She was in the office behind the registration desk. A dull tingle had replaced her pulse. She looked out at the lobby, every chair filled at this hour of the morning. Businessmen from all over the world, coming here to court the sultan, sell him something, trying to divert some small trickle of the great offshore gushers in their direction. Men of every nationality, most in the same uniform, dark slacks, white shirts, most of them smoking. Businessmen waiting for the sultan to return from his trip, then waiting for an audience with his Majesty. That lobby stank of waiting men. Men with briefcases full of prospectuses, charts and graphs, brochures. Offering the best that money could buy, the crown jewels of the world, the creamiest of the cream.
"It finish," the Chinese clerk said. "Your fax can come now, I think."
Sean moved out of the doorway, came close to the small black box. A moment or two later the phone rang twice and the machine answered. She heard the quiet chatter of electronic connections being made, thousands of silent messages relayed from the other side of the globe, pluses and minuses, positives and negatives. That stream of opposites flooding into the small computer, instantly decoded, and the printer switching on.
She stood beside the machine and watched the first inch of white paper emerge, heard voices behind her. She saw her mother's name printed on the top of the sheet. Allison Farleigh, Wildlife Protection League. And as Sean focused on the paper inching out, she heard behind her a woman politely answering in Malay a man's indignant question. Patrick's voice.
Her eyes fixed on the paper; she felt her knees sag, a blind stab of panic.
"Miss Farleigh," the Chinese clerk said. "There gentleman to see you."
She watched the paper rise from the machine. A smudged copy, but clear enough. Two men surrounded by a dense wood, rifles in their hands, aimed into the trees, a shadowy blur hanging from the belt of one of them. An orangutan.
"Sean," he said from several feet away. "What's going on?"
She heard the machine slice the sheet free and she lifted the single page out of the tray and held it to the light. A tall man held one rifle, and beside him stood a lean young man with wavy black hair. The printer had turned the photo into a murky sketch washed in shadows, but still there was no doubt who the slender man was.
She wadded the paper up, dropped the ball into a half-filled wastebasket. She turned and forced her lips into a smile.
Patrick stood in the doorway, several steps away. In black silk shirt, pale gray slacks, a thin gold bracelet at his wrist.
"What is it, Sean? They called me. They said you were checking out. What's happened? What's wrong?"
She let Patrick lead her out of the hotel office, out into the lobby.
"I made a mistake," she said.
"What mistake? What is it, Sean? You look terrible."
"I feel terrible."
A furtive murmur passed through the crowd of businessmen. Idly Sean swept her gaze across the room, watching their flutter of interest in Patrick. If she cried out right now, she wondered if there were any among them who might have the courage to come to her aid. Not likely. Unless perhaps she waved a roll of thousand-dollar bills. Probably not even then, so strong was their focus on Patrick. So great was the wealth he represented, so high in the chain of command.
"I need to go home," she said. "Mother's sick. She needs me."
"She's sick? What's happened?"
"I have to go, Patrick."
He studied her for a moment, eyes becoming shrewd.
"No," he said evenly. "You're not going anywhere."
He turned and spoke in harsh Malay to one of the bellmen. The young man sprinted off toward the cab.
"Now, what is this about, Sean? I leave you alone for a few hours to rest, and you try to run away."
"Mother called. She's in trouble."
"Is she sick? Or is she in trouble, Sean? Which lie is it?"
Stepping across to the elevator, Patrick jabbed the button. The bellman hustled over with Sean's luggage and held the elevator doors aside for her. His hand gripping her arm, Patrick moved Sean inside the elevator.
"May I join you?" Patrick asked. "Upstairs."
She clenched her jaw, stared at him, Patrick's eyes as hard and cold as the grip on her arm.
He spoke again to the bellman holding the elevator doors, then turned away and marched to the front desk. The Chinese clerk nodded solicitously, and held the swinging gate aside. Patrick followed the clerk behind the counter and into the hotel office. He was inside for only a few seconds, then came briskly across the lobby, rubbing his neck as though he had developed a sudden crick.
He stood close beside her in the elevator, his shoulder brushing hers. He stared straight ahead, his face blank, watching the elevator doors shut.
The car began to rise.
"Patrick?"
He slanted his eyes in her direction, and by slow degrees a smile materialized on his lips.
"Yes, my dear?"
"Who are you?"
"You mean you're not sure?"
"No," she said. "I'm not."
"Well, my dear, I suppose we'll have to fix that right away, won't we? I'll have to tell you everything now."
CHAPTER 33
The professor was so excited about the orangutan's arrival, he decided to work late Friday night. But before he could actually begin his stress experiments on the orangutan, he had to chart the ape's baseline physiology. Measurements of limbs, height, weight. Blood tests, pulse readings, body temperature, oral and rectal. Reflexes. Electrocardiograph. Pupil dilation. Ears, teeth, gums, nose, genitals.
At seven-fifteen that evening, when he was finished with the preliminary testing, he put the orangutan back in its cage, and retired to his office to record the results.
The ape's cage was smaller than the one at the animal dealers' warehouse, and much more confined than the movie star's room. The cage was actually closer to the size of the crate in which he'd been stuffed on his airplane ride.
For years animal-rights activists and primatologists had urged the USDA to increase its minimum standards for housing research animals to a square footage of not less than four hundred feet for each primate. While the four-hundred-square-foot figure had not yet been officially accepted, industry standards had improved somewhat in recent years, under pressure from animal-rights groups.
However, colleges such as Hickman regularly received exemptions from even the weak USDA regulations governing cage size. College officials usually pleaded a lack of funds, and claimed that allocating sufficient resources to enlarge their facilities would be impossible and therefore all research would stop and the animals would have to be terminated. Wasn't it more humane to keep the animals alive albeit in confined spaces than to kill them?
The orangutan had only enough space in his cage so he could sit, but could not stand erect. He could turn in a complete circle, but only by tucking his legs tight against his body. He found that he could insert his fingers through the grid of his cage, take a grip, and give it a loud rattle. This was amusing to him. He quickly learned he could produce the loudest noise by shaking the cage's door.
When the ape began to rattle the door, the professor's laboratory assistant, Bernice Shap, a senior psychology major, tried to calm him by cooing and making other baby noises. But it was not her voice that finally soothed the ape. It was her shoulder-length red hair.
The orangutan stuck his fingers through the bars of his cage and reached out to touch the lab assistant's hair. For a while she kept her distance from the ape, following the professor's warnings. The ape peeped at her, made gurgling noises in his throat, rocked his head from side to side, and signed the word fruit, until finally the lab assistant, beguiled by the creature, let the ape play with her hands.
After a moment the orangutan reached for a strand of her hair. He stroked it and grew quiet.
With her left hand Bernice reached out to touch the ape's face, but stopped short and gasped. Just a moment before, her hands had been bare, but now on t
he third finger of her left hand there was a large diamond ring.
***
Patrick shut the door to her hotel room, walked over to the front window, drew the curtain aside and looked out. Sean settled into the room's one chair, crossing her legs tight. A shiver was growing in her pulse. The room was dark, though neither of them made a move to turn on the light.
"Come here," he said, without turning from the window. "I want to show you something."
Sean drew a breath, came to her feet, crossed the rug to his side. To her right she caught a gleam on the desk, a gold letter opener, a knife with the dullest of blades. Sean turned slightly in its direction, peeked to make sure it was still there, steadied herself with a hand against the wall.
"See out there, just beyond those palms."
Sean felt his hand brush her back, coaxing her closer to him, then his arm snaked around her shoulders, and he drew her to his side.
"That's where your family used to live, that red tiled roof on the hillside. That's where I first saw you. The U.S. consul's compound. You and Winslow, the gorgeous American girls. That is where I first fell in love."
His hand was gripping her left shoulder, arm across her back. She felt him turn his head, but Sean kept her eyes on the view. With his free hand Patrick brushed the hair from her ear, then brought his lips close, murmured the words.
"I love you."
Her body was rigid in his embrace. Flesh cold, a queasy coil in her stomach. Her hands were useless, numb. Sweat sprang from her icy flesh. Sean was thinking of the gold letter opener. Thinking of the sweet meat of Patrick's belly. Plunging it there, burying it to the handle.
"I love you," he said again. "I love you, Sean. That's all you need to know about me."
She could see his smile in her peripheral vision as she kept her eyes on the distant hills.
Then he bent close, kissed her ear, touched the tip of his tongue lightly to the rim of it. Turned and with his left hand steered her around to face him. She tried to push away, but he held her around the waist, a mock dance, a waltz of horror.
"You can't know how long I've waited to be next to you like this. It's as though I've been on one of those space flights from one galaxy to the next, the kind you see in movies. My body in suspended animation. I've been moving across empty space, Sean, aging in my crib, all my organs functioning, my vital signs normal, but not truly alive. That's how it has been, making this endless flight to be with you, across vast, cold darkness, all so we could be just as we are at this moment."
His hand combed through her hair, massaged her skull, fingernails lightly scratching the sensitive flesh. She closed her eyes, neck softening, felt the floor giving way.
"No," she said, and pulled back.
"What is it?"
"I feel ill. I'm going to be sick."
She wrestled away from him, her back to the desk.
Patrick smiled, reached out, brushed the hair off her face.
"Do I make you sick, Sean? Does love make you sick?"
He stepped close, brought his hips against hers. She bumped the desk behind her. She pictured the letter opener, its handle toward her. An easy reach.
Patrick embraced her, brought his lips to hers, kissed her hard, and Sean allowed her lips to reshape to his, riding this moment, trying to keep the loathing at bay, not allowing herself to think. She let her mind drift from the mooring of her body. This nameless man kissed her and her lips replied. He kissed the breath from her, began to ease her away from the desk.
Sean stiffened. Dragged her foot on the rug, faking a stumble, a stutter step to the side, broke his embrace, and lurched toward the desk, a hand fumbling toward the golden glint.
But Patrick caught her shoulders, dragged her upright, turned her around.
He was smiling.
"Love has made you awkward as well, Sean."
Gripping her shoulders, he turned her slowly until she was facing the bed. She felt his hands on her back, his fingers beginning to unzip her dress. When the zipper was all the way down, he pulled the dress from her shoulders, let it fall. He unfastened her bra, slid his hands around her and cupped her breasts. A slow twiddle with his fingertips against her nipples, then he tugged the bra off.
When she was naked, he drew her to the bed, pulled the covers aside, lay her down. She swallowed back the acid rising in her throat, watched him undress beside her, watched him move close to her pillow, his penis erect.
Patrick smiled, shifted forward, planted a hand on either side of her head. He swung onto the bed, lowered himself, kissed her lips as he settled between her legs. Balancing on one hand, he guided himself with the other, wedging his cock into the dry space.
"Say it, Sean." His voice hoarse as he began to move his hips. "Say it. You love me, don't you?"
She cringed, closed her eyes, felt the burn of her parched flesh.
"You love me," he said, his voice raspy. Straining above her, grinding in and out, sweat growing on his hairless chest. Breathless and hoarse, he said, "You love me so much, Sean, that one day I know you will forgive me."
He increased his speed, Sean flinching with each stroke.
"Forgive you for what?"
"I think you know," he mumbled.
"Tell me."
"For Winslow. For what I was forced to do."
For a half second Sean tensed. Then she wailed and surged up, tried to buck him off. But Patrick held on, stronger than he'd shown himself to be. She fought him, wrenched from side to side, hammered his shoulders with her fists, grabbed for his hair. He fended off her blows, and the more she writhed and struggled, the more it seemed to rouse him.
Until at last she fell back against the mattress, took hard handfuls of the sheet, clenched her eyes shut, lay as still and cold as a cadaver as he worked above her.
***
Seven-thirty, and Harry was in a late conference with the partners. Oh, yes, his smiling secretary assured her, certainly Ms. Farleigh was free to wait for him in his office.
"I need to show him these," Allison said, holding the packet of photographs.
The secretary stared uncertainly at her.
"Of course, Ms. Farleigh. Of course."
Harry's office had a spectacular view of the port of Miami, the cruise ships lined up like a row of great icebergs ready to drift out to sea. His shelves were impeccably neat, his large teak desk with just a single stack of papers lined up at a right angle with the corner of the desk. A minimalist decorating job. Walls pale pink, rug silver-gray. A fishtail fern in one comer, and on the wall across from his desk a painting of the girls at fourteen and fifteen, done the year they'd lived in Brunei. She remembered the painter, a quirky British gentleman. She remembered the five afternoons she'd taken the girls to his house to sit for the portrait. She'd forgotten it existed, and was surprised Harry had hijacked it for his office. Allison stared at it for a moment, listened to the raucous voices in her chest. A racket of blame, of anger, of grief. She clenched her eyes, held her breath till the throb in her temples subsided and all was silent again.
She set her handbag on the desk, dug through it till she found the scrap of paper where she'd scrawled Sean's number at the Brunei Sheraton. Sitting in Harry's tall black swivel chair, she called the hotel again. Almost nine in the morning there. Two rings, three. Heard the operator's faint and wavering voice. Asked for Sean Farleigh's room.
As the phone rang, Allison pulled apart the neat stack of papers before her. Depositions, titles, abstracts. Architectural drawings, blueprints. And on the bottom was a paper-clipped stack of fax pages.
She pulled them out, riffled through them while she listened to the phone ring in Sean's hotel room in Brunei. She heard the soft chime of a phone beyond Harry's door, the noise muffled by the thick carpeting, and then the hotel operator's voice in her ear, informing her there was no answer in the room. Would she care to leave a message?
But Allison did not answer, her eyes fixed on the list.
"I would be happy to take a m
essage, madam."
Allison set the phone down, picked up the sheaf of papers, held it with both hands to still the shaking. Breath faltering, she stared at the first page, then leafed through the others. Each page with a new heading, a different animal. And below it a thumbnail description.
JAGUAR
Size: Length, 44-73 inches. Tail, 18-30 inches. Weight: Males, 125-250 lbs. Females, 100-200 lbs.
Distribution: Central and South America as far south as Patagonia; the largest found in Mato Grosso in Brazil.
Habit: Solitary, except in breeding season, when they come together to mate.
Diet: Ground-living mammals, domestic stock, fish, frogs, turtles, and small alligators.
Life span: Up to 22 years.
Related species: Also P. tigris, P. leo, P. par dm, and P. uncta.
Breeding: Sexual maturity, 3 years
Mating, nonseasonal in tropics
Gestation, 93-110 days
No. of young, 1-4 cubs.
Roam area required: 100 acres. Electric fencing. These cats can swim moats.
And at the bottom of each page there were boxes to fill in.
Current status (De Novo)
In captivity: 2
Destroyed: 28
Remaining worldwide population: below five thousand.
Allison evened the edges of the papers, placed them back at the bottom of the pile, grabbed her bag and headed for the door. As she was reaching for the knob, the door swung open before her.
"Jesus Christ!" Harry stumbled back. "Scared the holy shit out of me."
She took a breath, tried to speak, but couldn't find the air for words. Allison moved out of his way, watched Harry stroll over to his desk, touch a single finger to the stack of papers, pivot on that finger around the edge of his desk and sit down. He propped his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands in a prayerful pose. He wore a pink shirt, a yellow tie with black polka dots. Burgundy suspenders holding up his gray slacks.
Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4) Page 33
