White Mountain

by Dinah McCall

  “You are so beautiful,” he said softly.

  Isabella’s thoughts were still slightly unfocused, but there wasn’t any doubt in her mind about what was going to happen. What startled her most was how much she wanted to lie in his arms with nothing between them but passion. She lifter her hand to his face, feeling the faint prickle of whiskers as well as a muscle jumping near his jaw.

  “I’m not very experienced at this,” she said softly.

  Jack brushed a kiss across her chin, then traced the curve with the tip of his tongue.

  “I am,” he answered.

  “I’m not protected.”

  Jack shook his head as he kissed one of her eyelids, then the other.

  “Yes, you are. You have me.”

  “I meant—“

  Jack put a finger across the middle of her lips, shushing her explanation before it went any further.

  “I know what you meant.” He kissed the bridge of her nose, then cupped her face. “This isn’t going to go that far.”

  Isabella sighed. “Just take me somewhere I haven’t been.”

  Jack slid his arms around her and rolled, pulling her on top of him and then burying his face against the curve beneath her chin as her hair curtained around them. When she raised herself above him, his heart swelled with tenderness. He wanted to hold her and cherish her and never let her go.

  “God, you feel like heaven in my arms.”

  “Can I trust you” she asked.

  Guilt struck. He wanted to look away from that wide, naïve stare and instead found himself backed into a mental corner.

  His hesitation was unexpected, and suddenly Isabella was nervous.

  “Jack?”

  “I can’t do this,” he muttered. “Not like this. Not without the truth.”

  If he’d slapped her, she couldn’t have been more shocked. Embarrassed and hurting, she bolted to her feet and then turned her face to the wind.

  “We need to go,” she said briefly. “It’s late.”

  Jack was up within seconds and standing behind her. The pain in her voice was unmistakable. He hated himself for letting this go too far, but when he reached for her, she shrugged off his grasp, yanked the blanket from the ground, then stode toward the car.

  “Isabella…don’t.”

  She tossed the blanket into the trunk and then turned. The wind was sharper now, blowing harder and lifting her hair like a long black veil.

  “Don’t what? Fell stupid? It’s too late for that. Now please, get in the car before we get snowed in up here.”

  Without waiting to see if he would follow, she got into the car and slammed the door.

  Startled, Jack glanced nervously at the sky and then headed for the car.

  “Are you going to let me explain?”

  She looked at him once, then looked away.

  “There’s nothing to explain,” she said. “You came for local color, didn’t you? Obviously you’ve already gotten all you need. Do you want me to drive?”

  Cursing beneath his breath, Jack started the car and turned around, retracing the route they’d taken. They rode in complete silence as the day continued to darken, stopping only once to refuel and use the bathrooms. By the time they arrive at Abbott House, it was night and the hotel was lit against the darkness like a beacon for the lost.

  “We’re home,” Jack said, as he parked and killed the engine.

  “No,” Isabella said. “I’m home you’re just passing through.”

  She got out of the car, took the basket and blanket from the trunk, and strode into the hotel, leaving Jack to find his way alone.

  He stood beside the car, judging how much anger she had left by the length of her stride, then decided his best bet was to wait until morning. Maybe then he would have figured out a way to explain why they hadn’t made love. Then again, maybe not. To do that would mean blowing his cover, and that made no sense. He’d come to look for answers to a murder and instead had fallen in love with the shadow of a ghost. What was even worse was the fact that the murderer was probably living among the, and he had no way of knowing who he might be. One thing was certain: he needed to talk to the director.

  As he started toward his room, he remembered he had yet to study the packet of photos he’d received earlier. Had that been only this morning? It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The desk clerk was a man, someone Jack had never seen before, and he nodded at Jack as he strode up the stairs to his room. The scent of food from the dining room wafted through the air, but he had no appetite. He was still locked into the image of Isabella’s face. She’d turned off as certainly as if he’d flipped a switch. All he could do was hope that when this mess was over, he might still have a chance to work things out. Then he r3emided himself that when this was over, his face might possibly be the last thing she would ever want to see. If he discredited her beloved Uncle Frank, or any of her other “family,” he was as good as gone.

  He unlocked his door and then entered his room. The bed had been made, and there was a bouquet of fresh flowers on a table by the window. He tossed his jacket on a chair and headed into the bathroom to wash up. When he came out a few minutes later, he was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of aging gray sweatpants with a tine FBI logo near his ankle.

  He picked up the FedEx packet he’d received early that morning and dumped the contents onto the bed. There were only three shots. One, a studio photo of a thirty-something Vaclav Waller, similar to what might be attached to a resume. The second was a dark, grainy image accompanying a story clipped from a Russian newspaper. A translation of the text had been attached to the story. Jack scanned it quickly, noting that the bulk of the story was about the strides the man was making in researching DNA. The last picture was a copy of a real photo. He turned it over and read the brief notation on the back. It had been taken by an AP reporter in July 1970. In the photo, seven men, all of whom were doctors, were getting on a chartered plane that was bound for a medical symposium in the Bahamas. There was also a woman, whose face jack could not see, and two pilots standing on either side of the stairs as the doctors were boarding.

  Jack turned the picture back over, looking carefully at each of their faces. Three of them were bearded; one was wearing sunglasses; one’s face was only in silhouette; and the other two were waving at the camera. The one in sunglasses was noted as Vaclav Waller. He studied the face only briefly. It was the others who interested him most. Waller was finally dead. That was a given. But what about the others? Did they really go down with the plane, or was the whole thing an elaborate ruse? And if so, then why? He could understand the ramifications of Waller’s deception. If he had wanted to defect and feared repercussions from his country, he might have considered faking his own death to eliminate that risk. But the other doctors were not from communist-rule countries. He turned the photo over again, reding off the name. Dr. John and Mary Rhodes, U.S.A. Dr. Vaclav Waller, Soviet Republic. Dr. Anton Spicer, Great Britain. Dr. Henry Jamison, U.S.A. Dr. Conrad Garner, Belgium. Dr. Somner Craner, Belgium, and Dr. Orman Rhinehold, France. Only Waller might have had a possible yearning to defect. The others would have had no reason to go along with such a scheme.

  He reached for his cell phone and put in a call to Quantico. He had a buddy in research who might be able to help. The phone rang seven times before Jack remembered the time. On the verge of hanging up, he was startled when he heard Steven Randolph’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Steve, it’s Jack Dolan.”

  “It’s also almost eight o’clock at night. This is a recording. Call back during our regular office hours.”

  Jack grinned. “Shut up and listen for a minute, okay?”

  “What the hell do you want, Dolan?”

  Jack picked up the photo he’d been looking at. “A favor.”

  “I knew that when I heard your voice. What I’m asking is…what favor do you want/”

  “get a pen.”

  For the first time sin
ce Steven Randoph had answered the phone, Jack heard him chuckle.

  “Hell, Dolan, didn’t you know those grow out of my fingers? I’m always ready. Fire away.”

  :John Rhodes, Vaclav Waller, Anton Spicer, Henry Jamison, Conrad Garner, Somner Crand and Orman Rhinehold.”

  “Got ‘em. Now what?” Steven asked.

  “For starters, they all died in a plane crash in 1970…or at least that’s what we were led to believe.”

  “What’s up with that?”

  “Well, Vaclav Waller turned up murdered in Brighton Beach a few weeks ago. Quite a trick for a man who was supposed to have died in a plane crash over thirty years ago.”

  “What’s our interest?” Steven asked.

  “Waller was a Russian doctor, and we got some info that indicates a Soviet visitor entered the country right before the old man was killed. It’s a long story, but we have reason to believe that whatever the Russians are after, they didn’t get it from Waller.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We have it on good faith that the killer has moved to the place where the old man had been living. We don’t know what he’s after or who else might be in danger. And the more I know about this man, the better off I’ll be.”

  “Yeah, okay, but what’s with the other names?”

  “They were doctors who were also on the plane that supposedly crashed. I want to know everything there is to know about what they were working on. Oh yeah, and except for John Rhodes and Henry Jamison, the others are European, so look elsewhere, too.”

  “Got a number where you can be reached?”

  “Yeah, but why don’t you e-mail me the stuff instead?” He gave Steven Randolph his e-mail address, then, a few minutes later, disconnected.

  Weary in both heart and body, he tossed the pictures on a table and crawled into bed. He was still thinking of Isabella when he fell asleep.

  By the time Isabella got into her room and undressed to take a shower, she was shaking. She reached for the soap as she stepped beneath the spray, but it slipped through her fingers and fell to the tub.

  She stared down at the pink orb as it lay between her feet, watching the faint flow of melting soap slide toward the drain. In that moment, she saw her life in the very same way. The foundation that had been her life was sliding out from under her, just as the soap had slipped from her hands. No matter how hard she tried to stay focused, things kept getting in her way.

  The logical part of her said that she couldn’t really care for Jack Dolan—that she was just transferring her emotions to a living, breathing man because the other men in her life kept dying. But the emotional part of her knew that if Jack Dolan were only willing, she could very easily give him her heart. Unfortunately, he had not only refused her willingness to make love, but, in essence, had refused her, as well. And therein lay her pain.

  She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. Weary all the way to her soul, she went to her knees, covered her face with her hands and started to cry. Water pelted her head, running down her face and mingling with her tears. She cried until her eyes were swollen and her head was one giant ache. Finally she dragged herself to her feet and scrubbed herself raw. Even after she emerged from the shower, she knew what she’d done had been symbolic, rather than resulting from a need to be clean.

  As she was drying off, the phone in her living room began to ring. She started to answer it, then thought of Jack and changed her mind. Finally the ringing stopped. She toweled her hair until it was partially dry, then wrapped herself in a thick cotton robe, stepped into her favorite house shoes and went into the tiny kitchen.

  As she began to brew a pot of coffee, a gust of wind blew against the windows, rattling the panes. She glanced toward the windows, shivering as she did. The approaching storm they’d seen over the mountains was finally here. It was too early in the year for snow in the valley, but she knew the rain would be cold, making for a dreary day tomorrow, which suited her mood just fine.

  It was just before sunrise when Vasili Rostov rose. He dressed hastily, then dug through his pack for his phone. He glanced outside, trying to judge the time by the brightening aura on the horizon, then shrugged. It didn’t matter what time it was here in Montana, he was about to call home, and he’d been gone so long that he’d lost track of the time difference.

  He sat down on his bed, punched in a series of numbers, then waited for his call to be answered. To his relief, it didn’t take long. He spoike softly, not wanting to be overheard speaking in his native tongue.

  “This is Rostov.”

  “You have news?”

  Rostov grunted. “He is dead.”

  There was a long, pregnant silence, which did not alleviate Rostov’s anxiety.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “This is not what we wanted to hear.”

  Rostov sighed. “It is not what I expected, either.”

  “How did this happen”

  Again Rostov hesitated, uncertain how to explain what had gone wrong. Finally he decided on the truth.

  “He killed himself as we spoke.”

  “Explain!”

  There was anger in his superior’s voice, but the distance between them gave him a courage of his own.

  “He took one look at my face and knew.”

  “He recognized you?”

  “Only in the capacity in which I was sent.”

  “And for that he chose to die?”

  “He knew I would take him back. He chose not to go. It is that simple.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A week ago. I am now in the town where he was living. I have searched his home and found nothing that would lead me to believe he was anything but an old and dying man.”

  “Dying? I thought you said he was already dead.”

  “I have reason to believe he was suffering from cancer. I found medicine in his belongings that someone suffering from cancer might take. It is why I think he chose to end his life here rather than in an interrogation center in Russia.”

  “Was anyone living with him?”

  Rostov’s heart skipped a beat. This question could have meant anything, but something told him the man was not referring to a wife.

  “There is an entire hotel full of people. He had rooms alone on the top floor of a rather quaint hotel. I’ve been in it. There was nothing of consequence.”

  “Then it is over. You know what to do next?”

  “Yes,” Rostov said. “I know what to do next.”

  “When you get back, come to my office.”

  “When I get back,” Rostov repeated, knowing full well that would be never. His failure to produce the desired results would not be looked upon with favor, which was another reason to proceed with his original plan. He hung up the phone and then packed it away. A man without a home, such as he was pretending to be, would have no use for such a thing, and for the time being, he needed to stay in his disguise.

  David Schultz got up from the table where he’d been eating breakfast and went to the table where Isabella was sitting. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head before sitting opposite her. There were shadows on her face, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. Seeing her this way made him feel old and helpless. Surely there was something he could say that would help her get past this grief.

  “Good morning, dear. We missed you earlier,” he said, indicating the other uncles, who were still finishing their meal.

  Isabella shoved aside a piece of fruit on her plate and then laid down her fork.

  “I know. I’m sorry, I should have—“

  “No apology necessary. We were merely concerned.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, and took a sip of her coffee.

  He laid his hand on her arm and gave it a squeeze.

  “You don’t look fine.”

  He thought he saw her chin quiver, and when she suddenly looked away, he knew he’d been right. Her eyes were swimming with unshed tear.

  “Isabella…darling
…you are breaking my heart. I know you are missing Samuel, as well as you Uncle Frank, but you have to know they’re in a better place. Samuel’s heart attack was sudden, but it was massive. There was nothing that could have been done to save him, no matter where it happened. As for Frank’s passing, it, too, was out of our control. He became a victim of circumstance, didn’t her?”

  Isabella sighed. She was ashamed to admit that most of her tears were selfishly directed at her own disappointment and not for the loss of her father and Frank.

  “Yes, Uncle David. I know that, and truthfully, I’m getting better every day.”

  He frowned. “Then what’s all this about?”

  She shrugged, then looked away. At that moment she saw Jack walk into the dining room. She flinched, and David saw it. Suddenly her behavior was starting to make sense.

  “How was your trip yesterday?”

  She looked startled. “What trip?”

  “I was looking for you yesterday afternoon. Delia said you were gone. She also said that you’d taken that writer, Jack Dolan, on a sightseeing trip. So how was it? Did he get everything he needed…for his book?”

  Isabella’s eyes flashed, but she stifled her anger. It wasn’t Uncle David’s fault that she’d set herself up for disappointment.

  “I suppose so. I took him into the Lewis and Clark National Forest.”

  David smiled. “It must be beautiful up there this time of year.”

  “It was cold,” she said, and poured some fresh coffee in her cup, then busied herself by stirring in a spoonful of sugar.

  “It must have been late when you returned. I didn’t see you at dinner.”

  “It wasn’t all that late. I just wasn’t hungry,” she said.

  “Darling…”

  She looked up. The concern on his face was her undoing. Besides, she’d never been able to lie. She lowered her voice as she answered.