a new project. If this succeeds as we predict, we have changed the world.

  Rostov’s heart skipped a beat. Ah, now it was beginning to make sense. Waller was a doctor. They ran a fertility clinic. His mind raced. How could helping women get pregnant change the world? It wasn’t as if they were the first. This had been going on for years. But the notation was unmistakable. Somehow, they were implanting women in some manner that was life-altering.