Echoes (7 page)

Callie wasn't alone, but she clearly hadn't arranged the situation. At first glance, Mac counted three young men wearing dark clothing and baseball caps pulled low over their brows. Backing up and slipping into the shadows at the mouth of the alley to evaluate the situation, he saw a fourth youth, smaller and younger. A decoy. He'd seen the move plenty of times in Atlanta: the younger kid would call for help, appearing to suffer at the hands of a bully, to draw in a good Samaritan who would, in short order, find himself—or herself—the victim.

Mac wouldn't have believed such a ruse would work on Callie. God knew, Nikki wouldn't have been affected by the kid's plight, but then the evidence of fundamental differences between the two women was mounting. Mac moved closer with careful, quiet steps, keeping out of sight. Not that Callie's tormentors seemed particularly concerned about being seen.

“C'mon, lady, give it up.”

“I don't think so.” Callie sounded calm and controlled, but from his vantage point Mac could see her muscles tighten. His own followed suit, and, as the largest of the men moved to take Callie's purse by force, Mac prepared to spring to her rescue. But she surprised him yet again.

He couldn't follow the exact movement in the dark, but it was quick and clean and resulted in the thug who'd approached her doubling over, then falling to his knees.

“Shit,” said one of his companions in the Creole patois Mac had learned to understand, though he couldn't speak it, “he didn't say she would fight back!” He pulled the big man—still gasping for air—to his feet, and the group took off down the alley.

Mac was torn between following them, checking on Callie, and holding his position to observe her next moves. Concern won, and he moved forward, deliberately making plenty of noise and calling out so as not to startle her.

When she turned her coffee-colored eyes on him, he recognized the wildness of adrenaline overload in them.

“What are you doing here?” Aggression, too, commonly succeeded adrenaline, especially when fear prompted the rush.

“I followed you.”

“Nice of you to help out.”

“I would have, but you seemed to have the situation well in hand and I figured you'd rather take care of it yourself.”

She acknowledged the truth of the statement with a nod. Reaction had begun to set in, though, and when she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, he pulled off the button-down shirt he wore over his black T-shirt and wrapped it around her. He counted it a measure of how disturbed she was that she didn't object. He hated to worry her further, but she needed to know the truth.

“They followed you, too.”

“You saw them?”

“No, but I wasn't looking for them, either. Chances are they tracked you from across the street until they got a sense of your direction. There's just the one main street on this side of the marina, so it wouldn't be hard. Then they got ahead of you to set you up.”

“They couldn't have known I'd walk after dinner. What if I'd just gone back to the car?”

“They'd probably have snatched your purse, knocked you into the lagoon, and run. That would be more dangerous for them, though, because the gendarmes patrol regularly around the water and the marina has private security as well.”

“But why?” Even in the darkness, Mac could see her shiver. He took her hand.

“Let's get out of here. I'll take you for crepes and coffee.”

“No . . .”

“Sugar and caffeine are what you need right now. Trust me on this.”

Visibly reluctant, she let him lead her through the dark streets to a bright little open-air restaurant and settle her into a seat in the corner. Two men sat at the bar, arguing over the best way to care for a boat's engine, and several younger ones sat with notebook computers at tables, accessing the restaurant's wireless network. The bustle, as much as the food, would calm her, and as much as it went against the grain for him to leave his own back unprotected, she needed the security more than he did.

“What makes you so certain those guys singled me out?”

“Think about it. First someone steals your computer and your jewelry. Then you're assaulted.”

“They didn't hurt me.”

“They weren't meant to.” He repeated what he'd heard as the men had scuttled away.

“Who's ‘he'?”

“No idea. If I thought for a minute those guys knew who'd hired them, I'd have gone after them. But whoever ‘he' is, he wants you to leave the island, preferably of your own accord. The idea is to make your stay so unpleasant you'll cut it short, but not to physically harm you, which might bring the cops down on him.”

“Then taking my purse would be exceptionally stupid. My passport, all my ID is in it. I didn't want to leave anything important in my room after the burglary.”

“I doubt he realized that. He probably thought you'd give up your purse without a fight.”

“Surprise.” She grinned weakly, impressing him with her grit. “But you still haven't explained why someone would want me gone.”

“I won't be able to until you let me in on what you're doing here.” For a moment, he thought she'd open up, but the waitress arrived with their food, and by the time she left Callie's defenses were once more in place.

“How do I know you weren't the one who sent them after me?”

“You don't. But I haven't made any secret of the fact I'd rather you leave, so I'd be the first person you'd suspect. You may not believe it, but I'm actually smarter than that.”

Callie stayed quiet a long time, steadily eating her way through the thin French pancake filled with bananas and chocolate-hazelnut cream. Mac wondered what was going on behind the dark eyes that would not meet his own. About two-thirds of the way through her crepe, she put down her fork and nodded decisively.

“Will you come back to the Paradis with me? There's something in the bungalow I'd like to show you.”

“Now?”

“If you don't mind.”

In answer, he dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table and reached for her hand. “We'll take my car.”

As the Jeep rolled through the night, Callie studied Mac through half-lidded eyes, still unsure showing him the old photograph was the right thing to do. She'd come to the island without a plan, with merely a vague sense that if there were anything to be found it would be at the Paradis rather than in New York.

And boy, had she found something. Starting with Nikki Lewis, a woman so like herself in appearance even her husband and brother had noticed the resemblance; a woman who had disappeared just before her arrival; a woman who had quite possibly been murdered. And then, before she could come to terms with Nicole, there had been the computer-stealing thief and a group of thugs hired to drive her away.

Not to mention the man beside her. Tough, straightforward, and attractive despite the violent scar, he confused the hell out of her. Had he murdered his wife? She didn't believe so, but she'd begun to doubt her judgment after finding the photograph that proved her father had lied to her—implicitly or explicitly—all her life. Plus, common sense told her not to discount the twin effects of fear and hormones: Mac was big, strong, and solid, and she was scared. Leaning on him would be easy.

She picked at the sleeve of his shirt she still wore over her own, suddenly remembering that he'd also wrapped her in a blanket when her computer had been stolen. The blanket, though, had smelled fresh and vaguely floral, scented with whatever they used on the sheets at the Paradis. Mac's shirt smelled rich, and earthy despite the tang of salt that overlay everything on the island.

So not going down that road
. To distract herself, she asked the first question that came to mind.

“What will you do now that you can't work at the Paradis? Will you stay on the island?”

“I haven't exactly had time to consider my options. But, like Trav said, this is as good a place as any to retire.”

“You're too young to retire.”

He slanted a glance in her direction. “Yeah? So what kind of job am I suited for, in your opinion?”

“What did you do in the Army?”

“Grunt,” he said, and Callie felt her molars grinding at the deliberately monosyllabic answer. He was baiting her. She narrowed her eyes on his profile, hoping he could feel her glare.

“Even if I believed that, and I don't, you weren't a grunt on the police force. You had the brains and ambition to make detective, so you could probably get any job you wanted.”

“Yeah? You'd hire me?” The teasing humor surprised her even more than the little half grin that went with it, and she almost went for a flip response. He'd probably have preferred it. She suspected he didn't like to talk about work. At a guess, he'd defined himself by his position for years, and losing it would have decimated the most vital piece of his self-image. How peculiar to imagine such an intimidating man in any way insecure, but once the idea took hold, Callie couldn't shake it. So she gave him a serious answer instead.

“If I had any reason to hire anyone, yes. My father would have taken you on in a heartbeat. Surely there are companies, other people who do now what he did.” Callie studied him. He had a couple outstanding attributes she so wasn't going to mention. Because, really, they didn't qualify him for a job. At least not a respectable one. She allowed herself a small, private smile before returning to the topic at hand. “You understood those men at the marina tonight, and I heard you talking to Claudine when I arrived. How many languages do you speak?”

“I'm good with languages,” he admitted with a shrug “I can function in French and Spanish, and I picked up the local slang wherever the government stationed me within a couple months.”

“So all of that—the investigative experience, the combat experience, the languages, God knows what else—and retirement is the best option you can come up with?”

He let the silence grow again before answering, the teasing note back in his voice. “Retirement doesn't mean living a life of ease, you know. Fishing is hard work.”

Despite herself, Callie laughed.

***

The gate guard at the Paradis waved them through with barely a glance, and Mac took the narrow, sandy drive that led to the lot behind the bungalows. He pulled into the space marked with an elaborately scrolled number five, unsnapped his seat belt, and fixed his eyes on her.

“Ready?”

“Not really. But I don't suppose that matters.”

“It matters. But there's not much we can do about it at the moment.” If she hadn't known better, she might have thought he was apologizing.

“I'll get over it.” She climbed from the car, taking the large metal skeleton key that opened the bungalow's back gate from her pocket. Each of the hotel's seven beachfront cabins had a fenced and gated garden behind it containing a few trees, frangipani, hibiscus, and various tropical creepers to protect guests from the eyes of anyone who might wander into the parking area. In the center of bungalow five's garden, a fountain that doubled as a birdbath burbled cheerfully. Callie wished she could shut it off.

Following the crushed shell path around the fountain, she led Mac to the back door. She unlocked it, but before she could turn the knob, he covered her hand with his own.

“Let me.” Halogen-harsh illumination from the parking area behind them combined with the dappled moonlight to cast his features into a forbidding mask, and Callie stepped back without argument.

The door creaked slightly, its hinges rough from exposure to the damp and salty air, but Mac moved silently, all predator in the night. The back door of the cottage led into the kitchen, and as Callie followed Mac inside, her gaze went to the knife block on the counter. All six blades rested in their slots. Mac slipped on into the living room, and she paused at the knife block, choosing a weapon and then toeing off her shoes to move more quietly.

She had left the front curtains open, and the moonlight coming in the windows shifted and rippled as it reflected off the water, setting shadows fluttering. Every movement caught her attention, tripped her nerves, twisted her stomach, but Mac hardly seemed to notice them. Because of his lack of peripheral vision? It was possible, she supposed, but he walked with total self-assurance, apparently not bothered by his disability. No, more likely he didn't track the shifting shadows because he sorted the innocuous from the dangerous automatically.

Each bungalow had three bedrooms. Mac cleared the smaller ones first, stopping into each for only seconds before reemerging. She'd propped the door to the master bedroom ajar so air could circulate while she was gone, but he paused at the threshold to glance back over his shoulder at her. There was nothing submissive in the action. He wasn't asking permission, simply evaluating her reaction. She chose to give him none, though a dark corner of her psyche, some vestigial instinct of a more primitive time, sent shivers of heat through her as she watched him slide into her private space.

A moment later the spell snapped as he switched on the light.

“I take it everything's the way you left it?”

Her mouth had gone dry, and she had to swallow twice before she could answer. “It looks that way.”

“Okay, then. What did you want me to see?”

She laid the kitchen knife on the dresser and gestured for him to sit on the bed. She took the photograph from the nightstand and settled beside him. She turned the frame over, then found herself staring at the back of it, unable to remember why she'd picked it up.

“Callie?”

“Sorry.” She opened the frame and handed over the snapshot. Mac held it up to the light, tilting it to see the details.

“So you have been here before.” He gave Callie a small smile, which she appreciated but could not return. It was too late for humor.

“Look at the note on the back.”

She could see him process the date, connecting it with what she'd told him about her birthday, but a sudden, sharp pounding on the cabin's front door precluded speech. He stuffed the picture—along with the framed wedding photograph—beneath the pillows on her bed with one hand, shoving her to the floor with the other.

“Callie! Are you in there? Callie!”

“It's John.” Callie started to rise, but Mac laid a warning hand on her shoulder, holding her down.

“What does he want with you?”

“I have no idea, but he's making enough noise to attract everyone within miles. He'd hardly do that if he intended to hurt me.” With obvious reluctance, Mac released her and she called out to let John know she was on the way.

“Thank God,” John said when she opened the door. His face was pale, his dress shirt wrinkled, a far cry from his usual suave appearance. “Your roommate called from New York. She's been trying to reach you on your cell but couldn't get through. And your car wasn't here. I told Billy at the gate to keep an eye out for you, but he didn't expect you to come back in a different vehicle. Andy here saw the Jeep parked in your spot and called me.”

The young man wore a Paradis security uniform—khaki pants, a maroon shirt, and a gun belt—and he didn't meet Callie's eyes the whole time John was speaking. He kept glancing off to one side or another, or staring down at his feet, until Mac addressed him.

“Good eye, Andy.”

“Thank you, sir.” The boy's relief made his previous dilemma clear: he felt caught between John and Mac. The Jeep would have been a dead giveaway as to who had brought her home, and no doubt Andy worried about ratting out one of his bosses to the other.

“What did Erin want?”

“She said your house had been broken into.”

“What?” Erin Campbell shared a house with Callie in Chappaqua, an hour north of New York City. The house was bigger than Callie needed, especially since she traveled so much, but she loved the feeling of permanence the property gave her. When home, she spent a great deal of time in the yard, trying her hand at gardening and generally enjoying the sensation of rootedness she'd never gotten from apartment living. Erin, on the other hand, never traveled. Head chef at an upscale restaurant, all she wanted from a place to live was peace and quiet, a stress-free environment she couldn't find in the city.

“Was anything taken?”

“I don't know.” John handed her a cell phone. “You should call her. She called here about two hours ago. She sounded very upset. The police were there.”

Waving John's proffered phone away, Callie dug through her handbag and pulled out her own. “I never hear the damned thing,” she explained as she dialed. “I don't even know why I carry it.”

Erin's boyfriend, Tommy Lowell, answered her cell and explained that Erin was in the shower.

“The place is a wreck,” he said. “It's really strange. They took some obvious stuff—the jar of change in the kitchen, the TV from the living room, stuff that was laying out in the open—but they didn't go through Erin's closet, so they didn't find her jewelry box. Same thing in your room. The dresser drawers hadn't even been opened. It's the kind of thing I'd expect my students to do. Lots of vandalism, not a lot of profit.

“Erin's computer?”

“She had it at my place. We went up to Vermont for the weekend.”

“Oh, that's right! I forgot she'd taken the weekend off.”

“I'm just glad she wasn't home.”

“Me, too. Do the police have any idea when it happened?”

“Probably late last night. One of the planters outside the front door was knocked over and Marianne, from next door, says it wasn't like that yesterday.”

“I'll come home tomorrow. Erin should stay with you for a couple of days.”

“She won't do that, Callie. You know her.”

“Yeah.” Erin had grown up on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks in Chicago. She considered herself invincible. “You'll stay there, then?”

“Of course. I already got a sub for tomorrow. If you let us know when you're coming in, we can pick you up at the airport.”

“I'll just call a car service. You guys have enough to worry about. I'll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

“Good deal. I'll tell Erin.”

When she hung up, Andy had disappeared but both John and Mac were staring at her. Self-conscious, she invited them to sit. They each took one of the chintz-covered rattan chairs, and she was suddenly struck by how out of place Mac appeared in the sophisticated, somehow feminine setting. The furniture seemed too flimsy to contain the energy radiating from him. How could he believe he was cut out to spend his life here? Or had he been so in love with Nikki Lewis that he hadn't even considered that marrying her might force him into a lifestyle he couldn't tolerate? She pushed the question away and filled the men in on what she'd learned from Tommy.

“He has no idea what they were after?” John asked when she finished.

The lie sprang to her lips so easily it frightened her: “He teaches at a pretty violent school. He didn't say so specifically, but he seemed to be hinting that some of his students might have done it. Summer school isn't where they want to be, and they've been known to take out their frustrations on their teachers.”

Mac's expression didn't change, but disbelief radiated from his tense body. Callie could almost smell it. John, however, appeared to take her statement at face value.

“At least no one was hurt. Are you sure you have to go home, though? If your friend's students did the damage, there's no reason for you to rush back.”

“The police will want to talk to me. And I want to be certain nothing else was taken. The house is in my name, too, so all the insurance issues will fall on me.”

“That's terrible. Maybe we can arrange for you to come back sometime?”

She forced herself to return John's smile. “Maybe. Right now, I need to call the airlines and see if I can get a flight out tomorrow.”

“It shouldn't be too hard. Most of the time-shares start on Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays, so those are the big fly-in and fly-out days. You shouldn't have too much trouble on a Monday. I'll leave you to it.” John stood. “You coming, Brody?”