Moonrise (7 page)

The alternative was unthinkable. He had no reason to let her live, except for sentiment. Emotion. Old memories, a passing fondness he’d once had for a young girl, a moment in an empty house one Thanksgiving years ago when she was young and alone and he’d let his guard down for a brief while. She seemed to have forgotten, but it might come back to her sooner or later. And he couldn’t afford to let that happen.

She was already doomed. Her parentage, and her curiosity, had made that certain. He could be gentle with her. Make it fast, painless. If someone was going to kill Annie Sutherland, then it ought to be him.

It wasn’t as if he had a conscience that could bother him. He’d killed. He was good at it, neat and painless, delivering death to the deserving without pause or regret.

Or if the regrets had come, it had simply been part of his penance. The price he had to pay, to live out his life expiating his sin by compounding them.

Catholic guilt. He’d always taunted himself with that, with the knowledge that his mother’s faith had eaten its way into his heart and soul, into his very bones like a cancer.

That too was his penance.

He moved up the stairs silently. Adrenaline was still pumping through him, a natural side effect of the past half hour. His pulse was steady, and his hands were without a tremor. This was what he did best. Mary Margaret had called it artistry. He doubted if Annie would consider her corpse a masterpiece.

She had her back to him when he reached the top of the stairs. She was stuffing clothes into her suitcase, and her movements were fast, jerky, angry. She picked up those absurd high heels, held them for a moment, and then slammed them into the wastebasket in the corner. It tipped over beneath the weight of her throw, and she muttered a curse.

He moved closer, so close he could reach out and touch that slender neck beneath the damp fall of hair. She wouldn’t know what happened. A moment of pressure, and she’d be dead before she hit the floor. He could catch her, carefully, and lay her out on the bed. He would close her eyes, and then maybe he’d even burn the place down around her, a funeral pyre. He found he didn’t want people touching her, messing with her, after she was dead.

He just needed to lift his hand. She didn’t know he was there, behind her, ready to
strike, but if he hesitated much longer she’d turn and see him, and recognize her death in his face. It would frighten her, and he didn’t want to do that. If he was going to do it, he needed to make it as easy, as painless, as possible.

His muscles clenched painfully. He lifted his hand, and his fingers brushed her wet hair.

She whirled around and glared at him. “You scared the hell out of me,” she snapped. “You’re as bad as Win, tiptoeing around and sneaking up on people. Is that part of your stock in trade? Junior Spooks on Parade?”

He laughed then, a rough, harsh sound, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed. Maybe a decade or more. He dropped his hand to his side, flexing his coiled fingers. “You’ve got more sass than brains,” he drawled, using his best Texas accent.

“That’s saying a lot. I was Phi Beta Kappa at Georgetown University.”

He found he was grinning. It almost felt as if the stiff lines in his face would crack from the unexpected amusement. “Annie,” he said, “you’re getting in over your head.”

“I already am. What do you suggest I do about it? Run away and hide?”

There was no place she could run to, no place she’d be safe. He knew that, even if she didn’t. The safest place for her was with him. The man who had almost killed her.

He wasn’t going to do it. Not now, at least, not while he had a choice. He knew enough about life to know that the damnedest things could happen. The odds were against the two of them, and if he were a gambling man he’d bet they’d both be dead by Halloween.

But odds didn’t mean diddly squat when you threw human beings into the equation. She just might make it out alive. And if there was a chance, then he was going to see to it that she did.

He wasn’t any too happy with his decision. It was impractical, emotional, a weakness. But when it came right down to it, he didn’t want to kill Annie Sutherland unless he had to.

He reached past her for her suitcase, being very careful not to brush against her body. Her hair was already beginning to dry in the late morning heat, and he could smell the scent of her body, the heat of her skin. And, on the sultry breeze, the tang of blood and death.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said. “Before anyone else comes after me.”

“Someone’s come after you?”

“An annoying woman named Annie Sutherland,” he drawled. “I don’t want to risk having your ex-husband show up as well.”

“I thought Martin was your friend.”

“He is. Or as close to a friend as I have.”

“Where are we going?”

“Do you trust me?”

She looked up at the man who was going to kill her, tilting her head to one side as she considered it. Her eyes were a clear, limpid blue. The same color as her father’s had been, though without Win’s malice or guile. She wore no makeup today, but oddly enough she looked prettier without the protective coloration she usually wore. Her skin was soft, fresh, touched with natural color. Her eyelashes were thick and tawny, like her hair. Her wide mouth was full, pale, and there was a scattering of freckles across her unremarkable nose.

Jesus Christ, what was he doing, standing there thinking about her freckles?

“Can I?” she said.

He wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to tell her to run like hell, to get away from him as fast as she could. But it would be a waste of time. If she tried to run away, he’d catch her. If he caught her, he’d hurt her. Lying was the only choice.

“Of course, darlin’,” he drawled, letting the
Texas slip into his voice, knowing its usual disarming effect. “Your father trusted me, didn’t he?”

“With his life,” Annie said.

Poor choice of words. He didn’t let his faint, sexy grin falter. “Then you can trust me as well. I’ve got a car parked down the road a ways. We’ll have to go through the brush, but you look a little better dressed for it today.” He glanced down at her sneakers. She could run in those if she had to. He could carry her, if need be.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Her sudden acceptance brought all his usual suspicions into play. People weren’t as straightforward, as honest, as trusting as Annie Sutherland seemed to be. She’d probably stick a knife in his back before they were halfway to the car.

Or at least she could try. If Mary Margaret Hanover couldn’t take him, then Annie Sutherland wouldn’t be able to either. He half hoped she’d go for him. Then he wouldn’t have to think about it, wouldn’t have to decide. It would tie matters up quite neatly.

But life wasn’t made of neat packages. She followed him down the stairs, and while half of him was tempted to push her up against a wall and run his hands over her, to make sure
she wasn’t carrying a weapon, the other half knew the worst thing he could do was to touch her.

He headed out onto the front porch. There were three corpses out back there. If he just kept her going straight down the path that paralleled the ocean, she would never know what had gone on here this morning.

“Aren’t you going to pack?” she demanded.

“Don’t worry about me, Annie,” he said, waiting for her. “I can take care of myself.”

She shrugged, stepping off the porch. And then her perfect, freckled nose wrinkled in sudden distaste. “What’s that smell?”

“There are some pretty rank tropical flowers growing around here. That’s probably the blood lily you’re smelling.”

“Never heard of it.”

“They’re endangered.”

“Good thing,” Annie muttered. “Anyway, it smells more like a septic tank.”

She was too damned observant. “There’s that too,” he said. “Are you going to stand around sniffing the toxic waste or are you coming with me?”

“I’m coming with you,” she muttered. “Whether I want to or not, I trust you.”

For some reason he didn’t find that reassuring.

*       *       *

He had had the strangest expression on his face when he’d come up on her in the bedroom, Annie thought as she trudged along behind him, the tiny cottage receding in the distance. It had been dreamy, erotic, and oddly threatening, and it had taken all her force of mind to say something sharp.

It had vanished, that expression, and she’d let out her breath. It was only now, following him through the thick undergrowth, that she realized how unnerving it had been. His black, empty eyes staring down at her, his hand upraised.

Had he been about to make a pass at her? It was the only logical explanation, and she was experienced enough to recognize that part of the tension that stretched between them was probably sexual. She didn’t want to remember thinking of James in a sexual light. She was much safer thinking of him as older, unthreatening, as she had for the past few years. For a while she’d even wondered if he was politely, discreetly gay, but then she’d decided he didn’t have even that outlet.

For some reason it had been important to her to see James in an asexual light. Plight now, looking at his strong back, she wondered how she’d ever managed to do it. Memories tugged at the back of her mind, things she
wasn’t ready to remember. She’d had no more than an adolescent crush on him, for heaven’s sake, one she’d outgrown swiftly enough when she met a real man, an appropriate man for her. Even if it hadn’t worked out, her marriage to Martin had been reasonable.

She looked ahead at James, and a stray shiver crept over her. She didn’t want to remember. James was empty. Soulless. He was a machine, one of Win’s making.

Once more she tried to shut off that disloyal thought. Those harsh judgments were creeping in when she least expected it, and no matter how vigilant she was in trying to wipe them out, they always trickled back, in new and disturbing form.

Her father hadn’t been a saint, for God’s sake. He’d been a clever, admittedly manipulative man, good at controlling his surroundings and making everyone dance to his tune. Annie had been his puppet, and so had James. But the puppet master was gone, the strings were cut. And she was still struggling to stay upright.

“James,” she said. “Who do you think killed my father?”

She waited for him to deny it again. He kept walking, his gait smooth and graceful. “Someone he loved,” he said finally. “No one else could’ve gotten close.”

Annie sucked in her breath. Round one. “Do you think he knew?”

James glanced back over his shoulder. “Without a doubt,” he said. And he walked on, head bent, shoulders taut.

H
e didn’t drink on the plane. She noticed that right off, though she had the tact not to mention it. Their seats were first-class, the liquor flowed freely, and James McKinley drank mineral water, without lime.

Annie was amazed at how efficiently he’d got them there. The hike to the car had been the worst part, what with mosquitoes ravaging her skin, that awful stink lingering in the air, overpowering the fresh ocean breeze. He hadn’t allowed her to take her time, and it wasn’t until she was safely buckled into the front seat of the plain gray sedan that her instincts came alive.

“What’s back at the house?” she asked.

James had already started the car, and he pulled into the narrow, rutted road without glancing in either direction, driving too damned fast. He didn’t answer her, but she saw him glance down at the clock on the dashboard.

“James.”

“What?”

“What’s back at the house?”

An explosion answered her question. The force of it shook the road, sending the car skittering sideways before James ruthlessly straightened it. He didn’t waste a look at the billowing tower of smoke in the distance where his cottage had been.

Annie swallowed her shock. The cool efficiency of it was almost worse than the destruction, and she felt anxiety eating into her stomach. It took her a moment to speak.

“Wasn’t that a little extreme?” She managed to sound deceptively wry.

“No,” James said. After an endless moment he continued. “There’s always the remote possibility that they’ll think we died in the explosion. At least it’ll slow them down for a while.”

“What are you talking about? Slow who down?”

He did turn to look at her then, and she almost wished he hadn’t. “The people who killed your father. Isn’t that what this is all about? You said you wanted to find out. You put yourself right in the middle of it when you came down to find me, and now there’s no backing out. This is the way the game is played, Annie. Time to grow up and face the music.”

“I don’t feel like dancing.”

“It’s a funeral dirge.”

After that she hadn’t said a word. They’d taken a small boat off the island, and he’d handled it with the same cool dexterity with which he did everything, and she’d followed him blindly.

This was the third plane they’d been on that day. He’d paid for this one with an American Express gold card under a name she’d never heard before. She’d said nothing.

But now, as they flew into the sunset, she took a glass of cool champagne, downed it in one gulp, and stared at the man sitting next to her.

“Why are we flying west? I thought we were going to Washington. Last I knew, it was on the East Coast. Or has the CIA managed to change things around?”

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you,” he said pleasantly enough, but there was no missing the light of warning in his eyes. “You never know who might be listening.”

“I don’t believe in your Cold War paranoia.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to do as I say.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find the answers. We’ll start in Los Angeles and go from there.”

“Any particular reason for the detour? Or is
it just that three planes in one day aren’t enough for you?” She reached out for the second glass of champagne, knowing she shouldn’t do it. She was too tired, too edgy, too hungry to be scarfing down champagne.

“I like-southern California.”