His Mysterious Ways

by Amanda Stevens

  But if she only knew, Melanie thought with a grimace. Romance was the last thing she needed. And besides, what man in his right mind would ever understand, let alone accept, this…thing she could do?

  Melanie didn’t even understand it herself, but she knew instinctively that no good would come of it.

  Where science is corrupted, evil often flourishes.

  Dr. Wilder’s warning suddenly came back to her, and her hand jerked reflexively.

  He looked up. “I’m sorry. Am I hurting you?”

  “Not much.”

  “I’ll try to be quick.”

  He was as gentle as he could be, but thirteen stitches later, Melanie was fervently wishing for a hit of the Percocet she’d seen in the infirmary last night.

  “I’M DR. WILDER. My nurse said you wanted to see me?”

  “Jon Lassiter.”

  Neither man offered the other his hand. Instead, Dr. Wilder walked around his desk and motioned to a chair across from him.

  “Thanks, but I prefer to stand,” Lassiter said.

  “As you wish.” Dr. Wilder took a seat and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?” His voice was surprisingly calm, considering how tense he’d seemed when Lassiter had been ushered into his office.

  “I work for Kruger Petroleum. We had an intruder in our compound last night.”

  Wilder lifted his brows. “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with me?”

  “The only thing missing were antibiotics. An odd choice, considering there were several opiates within easy reach, including morphine. Not a big demand on the black market for tetracycline.”

  Wilder grimaced. “You obviously aren’t aware of the latest epidemic.”

  “I know about the fever,” Lassiter said. “I also know that you have a patient here at the clinic, a girl about five years of age, who has typhuslike symptoms. Correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor, but the treatment for an infection caused by rickettsia bacterium is heavy antibiotic therapy, preferably tetracycline or chloramphenicol.”

  Something flickered in Wilder’s eyes, but his expression never changed. “Are you accusing me of stealing your antibiotics, young man?”

  “You don’t match the description of the thief.”

  “Then I ask you again, what does any of this have to do with me?” Impatience had crept into Wilder’s voice, but something else was there, too. Lassiter had the distinct impression Wilder was protecting someone.

  “The thief was wounded in the robbery,” he said. “I need to know if you treated anyone late last night or sometime this morning with a fairly deep cut, probably on one of her hands?”

  “Her?”

  “The intruder was a woman.”

  Dr. Wilder shook his head. “I’ve seen no one, male or female, with such an injury.”

  “What about a gunshot wound?”

  Alarm flashed across his face. “A gunshot wound?”

  “The intruder came under heavy fire,” Lassiter explained. “She might have been wounded.”

  Wilder’s mouth tightened. He suddenly looked very angry. “I’ve seen no gunshots wounds, either.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  Lassiter knew the man was lying. The infinitesimal tick at the corner of his left eye gave him away. “I understand you have a young woman working at this clinic who does match the description of the intruder. Blond. About five foot seven.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Dr. Wilder said coolly.

  Lassiter placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. He could see something dark in the doctor’s eyes. Fear? Contempt? A little of both? “Let me give you a warning, Doctor. I don’t like playing games any more than I like being made a fool of in front of my employers.”

  Wilder said scornfully, “You would place a higher premium on your pride than on a child’s life?”

  Lassiter straightened. “Then you admit the drugs were brought to this clinic.”

  “I admit no such thing.” Dr. Wilder pushed himself back from his desk and rose. “But if they had been, any rational man, any moral man, would see that the end justifies the means when an innocent child’s life is at stake. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy. I trust you can show yourself out.”

  Lassiter strode across the room, then paused at the door to glance back. “If you did have such a woman in your employ, I’d ask that you give her two messages, the first being that in future, if she needs drugs, she might try asking for them. And second, there are some places in the world where a thief would be made an example of by having her hands chopped off in the public square.”

  “If that’s a threat…”

  Lassiter smiled. “Just another friendly warning. So long, Doctor.”

  He pulled the door closed between them and headed down the dim, narrow hallway toward the exit. Wilder’s nurse, who was lurking in the corridor, jumped back to allow him room to pass. He suspected that only moments earlier, she’d had her ear pressed to the door, listening to every word being said in Wilder’s office.

  But as their gazes met briefly, she looked at Lassiter with neither guilt nor fear, but with a cool, deadly calculation that was more than a little disturbing.

  FROM HER HIDING PLACE across the street, Melanie watched the man come out of the clinic and pause on the steps as his gaze went up and down the street. She shrank back into the alley, certain that el guerrero del demonio would have the ability to zero in on her even in the shadows, or in the middle of a crowd, or a hundred miles away.

  They say he has…special powers.

  Melanie shivered as she glanced around the corner of the building. He was minus the rifle and the camouflage gear she’d seen last night. Today he wore jeans and a snug black T-shirt that seemed at once nondescript and sexy. He might have been a good-looking tourist out for a bit of sightseeing—except for the rigid way he carried himself and that cold gleam she knew would be in his eyes.

  Even from across the street, she could see the bulge of his biceps beneath his short sleeves, the depth of his chest through the cotton shirt. He was lean and muscular, a fighting man in the prime of his life. A mercenary who killed people for money, and Melanie had the impression he was very good at what he did.

  Her stomach tightened as she watched him. He was looking for her, she knew that. He must have followed the trail of blood, so to speak. The clinic was the logical place to start his search.

  How long before he gave up?

  Or would he give up?

  With one last glance down the street, he climbed into the jeep and made a U-turn in the street, heading north, toward the mountains. But Melanie knew he’d be back.

  Her heart pounding uncomfortably, she waited until his vehicle was out of sight before she left her hiding place and headed in the opposite direction, toward downtown.

  The population of Santa Elena was less than five thousand permanent residents whose meager livelihood depended on the tourists who came there to visit the cloud forest and the nearby Mayan ruins. The main thoroughfare ran through the heart of downtown, where a bustling open-air market catered to the foreigners and dilapidated buses dodged potholes, chickens and children playing soccer in the street.

  Melanie’s hotel was in the center of the village, a three-story terra-cotta building with wrought-iron balconies and potted hibiscus. A lush courtyard, hidden behind stone walls heavily draped with bougainvillea, provided a cool, shadowy oasis for guests needing a respite from the hot midday sun.

  As she entered the Hotel del Paraíso, Melanie was struck again by the Old World charm of the lobby. A huge fountain, surrounded by tree ferns, bubbled in the middle of the stone floor while palm-leaf fans twirled lazily overhead.

  She nodded to the clerk behind the desk as she made her way to the elevator and shoved home the wrought-iron gate. The elevator clanged its way to the third floor, where her room was located at the end of a long, dim corridor.

  The room was large and
airy, with a private bath and a view of the street that Melanie had requested. She was quite comfortable with the accommodations, but she knew if she planned to stay in Santa Elena for much longer, she’d have to find a cheaper place.

  When her mother had died a few months ago, she’d left Melanie the bulk of her estate, but taxes had depleted a substantial portion of the inheritance. And Melanie’s most recent job as a cocktail waitress hadn’t allowed her to contribute much to the nest egg. Still, it would last her for a while if she was careful. Luckily, she was not a person given to consumer excesses. The basics were really all she needed—food to eat, a roof over her head, clothes on her back.

  Stripping, she took a quick shower—a difficult task with one hand that had to be kept dry—then dressed in fresh jeans and a white cotton blouse she’d picked up at a thrift store in Houston before she’d caught a plane to Cartéga. Grabbing her bag, she left the hotel again, intent on finding a quiet place to have a drink and watch the sunset.

  This time of day, the hotel terrace would be full of tourists, mostly Americans and Asians, who would have just gotten back from their trek to the cloud forest or the ruins. Their excited chatter could be entertaining at times, but today Melanie’s nerves were on edge. She needed peace and quiet, a chance to think.

  Heading down the street to a tiny café she’d discovered her first day in Santa Elena, she found a table on the patio, ordered a pineapple juice and then, settling in, let her mind wander.

  “You must be new here.”

  The Australian accent startled Melanie so thoroughly she realized she must have drifted off to sleep. Alarmed by the lapse, her gaze shot to the man who stood over her table.

  He was older, mid-fifties at least, with a haggard face and thin, white hair that brushed the shoulders of his lightweight suit.

  Melanie knew she had never seen him before, yet there was something oddly familiar about him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you were new here. I come in often, and I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before.” He put out a hand. “Bond. Angus Bond.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the way he introduced himself. She shook his hand. “Melanie Stark.”

  He held up a frosted glass garnished with a wedge of lime. “May I buy you a drink, Melanie?”

  She nodded to her juice. “I already have one, thanks.” She’d meant it as a polite brushoff, but something about him, that familiarity, made her say impulsively, “But you’re welcome to join me if you like.” What the heck? He looked harmless, save for a nasty scratch down the left side of his face, and there was something irresistible about a man with an Australian accent, no matter his age.

  “I’d like that very much.” He drew out a chair and sat down, then took a long, thirsty pull from his gin and tonic.

  “Nectar of the gods,” he said with a sigh.

  “I thought that was wine.”

  “Not in my paradise.” He grinned and took another swallow. “So what brings you to Santa Elena, Melanie? The cloud forest or the ruins?”

  “I intend to see both. How about you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve lived off and on in Cartéga for quite some time now. Santa Elena has always been a favorite haunt of mine. I like the quaintness.”

  Melanie lifted a brow in surprise. “You live here? Judging by your accent, I would have guessed you’d just left Melbourne a few days ago.”

  “Queensland, actually. I’m a banana bender, as they say.” He grinned and saluted her with his drink. “As for the accent, old habits die hard.”

  “I know what you mean,” Melanie murmured. She realized then why he looked so familiar to her. The evidence was there in his face. The excesses and the abuses. But it was his eyes that were the true giveaway. They were flat, emotionless, empty. She’d seen those same dead eyes years ago, in rehab. And in the mirror.

  “So what do you do here?” she asked him.

  He toyed with his glass. “Right now I’m working for an American oil company that has a drilling site about thirty miles north of town. Kruger Petroleum. Ever heard of it?”

  Melanie almost choked on her drink. “I don’t think so.”

  “They’re a small, independent outfit, but they appear to be flush with cash. The owner, Hoyt Kruger, is a hands-on kind of guy. He supervises every aspect of the operation.”

  “What kind of work do you do for him?” Melanie tried to ask casually.

  “I run the infirmary. I’m a doctor.”

  It was all she could do not to spew juice from her nose. He ran the infirmary? Then he had to know about the break-in last night. Was that why he’d sought her out? Because he knew she was responsible? What was this? Some kind of fishing expedition? A trap?

  “Santa Elena is a small place to have two doctors,” she said carefully.

  He glanced down at the bandage on her wrist. “I take it you’ve made the acquaintance of our illustrious Dr. Wilder. Nothing serious, I trust?”

  “No. Just a careless accident.”

  “I sympathize.” His smile was rueful as he ran a finger down the scratch on the side of his face. “What happened? If I’m not being too forward by asking.”

  Melanie hesitated. “I…broke a mirror in my hotel room. Luckily, I’m not the superstitious type.”

  “Then you obviously haven’t been in Cartéga long enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a very superstitious country. The Cartégans love their legends. Haven’t you heard about la Encantadora who lives in the cloud forest and uses the mist to lure men to their death? Or the ghosts of the Mayan priests who wander the ruins—” He broke off as his gaze went past Melanie’s shoulder to the street. “Speak of the devil…”

  Melanie turned to see what had drawn his attention. Her breath caught when she saw the man from the clinic climbing out of his jeep.

  She whipped back around, trying not to show her distress. “Do you know that man?”

  Bond’s mouth tightened. “He works for Kruger. Euphemistically speaking, he’s in charge of security, but…” His voice trailed off and he glanced away.

  Melanie, sensing something in his tone, leaned toward him slightly. “But? What were you about to say?”

  Bond looked suddenly uneasy. “Let me put it this way. He may be in charge of security for Kruger, but if I had a daughter, Jon Lassiter would be the last man on earth I’d want her to be alone with.”

  Melanie nervously glanced over her shoulder. Lassiter was making his way down the street toward the café. She didn’t know whether he’d spotted them or not, but she wasn’t about to wait around and find out.

  She rose from the table. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

  Bond gazed up at her in surprise. “So soon?”

  “Yes. I…just remembered an appointment. It was a pleasure meeting you, though.”

  “Oh, believe me, the pleasure was all mine, Melanie.”

  When she reached into her bag for money, he held up his hand. “No, please. Allow me. I insist.”

  Melanie hesitated. “In that case, thank you very much. Maybe I’ll see you here again. The drinks will be on me next time.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  She could feel his gaze on her as she walked away, but it wasn’t the leer of an older man admiring a younger woman. It was more innocent than that. For all his obvious vices and hard living, there was something guileless about Angus Bond. Something a bit sad.

  But Melanie didn’t have time to dwell long on the Australian, because as she left the patio and headed down the street, she turned and saw that Jon Lassiter had entered the café. He glanced up suddenly, and when he saw her, he said something to Angus, then started toward her.

  Melanie spun around and headed in the opposite direction. Halfway down the street, she spied him again. He was even closer now, gaining on her steadily, although they were both trying not to draw attention.

  Up ahead, a group of tourists had disembarked from a decrep
it bus. Melanie hurried to infiltrate them, hoping to disappear among the chattering, excited vacationers.

  Turning a corner with the crowd, she grabbed a peasant blouse from an outdoor rack in the market and hurried inside the dim shop.

  “¿Me puedo probar esto, por favor?”

  The ancient shopkeeper lazily waved a palmetto leaf fan in front of her face as she pointed to a dressing area in the back—a ragged blanket strung across one corner.

  “Gracias.” Melanie dashed to the back and scurried behind the blanket. She fervently hoped that Lassiter would follow the tourists down the street, at least for a block or two. By the time he discovered she was no longer with them, he’d have no idea where she’d gone—

  “Perdón.”

  Melanie’s legs trembled at the sound of his voice. She shrank back in the corner, hoping the shopkeeper wouldn’t give her away.

  “I’m looking for an American,” he said in Spanish. “A young, blond woman. Very attractive. Have you seen her?”

  “I saw the Americanos go by here,” the shopkeeper replied. “They talk and laugh very loudly, but they don’t spend their money in here.” Her voice held a heavy note of regret. “Something for you perhaps?” she asked hopefully. “A gift for su esposa? Su amiga?”

  “Nothing today,” he said curtly. “Gracias.”

  When their voices fell silent, Melanie assumed he’d left the shop, but she didn’t want to press her luck. She remained behind the curtain for several minutes longer, then glancing around to make sure he’d gone, she carried the blouse to the shopkeeper and pulled some bills from her bag.

  The old lady gave her a toothless smile of gratitude.

  “Thank you for not giving me away,” Melanie said. She glanced around. “Could I ask another favor of you, por favor?”

  “Sí.”

  “Is there a back door I can use?”

  “Sí, por aquí.” She got up and Melanie followed her to the back of the shop and down a grim little corridor that opened into a foul-smelling alley.

  Stepping outside, Melanie glanced back at the woman who hovered in the doorway. “Muchas gracias.”