Over the Edge (42 page)
Sooner or later, Helga had to leave her room. She couldn’t hide here forever simply because she didn’t know what was waiting for her on the other side of that door.
Besides, she knew what was waiting for her—a bunch of Americans and Kazbekistanis, working together to bring those civilians safely off of that hijacked plane. World Airlines Flight 232—it said on one of her Post-it notes.
She had the names of all the major players in her notepad. The problem was, she wasn’t sure she’d recognize any of them even if she tripped over them in the lobby.
I know your secret.
She’d found the words in her notepad, written in Des’s strong handwriting.
It’s time to quit. Call Des and tell him.
That was written in her own hand, on a Post-it note that she’d put directly on the telephone at some point—probably last night.
She’d picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone.
Phone system sucks, said another of her notes, the word sucks underlined three times, with three exclamation points following it. Phone lines are not secure.
The Gunvalds had had no telephone.
Helga had hidden with her parents in their house, sleeping on the floor of their kitchen for nearly two weeks in late September and early October of 1943. It was after the terrifying news had come out that the Gestapo was going to round up the Danish Jews. After a hot summer filled with acts of sabotage and Danish resistance, the “peaceful occupation” was peaceful no longer. Everything had turned upside down.
Mother and Poppi hadn’t believed it at first. This was Denmark! That couldn’t happen here! But Herr Gunvald had come to the house and had managed to convince them to pack their valuables and hide.
Herr Gunvald had brought them here.
Fru Gunvald had offered the Rosens their bed, but Poppi had refused to put them out that way. “You’re already risking so much, just having us here,” he’d said, humbled by their generosity. Poppi—humbled. It was a day, a moment, Helga would never forget.
Annebet and Hershel had gone to Copenhagen despite the curfew to see what they could do about getting the Rosens passage on a fishing boat that would take them—illegally, and at great risk to all involved—across the sound to Sweden.
Fru Gunvald had served Helga and her parents big bowls of her delicious peasant’s soup. “This is nothing we wouldn’t do for any of our neighbors,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s wrong, what they’re doing, and we won’t let those Nazis do it.”
Herr Gunvald lowered his big-boned frame into the seat at the head of their kitchen table. He smiled at Marte as he passed the basket of brown bread to her, and he winked at Helga. “Herr Rosen, may we trouble you for a prayer of thanks for what we’re about to receive?”
Helga sat there while her father spoke, aware that her mother was crying, and that Fru Gunvald had reached over and taken her hand.
“It’s an awful thing,” Marte’s mother had murmured to hers, “to have to leave your home.”
Under the table, Marte took her hand and squeezed it. “You can stay with us forever,” she whispered.
They ate in silence then, for several minutes.
And then Poppi cleared his throat. “We’ll pay you,” he said. “Of course. For our room and board.”
Both Herr and Fru Gunvald stopped eating, their spoons almost comically poised halfway to their mouths. Fru Gunvald looked at Herr Gunvald and then kept on eating. Herr Gunvald put down his spoon.
“A few coins now and then to help pay for food would be appreciated,” he said easily. “Because we all know that Helga eats like a horse.” He gave Helga another wink. He was kidding. He was turning Poppi’s insult into a joke. “But other than that,” he added quietly, “it’s best you save your money. Who knows what expenses you’ll run into in Sweden.”
Poppi nodded. He kept eating his soup. But he’d started to cry, too, just like Mother.
“And what do you girls have planned for this evening?” Herr Gunvald purposely drew their attention away from Poppi. Helga had been terrified. Poppi—crying!
“I think a wonderful feast like this and good company calls for some music,” Herr Gunvald proclaimed. “Marte, go with Helga and fetch your recorder. I think a concert is just the thing.”
Helga never knew what her father said to the Gunvalds after she and Marte had left the room.
She could only guess.
;
She’d left her fanny pack in Starrett’s room.
Shit.
Alyssa stood in the stairwell and tried not to cry as she cursed her stupidity and bad luck.
So much for vowing never to look at, think about, or talk to the man again.
Her room key was in that pack. Her wallet. And the painkiller she was planning to take to try to soften the edge of this headache that was throbbing inside of her skull.
You’d think she’d’ve learned after last time. You’d think she would’ve never touched a drop of alcohol ever again.
Well, she hadn’t had a drink in six months. Not until last night.
She also hadn’t been with a man, hadn’t taken another lover, since she’d last been with Sam. No, she just got by on six-month-old memories and dreams and wishful thinking. On focusing all of her energy into her work.
Which had caught Max Bhagat’s attention and brought her here to K-stan where she found herself face-to-face with Sam Starrett and his amazing eyes and mouth and hands. Face-to-face with her inability to forget about him, the way she’d told herself she had to do.
Alyssa retraced her steps back to his room more slowly, rehearsing what she was going to say. She’d knock on the door and be cool and businesslike when he answered. “Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant.” Yeah, she’d address him by rank. “But I left my bag in your room.”
And then there she was. Standing in front of his door. Forced to face her folly one more dreadful time this morning. Come on, just get it over with. She squared her shoulders and knocked. Softly.
And the door popped open.
Apparently it hadn’t quite latched when she’d left. She knocked gently again, holding it open, but again there was no answer. No Sam striding toward her, the devil in his eyes as he smirked at her humiliation, holding her fanny pack out to her, dangling it off of one elegantly long finger.
Damn, the man had nice hands.
For a son of a bitch.
He was probably in the bathroom, about to get into the shower.
And there was her fanny pack. On the floor where she’d dropped it—apparently along with her brain—when she’d first come in last night.
Alyssa stepped quietly into the room. Praise the Lord for small favors. Sam didn’t even have to know she’d been here.
But then she heard it. A soft sound. Like something an animal might make. Snuffling. Sniffing. Unsteady breathing.
And then she saw it.
Everything on the dresser had been swept onto the rug. The desk chair was knocked over and the big gilt-edged mirror on the wall was askew and cracked—as if there had been some terrible struggle in here in the ten minutes since she’d left the room.
Was it possible that someone—like the as-yet-unapprehended terrorists who’d thrown those homemade bombs down toward the pool just yesterday afternoon—had come in here after she’d left and overpowered Sam and . . .
Heart pounding, terrified that he was lying there dead or dying, she went past the wall that separated the entryway and closet and bathroom from the rest of the room.
The mattress was off the bedframe. The blankets and sheets had been hurled to the corner of the room. And Sam Starrett sat on the floor, shoulders bent, head bowed and . . .
He was crying.
The man was sitting on the floor and crying.
Alyssa stared, frozen in place.
She must’ve made some sort of sound, because he turned toward her with a look of sheer horror in his eyes. His still-muddy face was streaked clean in places from his tears.
And she understood. He’d made this mess. This was the aftermath of some kind of temper tantrum, some kind of fit of anger that . . . she’d caused?
Was it possible that Sam Starrett was crying—crying—over . . .
Her?
But that hadn’t been anger she’d seen in the bend of his shoulders. That had been hurt. Misery.
Heartache.
“Get out!” He pushed himself to his feet in one smooth movement.
But she was stuck there. Hypnotized by the sight of those eyes filled with tears, by the very idea that this tough, unbreakable man was capable of crying over anything.
He took a threatening step toward her. Shouted. “Get the fuck out of my room!”
Alyssa turned and ran, scooping up her fanny pack on the way out the door.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eighteen
Teri forced herself to wait in the basement lobby.
She could see Mike Muldoon inside the restaurant, carrying a hot cup of coffee, getting himself a pastry—or four—from the self-serve line.
She couldn’t see Stan at all, but if he’d come in with Muldoon, it was likely that he’d leave with him, too.
After what seemed an eternity, Muldoon headed for the door. Directly toward her.
She knew he wasn’t really attracted to her. He’d said that he didn’t think she was a very good kisser.
It was all she could do not to run and hide.
But Teri steeled herself. She wanted this confrontation. She needed this. She could do this. She was mad at this loser who was willing to ask her out and even sleep with her merely because his senior chief had asked him to.
“Hey, Teri.” Muldoon greeted her cautiously, no doubt leery of the steam coming out of her ears. “Everything all right?”
“Great.” God, what was she saying? And through clenched teeth, no less? “No,” she said instead. “No, Mike, actually, everything’s not great. I need to see Stan right away. Didn’t he come down here with you?”
“Oh,” he said. “No. He went upstairs. He wanted to shower before he got something to eat.”
Muldoon was the lousy kisser. If he’d kissed even half as good as Stan did, maybe she would have bothered to kiss him back. As it was, she hadn’t wanted to waste her energy. She started for the stairs.
“Hey, I was wondering . . .” Muldoon followed her.
“You want to have lunch?” she said shortly, taking the stairs two at a time, forcing him to rush to keep up. “Sure. Why the hell not? How’s noon?”
“Uh, fine,” he said.
“Great,” she said. “Lunch at noon, and then what do you say we have sex afterward, say, at 1300?”
Muldoon dropped two of his pastries. They went bouncing down the stairs, and he hesitated, having to choose between going after them or following the woman who’d just suggested having postlunch sex with him.
His hesitation didn’t last too long. He followed Teri.
“Glad to know I’m more appealing than a prune-filled Danish,” she told him.
“Teri, what’s going on?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
She was angry as hell. At Stan. At Mike. Mostly at Stan.
You didn’t get angry enough, his voice echoed in her head. Instead you internalized it, where it would fester and make you feel even worse. Who the hell needs that? You don’t! So say it to me. Confront me. Get angry.
“I’m great,” she told Muldoon, and this time it wasn’t a lie. She did feel great. She was angry. No. She was furious. But that was okay. Because she was heading upstairs to go pound on Stan’s door and tell him a thing or two about playing God, about messing with her life, thank you very much.
She wasn’t going to jam it all inside, the way she’d done so many times before. She was going to blast Stan.
Come on, hit me.
Yeah, maybe she would. Maybe she’d give him a solid knee to the balls. Son of a bitch.
And as for Muldoon . . .
Teri stopped on the landing right before the doors to the main hotel lobby and grabbed him by the shirt. He was juggling his paper cup of coffee, the remaining pastries, and her outrageously bold suggestion that they follow lunch by taking off their clothes and getting busy, but she didn’t give a damn. She just pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him.
It was a no-holds-barred kind of kiss. A soul sucking, total tongue, teeth clicking, going for the tonsils kind of kiss. The kind that promised hot, deep, total penetration, a bed rocking, sweat slickened, gasping for air, and screaming for more kind of sex.
It was a Hall of Famer as far as kisses went, and Muldoon, brave SEAL that he was, was completely up for the challenge. He tossed his remaining pastries and coffee onto the floor, where they hit with a splash. He was solid and warm and he tasted like sweetened coffee.
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