In the Teeth of the Wind (9 page)

out, the rough hands that had been covering his nose and mouth were removed. Conor gasped, dragging

large gulps of icy oxygen into his depleted lungs. He coughed, gulping air, his chest heaving.

A light came on over head, momentarily blinding him, then the man who Conor had come to

understand was his hell on earth leaned over him. Despite the pain in his head and the too-bright intensity

of the light, he looked up into the man's face and his eyes widened with shock.

"Not what you expected, eh, brown eyes?" The Colombian chuckled.

Even in his worst nightmares, Conor had never seen anything so hideous as the man - no, the creature

- that bent over him, putting its face close to his own. The putrid smell of the thing's breath washed over

him, bringing instant nausea, and Nolan shrank from the horrible visage as far as the restraints would

allow.

"Ah, brown eyes," the Colombian sighed. "You have nothing to fear from me." He smiled and the

hideously scarred flesh on his face pulled grotesquely. "I am going to make you feel even better. I have

increased the dosage."

It was the drug, Nolan thought in desperation as he felt the horny pad of the Colombian's palm on his

cheek. It had to be the damned drug making him hallucinate. He tried to will himself back into the drug's

intoxicating arms, but the sight coming closer was so unnatural, so hideously vile, he could not tear his

eyes away.

"Does my deformity upset you, pretty one?"

"It's the drug," Conor answered, shaking his head. "It's the drug. It's the heroin making me hallucinate.

I know what heroin can do!"

"Yes, I know you do," the Colombian said. "I know all about your addiction as a boy." He leaned

closer. "Does Rhianna know?"

"Leave her out of this!" The breath fanning over his face was so terrible he could barely breathe.

"Oh, but we cannot," the Colombian told him. "She is our hold over you, brown eyes. If you do not do

as you are told, we will bring her here and do to her what we are doing to you. Will you allow that?"

Conor's world was shutting down. The mellow blanket unfolded over him and he was sinking down in

to the soft pillow. He heard a slight buzzing then no sound at all as his mind ceased assimilating sight,

sound, and touch.

*Part Two*

*Chapter Thirteen*

"You didn't find anything at all, then?" Steve Trevor, Conor Nolan's attorney and one of his best

friends, asked, admiring the strength of the woman across the desk from him.

Rhianna shook her head. Black hair swept the top of her shoulders. "As far as we know, Felicity

Rogers never existed. We couldn't find a damned thing about her in any database anywhere. If that isn't

suspicious, I don't know what is!"

Stephen noted the tiny lines around her mouth. They hadn't been there before. "I know this has been

hard on you."

Marek tensed and toyed with the paperweight sitting on his desk. "Why did you call me here today,

Steve?" she asked, her eyes wary. "Please don't tell me you're gonna read his will because I won't accept

that he's…"

"No!" the attorney said. "Nothing like that." He reached out to take her hand. "He'd have to be missing

seven years before we could legally declare him…" He paused. "Well, you know."

"Then why am I here?"

He released her hand and shuffled through the file, which contained Conor's legal papers. "I have

something for you." He withdrew an envelope then closed the folder. "Irish gave this to me about a year

ago." He looked down at the pristine white paper with Rhianna's name scrawled across the front. "He

said if anything happened to him, I was to give it to you."

Rhianna drew in a long, shuddery breath before taking the envelope from Trevor's hand. "Do you

know what's in it?" she asked in a tight voice.

"No." He paused, pushed up from the chair, then picked up the file. "I'll give you some privacy."

"No," she said, getting to her feet. "I can't read it here."

Stephen Trevor came around the desk and reached out to pat her shoulder. "If you need any help, will

you call me?"

Rhianna nodded.

"If you need to talk about what's in there, I'm here for you."

"I appreciate that."

"What are your plans now?" he asked as he walked with her to the door.

"My lease is up at the end of next month. I'm looking for another apartment." She looked up, searching

his face. "Do you think he'd be angry if he came home to find me living in his house?"

Opening the door, Steve answered, "The house is paid for and it's just sitting vacant. Conor didn't like

that complex where you live. He always said it wasn't safe enough. No, I think he'd want you to move

in." He held her gaze. "You'll be there when he comes home."

Rhianna smiled. "I don't know if I can stay there." She stopped as the tears flooded her eyes, but she

held up a restraining hand when he would have taken her in his arms.

"You didn't drive over here, did you?" he asked, unnerved by her pallor and the overwhelming tragedy

etched around her beautiful eyes. When she shook her head, he walked past her and told his secretary he

was going to drive her home.

"No, Steve. I need to be alone."

At the curb, standing beside Rhianna Marek, watching the late November sunlight glinting on her

blue-black hair as they waited for the cab, Stephen Trevor ached to take the grieving woman into his

arms. He'd envied Conor Rhianna's affection and often wondered if the man even knew he was loved so

deeply, so unconditionally. He hoped so, for such a love was rare and Conor had been so much in need

of it.

"There's my cab," Rhianna said, drawing him back from his reverie. "Thank you, Steve," she said,

giving his cheek a sweet little kiss.

"You'll let me hear from you, now?"

"I will."

Long after the yellow cab pulled away from the curb, Stephen Trevor stood watching until it was no

longer visible. With a long sigh of resignation, he turned away and walked back into the lobby of the

office building.

****

The taxi dropped her off at St. Patrick's, the church in the neighborhood where she lived. She lit a

candle for Conor Nolan and said a prayer for his soul. Quietly, she slipped into a pew and sat holding the

letter, staring at the Crucifix above the ornate Byzantine altar.

Rose-colored light filtered in from the stained glass panels to either side of the nave and cast the

chancel in mauve shadows. The occasional pop and creak of the redwood buttresses made her edgy, but

the silence between the sounds had a calming effect. A hint of sandalwood lingered from the morning

celebration of the Eucharist and that, too, added to the feeling of peace that had begun to enfold her the

moment she entered the church. This had always been her sanctuary, her haven in the storm, and it was

always to a place such as St. Patrick's that she had gone when life became so ragged around the edges

that it had to be mended.

Or when, like now, the material of her existence was so frayed, it could not be repaired by ordinary

hands.

She sat in the pew, alternating her attention between the Christ figure on the cross and the flickering

blue votive candles, for more than an hour. It took a long, long time to gather the courage to open

Conor's letter. When at last she looked down at the envelope and made the decision to read it, she

thought she heard his voice, calling to her. He sounded so lost and alone, so far, far away, and so utterly

miserable. She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, then slid her index finger beneath the flap.

The sound of the paper tearing intruded on the quiet. The crackle as she slowly unfolded the single

page seemed to be a reprimand of sorts and she paused.

Looking around, finding herself alone, she shuddered. The hair stirred on the nape of her neck. A chill

ran down her spine and she wanted nothing more than to leave this too-quiet place for the bustle of life

beyond its doors. For the first time in her life, Rhianna Marek was uncomfortable in a church. She had no

sense of the safety her religious upbringing and faith in God had instilled in her.

Her gaze fell to the paper in her hand. She held it up to the fading light and resolutely began to read.

*Chapter Fourteen*

Chuck Corbettson grinned with satisfaction as he saw Rhianna Marek come out of the precinct door

later that afternoon. He'd been waiting for her. "Hey, Rhee!" he called out, hurrying toward her. "Wait up

a sec!"

Rhianna turned, a slight frown puckering her forehead as she saw Corbettson. He had never been one

of her favorite people and today, of all days, she had no desire to talk to him.

"How's it going?" He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the Mustang's rear fender.

"All right. What do you need?"

Corbettson grinned. "A date!"

She blinked, not quite sure she'd heard him correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." He chuckled. "I know it's been awhile, but now that you're available again…" He let

the sentence dangle like bait, waiting anxiously for her to bite.

Rhianna's brows came together in disbelief. "You're asking me out?" she said in a flat voice.

"Yeah." Corbettson nodded. "I'll pick you up at about, oh say, seven thirty." He pushed away from the

car. "Wear something frilly and I'll take you dancing out to the Witch's Brew." He started to turn away,

looking pleased with himself like he'd taken care of business.

"C.C.?" she called out, stopping him. When he turned back to her, his wide face smug and arrogant,

she itched to slap him.

"What, baby?" he answered. "Rather come over to my place, instead? Have us a little party there?"

Rhianna's mouth dropped open and a rush of derision came from her throat as she stared at him,

unable to believe the man's gall. She shook her head. "You're kidding, right?" was all she could think to

say.

Corbettson frowned. "Whatcha mean?"

She turned her head, looked out across the parking lot as though a cue card with the right words

written across it would pop up out of nowhere. When she finally looked back at him, she let out a long,

cleansing breath before she answered: "I'm not going anywhere with you, C.C."

The grin slipped off the detective's face. "Whatcha mean?" he repeated as though unable to credit her

words.

"Just what I said. I'm not ever going out with you." Another snort of humor escaped her. "Not if you

were the last man on earth."

Chuck Corbettson drew his hands out of his pockets, his eyes narrowed and he took a step toward

her. Visibly annoyed that she didn't falter, didn't slink away from his advance, didn't seem intimidated as

he loomed over her, Corbettson moved in closer still. When Marek still did not seem threatened, he

swept her with an insulting look.

"What happened, Rhianna?" Corbettson asked as his gaze crawled over her. "You get so use to that

limp dick Nolan, you forget what a real man can do for you?" His grin came back, but this time it was

hard and leering. "Ten minutes is all it'll take, baby. Ten minutes and I'll have you screaming with ecstasy.

Show you what a
real
man can do!"

"Ten minutes?" she asked with breathy speculation, one eyebrow quirked upward.

"Yeah!" he jeered. He lifted a hand to touch her cheek triumph lighting his face. "I'll make you come

like a bitch in heat!"

With a snort of disgust, Rhianna knocked his hand away and reached out to shove him backward.

Lips tight with fury, she pushed again, causing him to stumble against the rear bumper of the car next to

hers. With a hoot of laughter, she watched him lose his balance. His feet shooting out from under him, he

crashed unceremoniously to the pavement.

"The only thing you could make me do is puke!" Unaffected by his snarl of rage, she spun, jerked the

car door open and slid behind the wheel. She barely had time to slam the door and drive the lock home

with her fist before he yanked at the handle.

"_Open this goddamned door!_"

Rhianna turned her face toward him as she switched on the ignition. Her grin was brutal. "Ten minutes,

Corbettson?" she laughed, shifting the gear into reverse. "Irish could do it in one!"

Corbettson slammed his hand on top of the car with enough force to put a dent in it. He had to lurch

backward as Marek hit the accelerator. The Mustang shot out of its slot with a squeal of tires.

"I'm not through with you, Marek!" he bellowed. He ran toward her car but was left glaring uselessly

at the retreating taillights.

Growling with frustration, Corbettson swung around, heading for his car, and saw Samuel and Fullick

watching him from a few feet away. "What the hell you looking at?"

"A fool," Samuel answered dryly, but he didn't think Corbettson heard. The man strode angrily across

the parking lot toward his own car.

"Think we'd better tell Trip?" asked Fullick.

Samuel nodded. "Corbettson's crazy. You remember that hooker?" He glanced at Fullick. "Loreena,

wasn't it?"

Fullick flinched as Corbettson's car left rubber in the parking space. "Loreen," he corrected. He

chewed on his lip, glanced back at the precinct house, and made a decision. "We'd better go talk to

Triplett." His gaze swung back to Corbettson's car as the Buick shot onto the street. "I don't trust that

prick any farther than I can see him."