Rising Phoenix (52 page)

The woman’s hand appeared from behind the blanket and pointed toward the scattered tobacco at Beamon’s feet. “But those don’t have a filter. They’re probably twice as bad.”

Beamon thought about that for a moment. “No such thing as a perfect plan.”

He walked toward her and held out his hand. “I’m Mark Beamon. I work with the FBI. I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

She took his hand. “Carlotta Juarez. I am the Davis’s maid … was the Davis’s maid.”

“You’re hand feels like ice, Carlotta. Would you like to go inside?”

She shook her head.

“How about a car? You could go sit in my car and run the heater.”

“No, I like it out here.”

Beamon leaned against the house and followed her gaze toward a grove of aspen glowing pink in the starlight. “Are you all right?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her turn back toward him. “I came here from Bogotá. I’ve seen so many horrible things.”

Beamon nodded and was silent for almost a minute.

“How long have you worked for the Davises?” He said finally.

“Eight years.”

“Do you live here at the house?”

“No. In town with my husband and five sons. I come every day, though.”

Beamon slipped his hands under his armpits. “Five sons? That must be a handful.”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you had a chance to walk through the house, Carlotta? Does it look like anything’s missing?”

“Nothing that I could see.” She paused. “Only Jennifer.”

Beamon looked up at the stars. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s a wonderful girl. Bright, kind, thoughtful.” Her voice trailed away. “How could someone do this?”

He ignored the question, having asked himself that same thing at crime scenes all over the country and never coming up with a good answer. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Jamie Dolan. He’s a senior at Jennifer’s high school.”

“Anything unusual going on lately, Carlotta? Strange phone calls? People you didn’t know coming over?”

She shook her head.

“How about between Jennifer and her parents? Were they angry at her for something? Maybe they didn’t like her boyfriend?”

“Mrs. Davis always wanted Jennifer to see their neighbor’s son, Bill. But I don’t think she disliked Jamie.”

Beamon peeled his back from the frozen side of the house. “I appreciate your help, Carlotta. Oh, and I apologize in advance for the people who are going to ask you all the same questions.” He turned and began tugging at the door to the kitchen. “Don’t freeze out here, okay?”

A wave of heat washed across Jennifer Davis, instantly covering her in tiny beads of sweat. She kicked the covers off the bed and for a moment the cool air meeting her damp skin fought back the nausea that had gripped her since she woke up.

And how long ago had that been? An hour? Two?

The comforting glow of the clock on her night-stand and the gentle creaking of her house as the immense logs dried and settled were gone. Everything was gone. There was no blue/white glow from the snowdrifts beneath her window, no light filtering in from under the door. Just a dizzying blackness.

Jennifer felt another surge of heat overtake her and she rolled on her side, clenching her teeth and struggling to not throw up.

The memories returned slowly, retracing themselves in her mind over and over again until she could see faceless black and white outlines moving purposefully across the background of her home. She could feel the strong arms holding her and the adrenaline-surge panic as her air was cut off by a hand damp with perspiration.

It didn’t take long for the outlines to sharpen and collect color and sound. The pale woman with black eyes kneeling in front of her. The shadows crisscrossing her father’s face as he raised the gun to his wife’s head. The explosion of the gun and strangely insignificant jerk of her mother’s head before she fell, doll-like, to the ground.

No. It couldn’t have happened. It was just a bad dream. She must have been coming down with a bug before the race and the effort and dehydration had played tricks on her in her sleep.

She reached out for the lamp beside her bed but her hand just hung uselessly in the empty air, confirming what she already knew, but hadn’t been able to fully face. She wasn’t in her room. She had no idea where she was.

She tried to stifle it, but the long mournful cry still escaped as she tried to stem the tide of memories projecting themselves onto the darkness that surrounded her.

Her father’s image appeared a few feet away, pressing the barrel of the gun under his own chin and speaking his final, meaningless words to her. Then her mind replayed the sting of the syringe as it broke the skin, turning the room into quivering mush and then
finally to nothing. She felt a tear make its way across the bridge of her nose and down her cheek. Then another. And another.

Once she started to cry, her sobbing just grew in intensity, melding with her nausea and leaving her choking and coughing uncontrollably.

She didn’t know how long she went on like that. Only that the sobs finally subsided when the muscles in her stomach and sides exhausted themselves and her mind decided it had had enough and let her drift off into unconsciousness.

When she awoke again, her head still hurt and her throat was painfully dry, but the nausea was gone. When the image of her parents’ death began creeping back into her mind, she pushed it off into the emotional numbness that was quickly overtaking her.

“Hello?”

Her voice was little more than a harsh whisper, but it seemed impossibly loud in the darkness and silence that surrounded her.

She waited for some reply, some indication that she wasn’t completely alone in the world, but there was nothing.

She cleared her throat painfully. “Is any one there?”

Louder this time, but still weak. She sounded like a frightened little girl, even to herself.

Nothing.

She sat up slowly and swung her feet onto the cold floor. The blood rushed from her head and she had to bend forward at the waist for a moment to keep from
passing out. After a few seconds, she raised her head slowly and slid off the bed.

She tried to crawl but the bruises and cuts on her knees were too painful against the hard floor and she was forced to turn over and slide on her butt until her back reached the wall.

Feeling along it, she finally came to the smooth wood of a doorjamb. Using the doorknob, she steadied herself and stood. It took only a few moments to find the light switch.

She covered her eyes with one hand and flipped the switch with the other. The flare of light worked its way between her fingers as she pulled them slowly away from her face.

When she finally she opened her eyes, she fell against the wall and screamed.

A black clad woman sat motionless in a chair less than a foot from where Jennifer had slept. The woman’s head turned slowly toward her as Jennifer backed into the far corner of the room and sunk to the floor. The brief surge of adrenaline overloaded her weakened system and her breath came in short, useless gasps as the woman stood and moved across the room.

The pounding of her heart seemed to be robbing her of her strength. Her arms felt impossibly heavy as she raised them in front of her face.

The woman paused and looked down at her, then opened the door and disappeared through it without a word.

Jennifer listened to the latch on the door click shut as she crumpled to her side on the hard tile and struggled to even out her breathing.

It had been the same woman. The one who had driven her parents crazy. The one who had drugged her.

Why had she been sitting there in the darkness? Why hadn’t the woman answered when she had called out?

Jennifer crawled sobbing toward the door and flipped the light switch again.
It was better that way,
she thought as the darkness closed in on her. Better to see nothing.

I have been told, on a number of occasions, that the care and feeding of a first-time novelist is no small task. I would like to thank the following people for all their help and/or tolerance:

Darrell Mills for unwittingly immersing me in the FBI culture for most of my life—see, I do pay attention. Also, for putting his inexplicable marketing genius to work for me. I never doubted for a second.

Elaine Mills for her unwavering confidence that I could translate my grade school short story career into an adult novel, as well as for her occasionally scathing editorial comments.

My “test market” critics: Steven Summers, Chris Bruno, and Lori Adams.

Kelly Meier, my Baltimore connection, and Deb Michael for a brief lesson on the criminal justice system at the Wharf Rat.

Robin Montgomery at the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group for his help with the FBI’s SWAT capabilities.

Tim Sandlin for spending God knows how many hours combing though my manuscript and scrawling comments. I promise not to stick you with the next one.

Allen Thomas for his many inspired title ideas.

Tom Clancy, for helping to put me in touch with the right people and for all his support.

John Silbersack and Caitlin Blasdell at HarperCollins for their insightful editorial comments and for teaching me a little about the business.

Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer, my miracle worker agents at William Morris, for taking a chance on a first time novelist and borderline climbing bum from Wyoming. And, of course, Maya Perez for always being there to answer a dumb question.

And finally, my wife, Kim, for reading the manuscript more times than I had a right to ask and for always prefacing criticism with, “It’s really good, but … “For doing my chores while I hammered away at my keyboard, and, of course, for everything else.

There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.

—Niccolò Machiavelli
    The Prince

K
YLE
M
ILLS
lives in Jackson Hole. Wyoming, where he spends his time skiing, rock climbing, and writing books. He is the author of
Rising Phoenix, Storming Heaven, Free Fall,
and
Burn Factor.

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“Absorbing…. A fine thriller with memorable characters and enough twists to keep readers turning pages…. Mills is definitely someone to watch.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Writing in the Tom Clancy tradition, Kyle Mills has produced a power-packed drama about the men and women who battle the bad guys to protect us all.”

—William H. Webster
former director of the FBI and CIA

“[An] exceptionally accomplished debut thriller … A chillingly effective and suspenseful tale, complete with the moral ambiguities and guilty pleasures of such vigilante dreams as
Death Wish.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“RISING PHOENIX is gripping, authentic, and as frightening as a gunshot in the night.”

—W.E.B. Griffin

“A seductive action novel…. Here’s one slick page turner that makes readers think.”

—
San Francisco Chronicle

“If you haven’t read Kyle Mills yet, you should—I do.”
Tom Clancy

“One of today’s master storytellers … Mills keeps readers breathless, transfixed, and turning pages.”
Tulsa World

Books by
Kyle Mills

F
REE
F
ALL
R
ISING
P
HOENIX
S
TORMING
H
EAVEN
B
URN
F
ACTOR

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HARPERTORCH
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HarperCollins
Publishers
10 East 53rd Street
New York, New York 10022-5299

Copyright © 1997 by Kyle Mills
ISBN: 0-06-101249-1

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EPub Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN 9780062030719

Version 07042012

First HarperTorch paperback printing: May 2002
First HarperPaperbacks printing: July 1998
First HarperCollins hardcover printing: August 1997

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