by D. L. O'Neal
This story copyright 2000 by D. L. O'Neal. Published by Hard Shell Word Factory.
8946 Loberg Rd.
Amherst Junction, WI 54407
http://www.hardshell.com
Electronic book created by Seattle Book Company.
eBook ISBN: 0-7599-1567-9
Cover art copyright 2000 Mary Z. Wolf
All rights reserved.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
* * *
To my mother, Edith O'Neal, with love
* * *
Prologue
HE WAS strapped, face down, on the table.
With his eyes closed, his sense of smell and hearing were acutely sensitive. The muffled shuffle of a sandal against the bare wood floor reverberated in his ears, while the sound of someone breathing became an unrelenting echo that filled the small room. He could smell the dank rottenness of the jungle, smell his own blood as it ran, warm and wet, from his wrists and ankles. The scarred wooden table beneath him had its own odor, one permeated with old sweat and infused with fear. Strained beyond endurance, the muscles in his shoulders jerked spasmodically.
Inside him, helpless rage battled with terrible fear.
He welcomed the rage with a desperate force. Clung to it and stoked it until it became so hot it burned his mind and scalded his gut. Rage was the one weapon they couldn't take from him and it was all that kept him alive and sane in this hell.
The door to the room closed gently. He opened his eyes. Ignoring the rush of nausea the effort caused, he lifted his head and squinted from between swollen lids. The soft glint of gold winked at the edge of his vision.
Bitter gall flooded his mouth and his back tightened involuntarily. In the days since his capture he'd learned to cringe from the flash of the ring. The wearer was always careful to hover outside the bright circle of light, but once he'd managed to catch a glimpse of the ring. The design haunted him: a dragon swallowing a tiger.
The irony didn't escape him. The hunter was now the hunted. He knew exactly how the tiger felt when beaters flushed the animal from the bush for the hunters to torment and kill at will. All he could do was try to strike back and wait for death. Like the beast, he understood his fate.
He stared harder at the hazy silhouette, hoping against hope that this time he would see the face of the man behind the interrogations. The hot, white light shot straight into his brain, but he stared until his eyes watered and the shadow figure wavered and danced about causing his stomach to lurch. Finally he let his lids slide shut. At once, the nausea subsided to a manageable level.
Tired, so damn tired. For the last two weeks it had been the same--during the daylight hours they kept him awake for interrogation, while at night the mosquitoes did the tormenting for them.
There wasn't a place on his body that didn't throb and scream with the pain of numerous beatings and insect bites. Blood from a deep gash, inflicted during the last session, had seeped down and crusted his eyes to mere slits. Lightheaded as he was from pain and fatigue, it was difficult to think clearly, to tell what was real and what imagined.
Except for the pain.
And his hate.
He drifted, more unconscious than aware. Hazy thoughts and images that refused to linger and take hold, teased him. Even in his muddled state he was aware there was something that was important, something he needed to understand. Something about the torture being different, more intense, the inquisition....
The emphasis of the questions differed when he was watching, that was it. Fierce satisfaction welled and his mind cleared for an instant.
His captors were after more than just military information. Then, like a lightning bolt through his abused body, he realized something else...his Team had been sold out.
The numbing fog returned, shrouding his mind before he could piece together anymore.
Hours passed. Or was it minutes? The man in the shadows shifted slightly, impatiently, snapping him from the floating semiconscious state back to cold reality.
That hint of gold, just outside the circle of light, held him mesmerized as it flashed and winked.
Cold, surgical steel rested for a moment on his back before it moved in slow, precise patterns.
And then pain. Icy hot. Intense.
He closed his teeth on the inside of his cheek until salty, coppery blood flooded his mouth.
GABRIEL STEELE jerked awake, the taste of blood on his tongue. He thrust the covers off and rose quickly. Shoving the sliding glass door open, he stepped onto the veranda.
Leaning on the rail, Gabriel let the slight breeze, river-cool, dry the sweat from his body. Occasional shudders rippled through him. Dropping his head, he drew the moist air deep into his lungs.
"Damn."
Cold sweat popped out on his forehead as he fought the recollections, the nightmares he had spent over twenty years creating; twenty years spent in the humid, festering jungles of the world, amid blood, death and destruction. Sometimes he wondered if the memories would drive him insane.
Or was he already insane and just didn't realize it?
His superiors hadn't given a damn about his sanity. Not as long as he got the job done discreetly and efficiently.
And he'd been very efficient.
His hands clenched on the railing until the aged cedar threatened to crack. The faint plop of a frog jumping into the water from the river bank drew him from the past.
Tension seeped from his body. That life was no longer his. He now operated a commercial garden nursery. Gabriel acknowledged the irony of his choice--creating life instead of destroying it--but gardening possessed a certain...serenity.
He stared out into the night. A faint sheen highlighted the river, turning its shallow waters into a dark meandering snake. Beneath his feet, the wooden deck creaked and popped as the heat of the day dissipated.
A breath shuddered from him. Serenity, he'd discovered, was itself a shadow. And, try as he might, he couldn't catch it.
Combing his fingers through his hair, he dropped into a nearby chair. The rattan creaked under his considerable weight. Hearing trained by survival unconsciously noted and separated the sounds of night, cataloguing them as safe.
The echo of a bobwhite sounding in his ears, Gabriel realized what he was doing. Even here, he comprehended bitterly, traces of his former life wouldn't let him be. As naturally as most people breathed, he checked his surroundings for hidden dangers.
Some habits, it seemed, were impossible to break.
The pungent smell of freshly turned soil hung on the warm, night air, mingling with the fresh, cooler scent of river. He inhaled deeply. His heartbeat slowed and settled to a deep, steady thrum.
Earlier today, he had spent several hours preparing the beds around his house. The satisfaction he gained working the soil, from seeing young plants sprout, amazed him. He found he liked seeing things grow.
He wished he had known that at seventeen.
He gazed into the distance. His eyes, sharper than most, picked out the dark shadows of ancient live oaks that marked the inside perimeter line of his security system. How many human insecurities had those trees witnessed? After hundreds of years, were they able to sense human emotions? Or were they unaware and unmindful of the vagaries of humans?
Gabriel shook his head, smiling faintly at his fanciful reflection. Whatever. It really didn't matter. Just knowing the stately trees would be standing long after he was gone, infused him with a sense of continuity, of permanence.
A neon-green flash of light streaked across the star-s
tudded sky. Tracking it pensively, Gabriel followed its path until the eon-old speck of mineral and metal dissolved into nothing.
He was like that meteorite, he thought in sudden dissatisfaction, nothing more than a handful of vapor and smoke. He blazed briefly, then was gone with nothing of worth left behind to witness his passing. Nothing.
Easing his shoulders into a more comfortable position, he contemplated the shadows on the moon, deliberately closing his mind to the disturbing realization.
Gabriel resigned himself to another sleepless night. Just one more legacy he had earned.
IMAGES, LIKE a pack of prehistoric predators, slipped eagerly through the night, seeking a victim to wrap in the echos of a sanity trapped in life and death combat. Wild, chaotic, and totally lacking in substance, like ghosts they teased and tormented with half-formed touches and whispers of pain, betrayal and rage.
And above it all hovered an insidious, malignant enjoyment feeding and growing on the swirl of emotions.
Chapter 1
IT ALWAYS began with a faceless body.
A soul-deep shiver worked its way from the pit of Kalesia Brannigan's stomach until she was literally shaking with the force of it. She wanted to turn her face away, to run and hide, but couldn't. Slowly, she began walking toward the body on the ground.
As Kalesia came closer, she could see it was a woman. Wisps of early morning fog swirled eerily about Kalesia's legs, seeming almost as if it were trying to hold her back. She swallowed, and forced herself to take those last steps that would bring her next to the dead woman.
No! Don't look! her mind screamed as she stopped. At the last moment she averted her gaze from the still face and stared instead at the neat round hole that marred the amber silk of the woman's blouse, just beneath the left breast.
Pain exploded in her chest. A choking, enveloping agony that ripped the very air from her lungs. Gritty soil ground into her knees as she hit the earth, gasping.
Dear God.
Seized by a fit of trembling, Kalesia's knees sagged and she knelt there, beside the body, unable to tear her gaze from the bullet wound. Such a small, insignificant thing to have effected so much damage. Kalesia wrapped her arms around herself and began an unconscious rocking.
She didn't want to know anymore.
Coward! Look at her face. See the fear she went through before they ended her life without mercy.
No!
Kalesia fought the insidious prodding, strangely terrified of gazing on the waxen features. Defiantly, she turned her attention to the surrounding area.
Less than thirty feet straight ahead, brown grass and brittle brush gave way to slick, grey mud as the land sloped downward toward a weed-clogged pond. The hyacinths and cattails in the shallows were bare, giving it a stark and forlorn air. Kalesia gained an impression of tracks at the edge of the pond, but in the misty light she couldn't quite make out whether they were human.
A prickle of unease sliced through the benign greyness of early morning, sending a cold sweat to her upper lip. The pond, the stretch of woods with huge oaks hundreds of years old, that lightning-blasted pine...they were all familiar.
Kalesia went icy all over.
Too familiar. Dread and an unwilling fascination made it hard to breathe as her gaze slid from the denuded scrub oaks to the lifeless face of the woman.
"No!"
Kalesia's eyes snapped open. Gasping for air, she clawed her way to the surface of wakefulness. Sitting up, she bowed her head and drew in deep, shuddering breaths.
"Dear God, no." Icy cold chills washed over her in waves despite the warm, humid night. Kalesia pulled the covers higher, until they were under her chin, but couldn't chase the cold away. The familiar items in her bedroom took on ominous shapes. She fumbled for the switch to the bedside lamp, pushing damp strands of dark red hair off her face. Relief made her weak when the shadows receded.
She pressed the heels of her hands to eyes that burned, and battled for control of her trembling limbs. "A nightmare. It was only a nightmare. Everyone has nightmares." The sound of her voice echoed in the air, startling her.
Kalesia snatched a thick, terry robe from the foot of the bed and made her way down the darkened stairs.
The light over the stove was on, offering a warm circle of safety. Locating the copper kettle, she filled it, taking comfort in the everyday task. In the distance, the faint hum of traffic brought a welcomed normalcy.
`Normalcy'. She pondered the concept as she poured water over the tea bag. Few people would welcome a nightmare, but she would, Kalesia thought with sudden fierceness, because then she wouldn't have to fear what she saw, could shrug it off as an attack of indigestion or a scary movie. Like a normal person.
The sound of her teeth chattering against the stoneware mug sounded loud in the silence of the old-fashioned kitchen. A violent shudder ripped through her as she accepted what she'd already known.
It wasn't just a nightmare. She'd seen another murder. This time, though, was different. This time her own face had stared back.
"YOU WANT to report what?"
"You heard me--" Kalesia glanced at the name plaque on the desk, "--Major Harley." Harley was a man in his fifties, tall and with just the beginning of a slight paunch. His brown hair was cut military short and had distinguished grey streaks feathering his temples. He appeared a no nonsense sort of man with a direct gaze, but now he seemed flummoxed. If she hadn't been so scared, Kalesia might have found his reaction amusing.
Major Tom Harley of the Marion County, Florida, Detective Bureau, cleared his throat and fiddled with the pile of papers on his desk. He looked up and pinned her with shrewd, brown eyes. "Let me get this straight. You want to report a murder?" One finger pushed aviator-style glasses up an uncompromising nose broken sometime in the past. He seemed oblivious when they promptly slid back down.
Kalesia nodded. "That's right. Mine." A hard knot formed in her stomach at the blatant disbelief she saw on his face. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"Look, I'm going to be honest with you. I'm having a hard time buying your story. You don't look like a crazy," he waved his hand at her neat business suit, "but I don't get many people in here saying that they've seen their own deaths."
She'd worn the cheerful yellow skirt and black jacket and had pulled her hair into a neat twist for precisely that reason, to lend credibility. She might have saved herself the trouble.
"I wonder if you'll believe me when I'm dead," she asked. Too bad she wouldn't be around to see Major Harley's reaction when she was found dead. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time," she said crisply, reaching for her purse.
"I'm not trying to make light of your situation, Ms. Brannigan, but this office can't act without evidence. As of this moment there have been no threats, no unexplained accidents, no lurking strangers. All you have is what you saw in a dream. I'm sorry, it isn't enough."
Kalesia straightened in the narrow wooden chair. He sounded like he meant it. She began to wonder if she had misjudged the tall, stocky man. "It's all I have. It's all I ever have."
His chair creaked as he shifted. "But it is not enough to allow me to act. Even if I were inclined to believe you, I can't tie up the department's resources on the basis of a dream. I really wish I could help, but I can't."
A lump formed in her throat. So that was that. She gathered her shoulder bag and rose, offering him her hand. "Thank you."
"For what?" he asked, rising. His hand engulfed hers, his grip firm and somehow reassuring. Much as the man was himself.
"For treating me as a human being and not like a deranged freak or a refugee from a cult. You'd be surprised at how many don't bother." Kalesia became aware she was clinging to his hand, and disengaged hers.
She smoothed a wrinkle out of the pencil slim skirt. Normally, you couldn't get her near a place like this, she hated the way they all looked at her like she needed professional help, but now she found herself lingering. Say good bye and get it over with, she mentally scolded. Y
ou can't hide in here forever. Taking a deep breath, she started to leave.
"Ms. Brannigan?"
Kalesia turned, her hand on the back of the chair. "Yes?"
"You really think someone is going to kill you, don't you?"
"I Know someone is."
He hesitated, then said slowly. "I have a friend. We used to work together. He's retired now and has a new business, but he might be willing to assist you."
"You say he's retired? Are you sure he's," she paused delicately and then started over, "Are you sure he won't mind? It could get dangerous." Desperate as she was for help, involving a man in the twilight of his years made her uncomfortable.
Amusement flashed across Harley's face and settled in his eyes. "I think it's just what he needs, if he decides to help, that is." He turned serious. "Look, I can't promise he will. He might refuse to even listen. You can never tell with Gabe." He dug in his jacket pocket and finally produced a business card. Leaning over the desk, Harley scribbled rapidly. "Here are the directions to his place." He passed the card to her.
Glancing at the card he'd handed her, an odd sensation passed through Kalesia. She shook it off and was halfway out the door when Major Harley called again.
"Ms. Brannigan? Be sure to tell Gabe I sent you."
BUTTERFLIES fluttered in her stomach as she executed a turn onto Highway 27 twenty minutes later. She gripped the wheel of her sporty yellow compact. The sun was just above the horizon. Kalesia glanced at her watch and groaned. It was already after eight. Common decency dictated that she wait until morning, but she had the strong hunch she'd chicken out if she did.
Ocala was several miles behind her and a deepening purple twilight was cloaking the sky by the time she found the turnoff. A small sign pointed the direction toward Tranquility Nursery. She nearly missed it. Hidden behind uncut Bahia grass and brush, the sign drooped wearily, as if tired of trying to attract attention.
