by Vanessa Kier
“I don’t—” Helen stepped into the hallway.
“What’s this about a reporter?” Lachlan demanded.
Helen stopped and backed up, forcing Tony to quickly sidestep so he didn’t run into her. Her fingers touched one of the bruises where Lachlan’s hands had shackled her wrists yesterday. Shame washed over him.
“Bloody hell, woman, will you stop acting as if I’m going to attack you?” Lachlan snapped, guilt making his voice harsher than he’d intended. “I apologized, didn’t I?”
Tony sidled past him and started down the hall. “Coward,” Lachlan muttered.
A baby wailed in the waiting room. “Jacobs can explain about the reporters,” Helen said. “I have patients to treat.”
Holding her head high, she walked away.
Damn the woman, how did she manage to make him feel as if he were the one acting unreasonably? He didn’t expect gratitude, but at least she should have acknowledged his apology as the olive branch he’d intended. He didn’t fully trust her, but he no longer thought her the monster he’d accused her of being.
Besides, although he would have been justified in turning her over to the regional police regarding her complicity in the luxury goods smuggling, he’d remained quiet. For that, she could at least try to be nice to him. Yet not only did her disdain make him feel like a mannerless brute, but the bruises on her wrist drove home the point.
Tony coughed. “How did the meeting with David go?”
Lachlan grunted and walked forward until he could see Dr. Kirk in the waiting room. She had crouched down beside a wee, bawling lad and was trying to distract him with a toy.
“David is busy arranging for a mass funeral for the tribe, plus dealing with his own grief,” Lachlan told Tony. “His son opened Kwesi’s storage room for me, but there was nothing inside except a pile of empty, flattened boxes.”
“Figures. Rene checked in. He said the regional governor and the others will live.”
“Excellent.”
Between the efforts of his mother, Dr. Kirk, and the acceptance of the toy, the laddie finally stopped crying. Lachlan stepped out of the way as the party moved toward an exam room. When she passed him, Dr. Kirk turned slightly away from Lachlan, as if he was something unclean she didn’t want to touch. The action caused something hot and vicious to raise its head inside of him. He wanted to grab her and make her look at him. Make her acknowledge him.
Kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. Until she was soft and pliant in his arms.
Ah, Christ.
He glanced away, then looked down in surprise when he felt a tug on his trousers. The lad pointed to his gun, which today he wore in a shoulder holster over his t-shirt. “Shoot bad men who killed papa?” he asked, looking at Lachlan with complete trust.
Lachlan swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat. “Aye, laddie.”
The boy gave a fierce, satisfied nod, then patted Lachlan’s thigh. “T’ank you.”
Speechless, Lachlan watched the boy scamper back to his mother.
Dr. Kirk glanced between him and the lad, an odd expression on her face. Then she turned and led the party into the first exam room.
“You’re a hero, Commander,” Tony said dryly.
Lachlan just rolled his eyes and leaned his back against the wall. Bloody hell, he was knackered.
“What next?” Tony asked.
“Tell me about this reporter.”
Tony rolled his eyes and took up a position across the hall from Lachlan. “Dr. Kirk’s boss wanted to send reporters out here to run a big feature on how heroically Dr. Kirk and her staff are responding to the crisis. She thought it would be a great way to attract donors.”
Lachlan cursed.
“That wasn’t the worst of it. Her original plan was to arrange for another event to show off the clinic to the dignitaries. She thought something in the next few days would have the most impact.”
“Is the woman mental?”
“That’s pretty much what Dr. Kirk asked her. The doctor was completely horrified. She even asked me to chime in as a security expert to convince her boss it’s not safe to hold another event yet. I think Dr. Kirk’s boss has given up on both ideas, but she sounded desperate for some way to raise the money the Foundation had been expecting, so who knows.”
“Sod it all, that’s the last thing we need. Reporters and dignitaries swarming the area again, attracting every rebel wannabe looking to build their cred with an attack.”
“And as Dr. Kirk pointed out, not only is it unethical and lacking in any trace of sympathy, but exploiting mourning villagers for profit would turn the locals against the Foundation.”
“Right. Hopefully, Dr. Kirk’s boss will abandon her grand schemes. For now, we need to find some evidence tying Kwesi to Natchaba, and tying either one of them or both of them to the attack. Kwesi’s bombed out office should be cool enough for you to sift through the debris. Check in with the man in charge, then see if there’s any clue at all.” Lachlan glanced at his watch. It had just turned one. “If you take Dr. Kirk’s SUV, you should have time to get to Kwesi’s office and back before dark. I’ll stay with the doctor until closing.” He was tempted to leave Tony here and go to Kwesi’s office himself, but that would make him the coward he’d just jokingly accused Tony of being.
“Tonight, after you return, I’ll have Dr. Kirk take us up to Natchaba’s house,” Lachlan said. “David mentioned that Natchaba and his wife used to throw elaborate parties and invite David, Dr. Kirk, and other prominent members of the community. The doctor can act as both guide and translator, although I doubt we’ll find anyone home.”
“You think he planned this and pulled out a long time ago?”
“Aye. In fact, I suspect that Natchaba ran the weapons smuggling and Kwesi just escorted the weapons from the plane to whatever method of transport Natchaba provided.”
“I agree. So. You want to ask Dr. Kirk for the keys to her SUV or should I?”
Lachlan gave a rueful smile. “You’d best do it. She’s less likely to bite off your head.”
With an appreciative chuckle, Tony knocked on the exam room door. A few minutes later, keys in hand, he nodded good-bye to Lachlan and left.
Lachlan had expected the afternoon to drag by, but instead, the flow of patients only increased.
“Adrenaline hid some of the less severe aches and pains yesterday,” Helen explained after she’d asked him once again to serve as a temporary nurse. “Now that they feel safe and have had time to relax, they’re paying attention again to their bodies.”
Lachlan still had to fight nausea every time he caught a whiff of surgical spirits, but at least he managed not to flinch when Helen passed too close to him carrying a needle and thread. Once again, Helen impressed him with her excellent manner with people. She managed to calm the nervous, comfort those in mourning, and joke with those who were afraid, all without losing her temper. She treated everyone—from an elder so wrinkled she reminded Lachlan of a raisin, to a bairn barely able to talk—as an equal, providing explanations of her diagnosis and her treatment plan that were easy to understand. Or so he gathered from the way her patients nodded as she spoke to them in the local language.
Even those who seemed most reluctant to receive treatment appeared to respect her.
Still, Lachlan couldn’t quite accept her complete innocence yet. Not until he’d seen the contents of her hidden storage room and confirmed that she truly hadn’t known Kwesi was smuggling weapons.
Even then, given his history, he doubted he could ever bring himself to fully trust a doctor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“LISTEN,” HELEN SAID later that evening from the passenger seat of her SUV. Lachlan and Jacobs had insisted on heading up to Mr. Natchaba’s house tonight, despite having to drive along winding dirt roads in the dark. But Lachlan had pointed out that the sooner they discovered if Mr. Natchaba was involved with the attacks the better, so she’d given in.
She’d also lost the fight as
to who would drive her SUV. Lachlan had pointed out that given his defensive driving training, he was the better choice. Even though Helen was more familiar with the roads.
“All I want is for you two to keep an open mind,” Helen said. “Just because Kwesi named Mr. Natchaba as his partner doesn’t mean that he planned the attack. Perhaps he was framed.” Mr. Natchaba had been nothing but polite and respectful to her. Not to mention financially generous. “Speaking from personal experience, it’s all too easy to twist facts to support a guilty verdict. That doesn’t mean the person truly is guilty.”
“You don’t find it even a little suspicious that he never planned to attend the festivities?” Lachlan asked. “After all he did to assist you in recovering from the vandalism?”
“No. He’s a very private man. He prefers to work behind the scenes, with no public acknowledgment.”
Lachlan only grunted in reply.
“Yet the regional governor announced his name,” Jacobs pointed out. “If he’s truly so opposed to publicity, wouldn’t he have asked to remain anonymous?”
“Perhaps the regional governor acted against Mr. Natchaba’s wishes,” Helen countered. “If Mr. Natchaba was framed, isn’t it likely that the real person behind the attack arranged for Mr. Natchaba’s name to be used?”
“Or Natchaba could have wanted his name to finally go public as a way to announce to the rebels the level of destruction he is capable of.”
“You’re assuming that the MP3 players were the original gift Mr. Natchaba intended,” Helen shot back. “Maybe someone swapped out the real gifts with the explosive ones.”
“Why do you insist on Natchaba’s innocence?” Lachlan asked. “Did you have a special relationship with him? Were you lovers?”
“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous. As I said, I know what it’s like to be falsely accused.” She gave Lachlan a pointed look.
He just shrugged. “It’s my job to investigate all possible leads so that we can prevent another attack. Everyone must be considered guilty until proven otherwise. And at this point, Natchaba is our primary suspect.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. I give up. You’re obviously convinced he’s guilty. But I’m telling you, he’s a nice man. You’ll see. There will be nothing at his house pointing to his guilt.”
“Lack of evidence doesn’t mean he’s innocent, lass. It just means we haven’t located it yet.”
Helen shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. Did he realize that he’d slipped and called her lass? He hadn’t done so since he kissed her. Perhaps he truly had meant his apology the other night.
“There. Turn left at the yellow flowering plant.”
Lachlan slowed the vehicle and followed the winding side road up to the top of a small ridge. The road swung out of the jungle, providing a view of the crescent moon rising over the shallow valley. Helen took a moment to absorb the beauty of the scene, hoping to dull some of the jagged edges of grief inside her. Then the road curved again, revealing the long expanse of carefully tended lawn in front of Mr. Natchaba’s house.
Jacobs whistled appreciatively. “That’s no house. That’s a bloomin’ mansion.”
“Aye. A regular Taj Mahal,” Lachlan commented. “There’s no lack of ego on Natchaba’s part, now is there?”
“Yeah, it is rather…uh…tacky,” Helen admitted. The mansion stood in the middle of a clearing that could have easily accommodated an entire village. A white, shining driveway of crushed shells curved to either side of a fountain where a giant fish spouted water into a long reflecting pool. To the left, the driveway led to a four-car garage designed as a gabled barn. To the right, the driveway led to the front door.
“Last time I was here,” she added, “there were lights lining the driveway and illuminating the fountain. And lights on inside the house.”
Lachlan drove along the right side of the reflecting pool and parked parallel to the front steps with the nose of the SUV pointed back down the driveway.
“Would they already be in bed?” Jacobs asked.
“No. I had the impression Mr. Natchaba kept city hours.”
Helen hopped out. “Let me go first. I don’t want you scaring the housekeeper.” She hurried toward the door. Helen rang the bell and heard it echo hollowly inside. After three more tries, she turned to Lachlan and Jacobs. “No one’s home.” Which was odd, because Mr. Natchaba’s wife and young son rarely left the house. Even when they’d accompanied Mr. Natchaba on his business trips, there were always at least a couple of members of staff on the premises.
Jacobs slipped past her and tried the latch. “Door’s open.”
“No. That can’t be right.” But the door swung open at his touch.
Jacobs took a step into the front hall and flicked on the lights. Helen caught a glimpse of dead flowers in a vase and a scattering of petals around the base of a table positioned on the other side of the white marble entry. To their right, the white wall that curved along the staircase was marred by what Helen realized in shock was the arc of blood splatters. At the top of the stairs, a bare, bloody foot dangled in between two railings.
“Oh, God.” Someone was hurt. The panicked flutter of her heart was becoming all too familiar, but training urged her forward.
Jacobs blocked her with his arm. “This is a crime scene, doctor. Stay put.”
Helen gestured toward the foot. “What if that person is alive? I have to check.”
Jacobs glanced over her head at Lachlan. “The doctor is right,” Lachlan said. “We have to investigate if there’s a chance someone still lives.”
Jacobs nodded.
“Let me get my kit.” Helen raced back to the SUV and returned a moment later with her medical bag.
“All right, doctor,” Jacobs said. “Step where I step.”
With Lachlan at her back, Helen followed Jacobs into the hall. With her senses on alert, she noticed that what she’d initially thought were dead flower petals were actually splashes of blood. Bloody footprints led from the front parlor and up the marble stairs.
Helen’s imagination conjured up screams and the frantic pants of a person being chased. She felt their panic and their desperate hope that safety lay on the upper level. No. She couldn’t afford to be caught up in emotion. Yet her defenses were weakened by the events of the past few days and her attempt to block out her empathy, as she normally did before surgery, proved more difficult than usual.
As they moved across the hall and up the stairs, Jacobs photographed the scene. She wondered if it helped him distance himself from the horror of what appeared to have been a violent attack. Or were Jacobs and Lachlan so used to death that it didn’t bother them?
When they reached the body at the top of the stairs, one look at the flesh gaping from the slice across the housekeeper’s neck and the size of the puddle of blood beneath her, and Helen knew there was no possibility of life. Still, she pulled on a pair of gloves and crouched down. The woman had been stabbed multiple times before having her throat cut. Based on the state of the body, she’d probably been killed yesterday.
Helen bowed her head and said a local prayer for the woman, then stood up. She kept her gloves on, afraid that they’d find more corpses.
She was right.
By following the trail of blood, they found three other bodies. All of them members of the household staff. Each one had been stabbed multiple times before having their throats cut.
But there was no sign of Mr. Natchaba or his family.
“Why would someone do this?” Helen asked. “These people never harmed anyone. They were just regular, hard-working people.”
Lachlan and Jacobs exchanged a solemn glance and didn’t answer. But she realized that at some point they’d each drawn their weapons. The black pistols in their hands were just another sign of how off-course her life had become.
“What now?” she asked.
“We finish searching the premises for any sign that Natchaba or his family are hiding in a secret room, or that they were
here and have been kidnapped,” Lachlan said. “And we also look for evidence of the weapons smuggling. Natchaba has plenty of space here to hide weapons. When we’re done searching, we’ll call the regional police.”
“All right.” She followed the men through the house as they conducted a room-to-room search. Since they’d found the final victim in the kitchen, they started there. Nothing was out of place in the downstairs rooms or in the rooms at the front of the second level, if you didn’t count the bloodstains from the victims being chased through the house. Nor was there any sign of Mr. Natchaba or his family. When they entered the private wing, they discovered that everything personal had been removed.
“It appears as if your good friend Mr. Natchaba never intended to return,” Lachlan said, nodding at the empty closet in the master bedroom. “When is the last time you saw him face-to-face?”
Helen thought back. “The day we signed the loan papers. I went down to the regional capital to his lawyer’s office. After that, I dealt with the lawyer.”
“And his wife and child?”
“Um… A few weeks before that. She brought the boy in for another round of vaccinations. But she was always a nervous, shy woman. We only exchanged small talk.” As they walked through the rooms that held furniture but no clothing, no children’s toys, no personal items of any kind, dread settled in Helen’s stomach. Had Mr. Natchaba left because he was under threat? Or because he needed to be long gone before the attacks took place?
She hated the fact that she even had to consider the second possibility. With one last glance around the empty room, she followed Lachlan out into the corridor.
“Found the office,” Jacobs said, toeing open the door of the room that ran across the end of the hallway.
Helen heard a loud click.
“Get down!” Jacobs shouted. He turned and dove toward them.
Lachlan tackled Helen. She had only a moment to register the impact of his body against hers and the sensation of falling before they hit the floor. Lachlan covered her body with his as behind him, the office exploded. The heat and noise roared over them, hurting Helen’s ears and making her skin feel painfully taut and dry.
