Perfect Assassin (9 page)

“I brought you a few things,” Koko said as she entered the room.

The girl rolled over and sat up slowly. “You did?”

Koko set the basket on the table next to the bed. She noticed that the young woman was wearing one of Moon’s shirts, and she smiled. It was the red plaid she’d given him for his birthday last year.

She flipped the cover open on the basket. “Oh, that’s where I put Moon’s mail. I made a run into Browning with Tate to pick up the mail after lunch, and I picked up his, too.” She tucked the envelopes into her sweater pocket. “Moon’s worried about you sleeping the day away, but it’s a fact that men don’t always understand a woman’s body, or how it works.”

“You know what’s wrong with me?”

“I do. That’s why I put together this survival kit.”

“Survival kit?”

“It’s a special kind of kit. A woman’s survival kit.”

She waited, watched as
sisttsi nan
peered inside the basket. A smile came seconds later.

She looked at Koko. “How did you know?”

“The same way I knew you needed me on the mountain. I see things.” Koko rubbed her hands on her wool pants that she had cinched up around her waist with a leather belt Tate had tooled for her. “I’ll check on Moon, and see how he’s doing in the kitchen with the tea. Hungry for a piece of huckleberry pie? It helps if you eat something.”

“I think pie sounds good.”

“Then I’ll have Moon set another plate.” Koko patted her hand before she left. “Can you manage?”

“I can walk if I go slow. Thank you again.”

Prisca went through the basket after Koko left. How the old woman had known she had her period was a mystery, but she was glad for the supplies inside the basket. Her cycles were always painful the first day, and she would have killed—no pun intended—for a bottle of ibuprofen, but Moon’s medicine chest had consisted only of men’s deodorant, a toothbrush and a few shaving items. He had mentioned pills once, but if he had some, he didn’t keep them in the usual place.

She slipped from the bed. She needed to start exercising her muscles. She wasn’t going to get better pampering herself.

Her father had been able to withstand enormous amounts of pain. It was all in the mind, he used to say. Train yourself to move past it.

Whispering the words, “Move past it,” she took what she needed from the basket and headed for the door. As quietly as she could, she stepped into the hall, and using the wall to aid her, she made it to the bathroom, ignoring the fact that she was wearing nothing more than her underwear and Moon’s shirt.

When she opened the door from the bathroom minutes later she ran into him coming down the hall.

“You should have said something,” was all he said before he scooped her up into his arms. “Koko says you’re feeling up to pie. I think you need a bowl of soup first. You turned down lunch, remember?”

“I can walk,” she protested when he started back with her in the direction of the living room. “I’m going to have to start sometime. And I’m not dressed…again.”

To satisfy her last protest, he grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and tossed it into her lap.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked.

“No, why would I be angry?”

“You seem angry.”

“Not with you.”

But he was angry. She wondered about that. Wondered if he’d learned something more about her that she should know.

“Is your grandmother still here?”

“Yes.”

“It was very nice of her to bring me…the basket.”

“That’s Koko. On top of every problem. But next time, I’ll get whatever it is you need. All you have to do is ask. I’m no mind reader.”

Chapter 7

T
he report came in while he was out having lunch. Merrick slipped behind his desk and opened the file. He read over the cover page, and immediately felt a chill wash over him. The lab reports had finally come in on the body at the morgue. The one they had recovered in Greece months ago. The one they had believed was the Chameleon.

The report claimed that the body in the morgue was Pavvo Creon. A man they had believed had died fifteen years ago had resurfaced.

Which meant what?

Was Pavvo the Chameleon, or was he still alive?

Merrick stood and went to the window. He didn’t want to believe the report, but he’d personally handpicked every lab tech, and he had the utmost respect for each one of them. They were the best in the country.

Lev Polax’s words came back to him.
He’s alive, Merrick. The bastard is alive.

But how could that be? How had the Chameleon escaped the explosion that had splintered his yacht into a million pieces? And if Pavvo Creon was laid out in the morgue, where had be been for fifteen years?

It was never going to end, Merrick decided. He’d waited years for this to be over. He’d tried to go on without Johanna, but every day he saw her face—even after he’d put away the pictures.

She was in the kitchen making breakfast, in the bathroom washing her hair. Seated by the fireplace laughing and teasing him out of his pants to make crazy reckless love on the rug.

Her laugh was throaty and deep for such a slight woman. Her beautiful hair was soft as silk, her eyes so full of love each time she looked at him. No one would ever look at him like that again.

She’d been his life, and he knew he had been hers. Until the Chameleon had turned their life into a nightmare.

He had lived each day to see the bastard dead, but now it looked as though he’d been robbed of even that. The Chameleon had slipped through his fingers again. But how? His yacht had blown sky high. He himself, and Sly McKwen, had almost been killed in the process.

That last thought gave Merrick pause. If they had survived, then it was possible that the Chameleon had escaped the explosion as well.

Another chill ran the length of his spine, and it told Merrick that his lab experts were right. Pavvo Creon was in the morgue and the Chameleon was still out there somewhere breathing and laughing.

And if he was alive then hell was about to revisit him and the agency before too long.

There were two ways to look at this, Merrick thought. He could consider the mission in Greece a failure, or decide that he’d been given a second chance to confront his enemy—to come face to face with the man who had stolen his life.

A second chance to kill the Chameleon for Johanna.

So maybe this unanswered prayer was a gift.

Jacy sat at his computer frustrated and in a sour mood. His daily routine was getting tiresome. He’d been searching for answers but hadn’t come up with anything solid he could run with. Not one damn lead on Alun Beltane from Edmonton. And to top off his mood, he’d hit a brick wall with the kill-file Merrick was hoping he could decode.

He had the latest in equipment, knew how to hijack information from every resource across the country, and still he was no further ahead than he’d been weeks ago.

He had decided that Alun Beltane didn’t exist, and that Holic had no system or order to the bogus kill-file he’d manufactured.

Both conclusions stunk.

Was he losing his touch, or was Billy wrong about the name? And was Merrick on a witch hunt?

Koko had said the name Alun didn’t fit his houseguest. And he could count on one hand the number of times his grandmother had been wrong.

So where did that leave him?

No one had come forward looking for a missing person. Not one inquiry.

Jacy shut down the computer and left his office. He stepped into the hall, his eyes locking on the scene in the living room.
She
was in a tug of war with Matwau. He was growling playfully, and
sisttsi nan
was more than a little frustrated.

“
Bitte geben Sie es mir,
Matwau.
Bitte!
”

Jacy had become fluent in a number of languages working for Onyxx, and he knew German as well as French and Italian, and a dozen other languages. Now he was once again sorting out the words, wondering who the hell she was.

“What’s going on?”

She looked up, frustration had colored her cheeks. “He took my sock and he won’t give it back.”

“I’ve heard you speak German before. Where do you suppose you learned that? You speak it like a native.”

She let go of the sock and Matwau—thinking he’d won—hopped up on the couch, tucking his prize between his huge paws.

“I…don’t know.”

It was clear she was uncomfortable with the question. He’d caught her in a number of awkward situations in the past weeks since she’d been staying with him. And if she could lie about this, what else was she capable of lying about?

He heard his phone ring, and he stepped back in his office and closed the door.

Pierce was calling to discuss cold trails, more dead bodies, and the fact that Holic’s replacement had managed to make the kills even though his shots were not perfect.

“More messy shots, taken in haste,” Pierce was saying. “Merrick told me you’ve been working on the kill-file. That there might be a way to decode the pattern. Find anything?”

“No. And I don’t think that I’m going to.”

“Holic still claims someone else is shooting those agents,” Pierce said. “He claims his replacement wouldn’t take a bad shot.”

“Those agents are dead,” Jacy reminded. “I don’t consider a shot that kills someone a bad shot. Do you?”

“No, but he still claims it’s not his man. What do you think?”

“I’ve looked over the data you sent me on the first four kills. It’s true the killer’s shots have changed since the first two, but maybe there’s a reason for it. Maybe this is part of Holic’s game. Maybe his man was told to dirty things up a bit. Hell, I don’t know.”

“You sound stressed out. What’s going on with you?”

Jacy hadn’t told anyone about his houseguest. He said, “I’ve got a situation here. A woman staying with me.”

“Is she pretty? Your type or mine?”

“She’s too young for both of us.”

“How old.”

“Not old enough.”

“Too vague.”

“She went down in a plane in the mountains. She doesn’t know her name or where’s she’s from.”

“What’s the hold-up? You’re the detail man. You should be able to figure that out.”

“That’s just it. I’ve hit a roadblock at every turn. Someone has to be looking for her.”

“Meaning she’s pretty and you’re frustrated.”

Jacy set his jaw. “Like I said, she’s too young and innocent for someone like me.”

“Can I help?”

“You’ve got your hands full chasing after dead bodies. I’ll work this out.”

“If I get anything new on Holic’s replacement, I’ll give you a call.”

“It’s a date.”

She would stay until the weekend and then disappear. She’d been at Moon’s house almost a month and it was past time she move out. Her ankle had mended, and Moon had removed the stitches one night after he had made her drink three glasses of wine.

Prisca stepped out of the shower, glanced down at her leg. She would always have a scar, but Vic had done the best he could.

She needed to get back to her old life, back on the trail of Jacy Madox and Bjorn Odell. But it wouldn’t be easy to leave Moon’s cabin. She had slipped into a routine. She had become comfortable living with him. That sounded crazy, but the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave.

She was more than attracted to him. Looked forward to seeing him each morning. Sharing kitchen duties, and caring for the animals. She’d even ventured out to the barn and had made friends with his horse, Pete.

It was infatuation, she told herself. Moon had become her lifeline, and he was as dependable as cement. She’d had that with Otto, too, but this was different.

Moon was different.

She dried off with a towel and then slipped on a pair of jeans and a black sweater. Towel-drying her hair, she opened the door. The smell of fresh bread told her that Moon was in the kitchen. She smiled in anticipation of seeing him, knowing how she would find him—he was as comfortable doing dishes as he was chopping wood for the fireplace.

He didn’t look like the cooking type, but he had more skills than any man she knew, and more energy—he did more in one day than most people did in a week.

Weeko scurried by and disappeared into her bedroom. She followed, speaking to the raccoon like an old friend. That was the problem. She was getting too comfortable here. She was forgetting who she was, and in a frightening way it felt good.

The phone rang and she heard Moon’s heavy voice as he answered it. She entered the hall again after slipping on shoes. She was still using the towel on her hair when she entered the kitchen.

He looked up, but he didn’t smile. He was arguing with whoever had called.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll have to see. She wouldn’t want to come. It’s not the kind of place she would enjoy. Sure, I’ll mention it, but I don’t think you’ll see us there.”

When he hung up the phone, he swore.

Pris was about to ask who it was—rarely did he get any calls—but he answered her question before she asked it.

“That was Tate. It’s his birthday today. He’s having a party at the Sun Dance. He wants us to come.”

Us…

“I told him you wouldn’t want to go.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He frowned. “Because it’s a bar. Loud music. Drinking. People acting crazy.”

“You don’t want to go?”

He hesitated.

“I’ve been in this house for weeks. It would be fun to get out.”

“So you want to go?”

She had only met Tate twice. Both times he’d come to Moon’s house, but he hadn’t stayed long. He was a full-blooded Blackfeet Indian with a long braid down his back. Moon had explained that his mother had been married once before she’d married his father. That Tate’s father had died in a hunting accident when Tate was a few years old.

He was looking at her, still waiting for an answer. “You can go by yourself if you don’t want to take me.”

That gave him pause. “Why wouldn’t I want to take you? I just thought—”

“I wouldn’t fit in. That’s okay. I understand.”

“You don’t understand anything,” he grumbled. “Would you let me finish?”

“Okay. What’s the problem?”

“Tate’s parties usually end up turning into a bar fight. I don’t want you anywhere near that.”

His answer surprised her. She recalled him telling her about his days with the Hell’s Angels. About his wild brother Tate, and their even wilder escapades.

“I have you to protect me, right?”

He just looked at her. She’d caught him doing that a lot. Studying her as if he was trying to see inside her head. Read her thoughts.

“This is a hard-party crowd.”

“Maybe I’m a party girl.”

He snorted. “I don’t think so, honey.”

Honey…

He’d called her that a few times over the past weeks, and like now, after he’d used the word, he was frowning.

“Call him back and tell him we’re coming. And don’t forget to ask what time.” Pris headed past him toward the fresh bread on the counter, tossing the towel on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Can I have a piece?”

“You know you don’t have to ask. You can have whatever you want.”

“And the peanut butter. What cupboard again?”

“Top right. You sure about this? You want to go to Tate’s party?”

“I’m sure.”

Prisca found the peanut butter, then sliced the heel off the bread. When she left Moon’s home she would miss his fresh bread, and the wonderful smells that he created in his kitchen. She would miss his jeans hugging his hips, and the way his flannel shirts outlined his strong shoulders and sturdy back. But mostly she would miss his generosity and the way his deep voice always turned soft when he spoke to her. How he dragged out the word
honey.

He said it as if she was important to him. As if he really cared about her.

Six hours later they were on the road headed for the Sun Dance Saloon. She had pulled her black hair back from her face, and put on a little makeup, which had gotten her a second look.

When they parked in front of the Sun Dance Saloon, she looked over the building. It was rustic, similar to Moon’s log cabin. The parking lot was full, and she could hear music coming from inside.

They got out of Moon’s black pickup. He ushered her up the steps and into a smoke-filled entry, then into a mix of partygoers. She had never been to a place where the stools lining the bar were made out of saddles. Where pool tables were as important as tables and chairs.

The crowd was laughing, all enjoying the music and the drink in their hands.

Moon was right. She was no party girl. She had lived a sheltered life with her mother, only seeing her father a few times a year. She’d never been allowed to go to bars, or parties with the local kids in her neighborhood. She’d only sneaked out a few times, but even then she’d never done anything that could be labeled as wild or reckless.

Even her travels with Otto had been structured and uneventful. Work trips had taken her to cities she had never seen before, except from a rooftop, or a ten-story window.

To say that she was excited about the evening was an understatement. The rowdy music made her smile and the anticipation of what the evening would bring made her forget about what would come in the days ahead.

A night of fun…what could it hurt?

When Tate saw them he dismounted a saddle at the bar. A beer in hand, he came toward them smiling.

“Hey, beautiful, I guess I owe you a dance for saying yes and getting my little brother to show up. Thought he was going to sit this one out.”

Tate was thick-shouldered wearing jeans and cowboy boots, once again his hair braided halfway down his back. He was shorter than Moon, and not in as good shape—but there was a vague resemblance, even though Moon’s features were softer, and his skin lighter.