by Nancy Gideon
"The situation down there is murky at best. There are no clear-cut lines of authority. I'm not even sure what the chain of command for investigation is, whether it's military or local considering the importance of the last victim. I only know that you have a certain expertise that they may not."
"I'm sure Peru has its share of snipers."
"You misunderstand me, Cobb. I'm not talking about your history as a killer. I'm speaking of your experience as a hunter."
Now, it was Cobb's turn to frown. Hunter? Of what?
Forrester didn't keep him guessing for long. “Some hysterical grave robbers spread all sorts of wild stories about unleashing some ancient evil that killed their partner. Panic is growing, and I'm afraid our time in Peru is getting uncomfortably short."
Cobb's frown deepened, all his alarm bells and whistles going off at once. “How were these people killed?"
Forrester's grim smile told him he'd hit the proverbial nail dead center.
"The local reports called it in ritual fashion. Their throats were torn open, and their blood was gone."
And Cobb's blood temperature took an icy plunge. “And you suspect?"
"I suspect nothing. I want to know for sure. And I want you to find out for me. Lemos is important to the Center. He's doing valuable work that could have widespread consequence. But you and I, better than anyone else, know how much greater the potential could be if these killings are following the pattern we saw here in Seattle. This is more than profits, Cobb. It's personal, and I don't have to explain that to you, of all people, do I?"
"No, sir.” His own voice reflected the same glass-cutting edge. No, Forrester didn't have to explain anything to him. The executive's reputation wasn't the only one to take a tarnishing hit from the last unfortunate turn of affairs. His jaw tensed, the movement pulling at the barely healed slash across his cheek. It would take more than a few dozen stitches to close that ragged wound and repair the damage done.
It would take retribution.
He picked up the plane tickets.
"Where do I meet this Lemos?"
"You'll have to make your own arrangements once you get to Lima."
No problem. He was a resourceful guy.
"There is one more thing."
Forrester's approach was delicate, almost cagy in its caution. Cobb tensed, waiting for that shoe to drop right where his nerve endings were the most sensitive.
"Lemos would accept our help on one condition."
"Condition? He calls in the cavalry and makes his own conditions?"
"Lemos didn't call us in. His uncle did. Peyton Samuels. He owns the ecotourism lodge where the last murder occurred. Lemos is a reluctant participant, but he agreed to let you come down as long as you brought someone with you."
"Who?” He wasn't liking this at all.
"A Dr. Reynard, Lemos's childhood friend. An archaeologist from what I gather, someone who knows the language and the people. An asset to you."
A pain in the asset, was more like it.
"And where do I meet this Dr. Reynard?"
"In Lima. Can you be ready in an hour?"
"I've had all my shots."
And in just over two hours time, Frank Cobb was jetting toward South America.
* * * *
With its jagged and mysterious landscapes, Peru ranked amongst the world's best known centers of ancient civilization. Before its traditional world was crushed by the invading Spanish, a long line of highly developed cultures, including the sun-worshiping Incas, had left their mark thousands of years before the first European set foot within its diverse borders. A land of stunning variety, it contained 83 of the 103 possible ecological zones, from the icy peaks of the Andes down into the steamy jungles and to the world's driest desert running the length of its coastline. Half of its 23 million people were of pure Indian origin, many still speaking Quechua or the Aymaran tongue of their ancestors. Some tribes of the deep Amazon had never been disturbed by the new invasion of the modern world which came to find not only the gold that had drawn the bloody Spanish, but rubber and mahogany amongst the country's other precious resources.
When Frank Cobb exited the airport, he left that greedy modern world behind to enter the decaying colonial splendor that was Lima. Draped by a blanket of low clouds, the City of Kings sprawled before him like an oriental bazaar beneath the softening patina of desert dust. Conspicuous in the suit coat that had felt comfortable in the damp clime of Seattle, he set down his single duffle and began to scan the bustling thoroughfare for the faceless Dr. Reynard. He'd pictured some elderly scholar looking like the distinguished and slightly addled character Sean Connery played in the last of the Indiana Jones trilogy, so he was more than a little surprised by a breathy and very female overture.
"If you want a change of clothes tomorrow, you'd better hang on to that bag. You must be Cobb."
Features schooled to betray none of his astonishment, he regarded the speaker as if he'd expected to find an ethnologist with the face of an angel. “That obvious?"
"Umm.” She bent to pick up his bag, giving him a quick assessment from black wingtips to muted tie and dark glasses. “You have the easy mark of tourist stamped right on you. I'm Dr. Reynard.” A wry smile quivered on her lips. “Not that obvious, right? You weren't expecting a woman, I see."
Surprise. That was a pertinent piece of need-to-know data he really needed to know from the start. The cunning Greg Forrester must have guessed at his reluctance and decided silence was a virtue on this particular subject. He'd let Cobb assume what was now obviously not true. There was nothing scholarly, aged or the least bit masculine about this doctor.
She was tall—looking him almost directly in the eye—slender, almost boyish in the baggy khaki pants and an unbuttoned denim shirt over a faded Grateful Dead tee. She wasn't wearing a bra, probably because she didn't see the need to. There wasn't much to see. It was the short bob of her not-quite-naturally blonde hair that defined her femininity with a riot of wash and go curls. And her face ... no mistake there. Pure woman. Round, soft, and sun-kissed. Old-fashioned was the first description that came to mind. None of the artfully made-up, cosmopolitan sleekness of the urban socialite, but a casual, unpretentious beauty that was found down on the farm. Or in the Peruvian jungles. When she spoke, the faintest trace of a Southern dialect softened her syllables.
He might have been taken in by that overall innocent appeal if not for her gaze. Oh, her eyes were big and brown and doe-soft, but there was an unswerving directness to her and an edge of caution that warned there was more to this one than bronzed skin and Clara Bow lips. And that made him nervous.
Not liking to be caught off guard, he kept his response short and crisp.
"Dr. Reynard. Where to?"
She took his curt reply in and adjusted her own stance into one a bit more tense and adversarial. When he didn't move to take back his luggage the way a true gentleman would have, he could see her redrawing the picture she'd created of him, as well, into a less flattering portrait. He didn't think she needed to know he preferred to keep his hands free just in case he had to reach for the revolver it had taken all sorts of string-pulling for him to bring into the country. Despite his buttoned up apparel, he wasn't in Peru to play tourist.
"We leave first thing in the morning,” she told him at last. “I've booked us rooms here in the city for tonight. Nothing fancy, so I hope you aren't too attached to your creature comforts."
"Just as long as the bed doesn't come with creatures of its own."
She smiled again, somewhat reluctantly, and he found himself looking at her lips. A cupid's bow. He'd heard that expression before but had never witnessed it in full, pouty detail. A small, ripely contoured mouth perpetually pursed as if for a kiss. He turned away, jaw tensing, to speak through clenched teeth.
A real asset. He could see it now.
"Lead on, Dr. Reynard."
He knew his attitude confused her, but that was all right. They both needed to be on their
guard, with one another and with the hostile world around them. They weren't in this as best pals nor adversaries. More like as necessary evils.
"I'll get us a cab,” she replied in an equally frigid tone.
Lima's idea of a taxi was an ancient VW Beetle, with the absence of paint on its exterior leaving an even finish of rust. As they wedged themselves into the microscopic back seat, the little bug took off with a sputter and explosion of oily exhaust, bouncing them against one another to create a flash of discomfort before they settled in with Cobb's duffle in the middle to provide a neutral buffer.
Frank didn't know where to look to find the least unsettling distraction, at the quixotic doctor beside him or out the side window to chronicle the driver's headlong rush down pot-holed back streets strewn with garbage, dead dogs and roaming livestock. The windshield had been shattered so many times, the poor man had to risk life and a possible decapitation leaning out the door to see where he was going. But that inconvenience didn't slow him down as he raced toward intersections, blowing his horn in sharp bursts to claim right of way before tearing through the impoverished urban sprawl without hesitation.
Frank fought the inclination to cling for dear life because his companion seemed so at ease with the reckless roller-coaster ride. Soft shell, tough interior, he surmised. A good thing, considering where they were headed. He'd been in the jungle before, not in Peru but in places a lot less welcoming, and not as a tourist then, either. It wasn't for the faint of heart or delicate natured. And apparently, she was thinking the same thing.
"I hope you have some footwear that's a little more sensible in that bag.” Her scrutiny fell upon his leather street shoes.
"I've been dressing myself for quite a few years now, Doctor. I do all right on my own."
"So I've heard."
At the provoking lift of his brow, she elaborated.
"Your reputation precedes you. I've done some checking."
That shocked him. As far as he knew, his background was available only to those with the highest clearance. So who did she know, and what strings had she pulled?
"Well, don't believe everything you read, Doc. Life's full of little surprises."
And that effectively ended further conversation until their wild ride ended outside a stately old building. His optimism took a cautious step up. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad after all.
He climbed out of the claustrophobic cab and put out a hand to his companion. She took it with some reluctance, as if wondering what price would come attached to the courtesy. Then she stood by, raising an impressed brow that he'd already exchanged his American currency for the sol and spent it like he knew its worth.
When he hoisted his bag and took a step toward the grand front doors, the good doctor caught his sleeve.
"Not here. Over there across the street."
He pondered the subtle humor in her voice until he turned and got a look at their accommodations. Where the other building had stately elegance, their hotel was simply old. The squatting two story looked as though it had housed the original Spanish invaders. Its facade was as weather beaten and tired as the corner crone with her begging cup, dependant upon the pity of strangers for her existence. Noting his expression, his companion managed a halfhearted apology.
"It looked a lot better the last time I stayed here."
"And when was that?"
"Twenty years ago."
Before he could comment, she darted across the cobbles, dodging a pickup truck and a pair of bicyclists and leaving him no alternative but to follow at a more prudent pace.
So much for comforts of any kind.
If anything, the interior was worse than the weary face it presented to the world. Footprints marked a floor where the dust hadn't been disturbed for ages. The lobby was little more than a narrow hall with the attendant backed into a closet. Frank knew enough Spanish to catch the irony of them getting the key to the presidential suite. As if any kind of president would deign to stay here.
Upstairs the view only grew bleaker. Low ceiling, nonexistent lighting and the smell—he didn't want to guess what that was about. He had to admire the doctor's cool. She was unruffled by the squalor and picked her way around the questionable items littering the hall without a downward glance. The sign of a seasoned traveler. Or an exhausted one. He'd forgotten to ask where she'd arrived from. Perhaps over dinner there'd be the chance for more civilizing small talk. If the surroundings could yield up a decent place to eat. He hoped this wasn't a ‘Catch Your Own’ type hotel.
Their suite was a surprise, and he was ready for one of that nature. Not that it was large or new, but it was clean, done in cheerful colors splashed across the floors and single couch woven in local patterns. The main room had a sofa, a chair and a café table upon which the only light was found. Doors led off to two separate bedrooms and a tiny bath. In his earlier visits south of the equator, Frank learned that ‘with bath’ meant shower and toilet, not a tub and sometimes not even hot water. If they were lucky, they'd have soap, towels and toilet paper. If not, they'd have to make do.
Then their host was gone, closing the door upon two strangers alone.
It was after six. Cobb was thinking food, but his companion had another objective in mind.
Without once looking in his direction, the good doctor headed for one of the rooms.
"I've been up for thirty-six hours. I'm going to grab a little sleep."
"I'll just check out the hot water situation—"
She closed the door on the last of his comment.
So much for small talk.
After dropping his bag on the twin-sized bed in the other room, he was pleased to find all three necessities in the bathroom and a tepid drizzle from the shower head as icing on the cake. A quick shower proved revitalizing but not relaxing considering the circumstances. He was reminded of them the minute he swiped the fog off the mirror with his forearm.
The scar ran several inches in a lateral slash across his cheekbone then made a diving ‘L’ to his jaw. He followed the harsh line with his fingertip, not needing the reflection to go by. He'd mapped it enough to know the distances by heart. He wasn't a vain man. The fact that his looks were destroyed hadn't been anywhere near the blow of having his competence questioned. He hadn't been able to protect the last woman in his care. What made him think he could provide safety for this one if they were to confront the same evil?
He caught sight of the cross he wore out of habit, not religion, and considered the irony of that small sliver of silver offering more protection than any of his brutal training regimes. He fingered the delicate shape. It had been an unexpected gift. Though not a bold piece of man's jewelry, he enjoyed the fragile dimensions because they brought to mind the giver and the reason for the gift.
He etched that same design in the air out of vaguely remember childhood catechisms and mouthed the words, “Protect us."
And as if in answer, the steamy air in the bath was rent with a scream of terror.
Chapter Three
Sheba sat up with a gasp, covered in the sweat of dread from a familiar, if unremembered, dream. Her heart pounded with the fierceness of a tribal drum, aching within her breast as she struggled against the panic.
Leave me alone! What do you want from me?
She could scream out the words but who would hear? Who or what haunted her mind and fragmented memories every time she closed her eyes?
She'd just oriented herself within the shabby room when the door flew open, its frame filled with the startling silhouette of a half-dressed man with gun in hand.
"Are you all right?"
The terse voice centered her. Cobb. She forced a stabilizing breath to expand the crushing pressure about her heart. She never thought she'd be grateful for his presence. But then, how must she look to him? Quivering like a child afraid of the closet monster, crouched in the day's heavy shadows, her cheeks slicked with a residue of tears?
Not a great first impression.
"Of cour
se, I'm all right,” she growled with the rusty timbre of fading fear and mounting humiliation. Her hands scrubbed away the dampness on her cheeks in angry, stinging swipes. “Or I will be once I have my privacy returned. If you don't mind."
For a moment, he didn't move from that alert and dangerous pose, and she began to wonder if she'd have to further embarrass herself with an even more rude and unforgivable dismissal. Then he relented, the gun lowering, his posture easing from its readied tension.
"Well, excuse me all to hell. Next time, I'll wait for an invitation before trying to play hero."
He took a step back and let the slam of the door echo his indignation.
She let him go. How could she reach out with an apology or explanation? What reasoning could she give that didn't sound crazy to her own ears? Besides, Cobb was acting out of bruised male ego, not from any real affront to his feelings. They were strangers. He had no emotional investment in her, so how could he take her rebuff personally? She hadn't asked him to become involved.
She didn't even want to be here.
You shouldn't be here, whispered her prophetic inner voice.
Angrily, she took control of her shaken nerves and watery limbs, driving herself up off the sheltering bed where she huddled like a coward. Get up, get out, get busy, her answer for the near-paralyzing attacks of fright. She'd made the decision to return, so there was no point in wallowing in regrets. Only Paulo had the power to bring her back. Her love for him was the only force on Earth powerful enough to conquer her reluctant terror.
He needed her. How could she say no?
And how could she keep running from the answers she knew lay in wait out there in the jungle? Answers to twenty years of night-sweats and not knowing why. Answers she wasn't sure she'd ever be strong enough to face.
But she had to be, didn't she? She had to be if she was ever going to make something normal out of her life.
Damn Paulo for his second phone call and his plea for her assistance.
For forcing her to put her head in the lion's mouth.
* * * *
Cobb stood at the single window, staring out through filmy panes at nothing in particular. He didn't turn when he heard her behind him and he didn't make the mistake of asking after her well-being again. Once the fool, shame on you, twice the fool, shame on me, was his motto.
