Without a Trace (6 page)

Unless she was mistaken, there was a trace of bitterness there. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Ten years, more or less.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you in this kind of work?”

Trace punched in the cigarette lighter and ignored the little voice in his head that reminded him he’d been smoking too much. “That’s a question I’ve been asking myself lately. Why physics?”

She wasn’t foolish enough to think he cared. It was simply a way to switch the conversation away from himself. “Family tradition, and I had a knack for it. I was all but born in a laboratory.”

“You’re not living in Ireland.”

“No, I was offered a position at Random-Frye. It was an excellent opportunity.” To finally slip out from under her father’s shadow.

“Like the States?”

“Yes, very much. At first it seemed everything moved faster than it should, but you find yourself catching up. Where are you from?”

He pitched the cigarette out into the road. “Nowhere.”

“Everyone’s from somewhere.”

His lips curved at some private joke. “No, they’re not. We’re nearly there. Want to go over anything?”

Gillian drew a long, steadying breath. The time for small talk was over. “No.”

The parking lot was half-full. When the winter season got under way, the ruins, less than a two-hour drive from Cancun, would do a brisk business. With his camera slung over his shoulder, Trace took Gillian’s hand. Her initial resistance only caused him to tighten his grip.

“Try to look a little romantic. We’re on a date.”

“You’ll understand if I find it a bit difficult to look starry-eyed.”

“Shoot for interested.” He pulled the guidebook out of his back pocket. “The place dates back to the sixth and seventh centuries. That’s comforting.”

“Comforting?”

“Over a thousand years and we haven’t managed to destroy it. Up for a climb?”

She looked at him but couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses. “I suppose.”

Hands linked, they started up the rough steps of the Pyramid of the Magician. She wasn’t immune to the atmosphere. Even with sweat trickling down her back and her heart thudding with dull fear, she was moved by it. Ancient stones lifted by ancient hands to honor ancient gods. From the top she could look out over what had once been a community filled with people.

For a moment she indulged herself and held herself very still. The scientist in her would have cocked a brow, but her ancestors had believed in leprechauns. Life had been in this place. Spirits still were. With her eyes closed, Gillian felt the power of the atmosphere.

“Can you feel it?” she murmured.

It was captured memories, lingering passions, that drew him to places. The realist in him had never completely overshadowed the dreamer. “Feel what?” he asked, though he knew.

“The age, the old, old souls. Life and death. Blood and tears.”

“You surprise me.”

She opened her eyes, greener now with the emotion that was in her. “Don’t spoil it. Places like this never lose their power. You could raze the stone, put a high-rise on this spot, and it would still be holy.”

“Is that your scientific opinion, Doctor?”

“You
are
going to spoil it.”

He relented, though instinct told him they would both be better off it he kept his distance. “Have you ever been to Stonehenge?”

“Yes.” She smiled, and her hand relaxed in his.

“If you close your eyes and stand in the shadow of a stone, you can hear the chanting.” His fingers had linked with hers, intimately, though neither of them were aware of it. “In Egypt you can run your hand along the stone of a pyramid and all but smell the blood of slaves and the incense of kings. Off the coast of the Isle of Man there are mermaids with hair like yours.”

He had a fistful of it, soft, silky. He imagined it heating his skin with the kind of fire magicians conjure without kindling or matches.

She could do nothing but stare at him. Though his eyes were still hidden, his voice had become soft and hypnotic. The hand on her hair seemed to touch every part of her, slowly, temptingly. The little twist of need she had felt that morning became an ache, that ache a longing.

She leaned toward him. Their bodies brushed.

“The view better be worth it, Harry. I’m sweating like a pig.”

Gillian jerked back as if she’d been caught with her hand in the till as a middle-aged couple dragged themselves up the last of the stairs.

“A pile of rocks,” the woman said when she took off her straw hat to fan her flushed face. “God knows why we had to come all the way to Mexico to climb a pile of old rocks.”

The magic of the place seemed to retreat. Gillian turned to look out over the ruins.

“Young man, would you mind taking a picture of my wife and me?”

Trace took the disc camera from the slightly overweight man, who had an Oklahoman accent. It was the least he could do after they’d prevented him from making a mistake. Letting his mind wander off the task at hand and into more personal matters wouldn’t get him his revenge, and it wouldn’t get Gillian her family.

“Little closer together,” he instructed, then snapped the picture when the couple gave two wide, frozen
grins.

“Kind of you.” The man from Oklahoma took back his camera. “Want me to take one of you and the lady?”

“Why not?” It was a typical tourist device. After handing over his camera, he circled Gillian’s waist. She went stiff as a board. “Smile, honey.”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her call him an unflattering name under her breath.

As they started back down, Trace maneuvered so that Gillian’s bag was between them. Looking down from the pyramid, he’d seen three men come onto the site together, then separate.

“Stay close.”

Gillian set her teeth and obeyed, though at the moment she would have liked nothing better than to put as much distance as possible between them. It must have been too much sun, she decided, that had made her go so soft and light-headed. It certainly hadn’t had anything to do with genuine emotion. Sunstroke, she told herself. Add that to the fact that she had always been highly sensitive to atmosphere, and it made a plausible answer to why she had nearly kissed him, had wanted to kiss him, had felt as if she were meant to kiss him.

“This isn’t the best time to be daydreaming.” Swinging an arm around her shoulders, Trace drew her tight against his body and steered her under an arch into the Nun’s Quadrangle.

The position pleased him. The grand plaza was flanked on all four sides by structures that were really a series of interior rooms and doors. It left them enough in the open, while providing cover if cover proved necessary. If he had a choice, he wanted to deal with their friends one at a time.

“You’re supposed to be appreciating the detail work on the stones.”

Gillian swallowed a little ball of fear. “The carved arches and facades are classic Mayan architecture. The Puuc construction is recognizable in the finely cut stone.”

“Very good,” Trace murmured. He saw one of the men slip into the quadrangle. Just one, he thought. So they had, as he’d hoped, spread out to find her. Turning, he pressed her against a column and ran his hands down her body.

“What are you—?”

“I’m making a lewd suggestion,” he said softly as he leaned close to her ear. “Understand?”

“Yes.” It was the signal for her to act, but she found herself frozen. His body was hard and hot and, for reasons she didn’t want to dissect, made her feel safe.

“A very lewd suggestion, Gillian,” Trace repeated. “It has something to do with you and me naked in a twenty-five-gallon tub of whipped cream.”

“That’s not lewd, that’s pathetic.” But she sucked in a deep breath. “You filthy-minded swine.” Putting her heart into it, Gillian swung back and brought her palm hard—a bit harder than necessary—across his face. She shoved him away and made a production of smoothing her hair. “Just because I agreed to an afternoon’s drive doesn’t mean I intend to spend the night playing your revolting games.”

Eyes narrowed, Trace ran a hand over his cheek. She packed a punch, but they’d discuss that later. “That’s fine, sweetheart. Now why don’t you find your own way back to Mérida? I’ve got better things to do than to waste my time on some skinny broad with no imagination.” Swinging around, he left her alone. He passed the man who stood three yards away, ostensibly studying an arch.

Gillian had to bite her tongue to keep herself from calling Trace back. He’d asked her if she had guts, and now she was forced to admit she didn’t have as many as she’d hoped. Her hands trembled as she cupped her elbows. It didn’t take long.

“Are you all right, miss?”

This was it. She had no trouble recognizing the voice from her brother’s tape. Gillian turned around, hoping her overbright eyes and unsteady voice would be taken as indignation. “Yes, thank you.”

He was dark and not much taller than herself, with olive skin and a surprisingly kind face. She forced herself to smile. “I’m afraid my companion wasn’t as interested in Mayan architecture as he pretended.”

“Perhaps I could offer you a ride back.”

“No, that’s kind of you, but—” She broke off when she felt the prick of a knife at her side, just above her waist.

“I believe it would be for the best, Dr. Fitzpatrick.”

She didn’t have to feign terror, but even as her mind threatened to freeze with it, Gillian remembered her instructions. Stall. Stall as long as possible so that Trace could even the odds.

“I don’t understand.”

“It will all be explained. Your brother sends his best.”

“Flynn.” Regardless of the knife, Gillian reached out and grabbed the man’s shirt. “You have Flynn and Caitlin. Tell me if they’re all right. Please.”

“Your brother and niece are in good health and will remain so as long as we have cooperation.” He put his left arm around her shoulders and began to walk.

“I’ll give you whatever you want if you promise not to hurt them. I have some money. How much—?”

“We’re not interested in money.” The knife urged her forward. However kind his face had been, the hand on the knife was merciless. “There is a matter of the missing experiments and the notes.”

“I’ll give them to you. I have them right here.” She gripped the strap of her bag. “Please don’t hurt me or my family.”

“It’s to your advantage that you are more easily persuaded than your brother.”

“Where is Flynn? Please, tell me where you’re holding him.”

“You’ll be with him soon enough.”

Trace found the second man behind the Governor’s Palace. He strolled by, clicking his camera, then pressed the man’s face into one of the twenty thousand intricately carved stones.

“Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?” He had his hand around the man’s neck in what would look like a brotherly embrace. They both knew it would take only a jerk to break bone. “If you want to keep the use of your right arm, don’t look around. Let’s make this quick while we’ve got some privacy. Where are you holding Flynn Fitzpatrick?”

“I don’t know a Flynn Fitzpatrick.”

Trace hitched the man’s arm up another quarter inch. He could hear bone grinding against bone. “You’re wasting my time.” After a quick look around, Trace pulled out his hunting knife and placed the blade where ear
met skull. “Ever heard of van Gogh? It only takes a few seconds to remove an ear. It won’t kill you—unless you bleed to death. Now, once more—Flynn Fitzpatrick.”

“We weren’t told where he was taken.” The blade nipped into flesh. “I swear it! Our instructions were to take him and the girl to the airport and turn them over. We were sent back for the woman, his sister.”

“And your instructions for her?”

“A private plane at the airport in Cancun. We were not told of the final destination.”

“Who killed Forrester?”

“Abdul.”

Because time was pressing, Trace had to forgo the pleasure of making the man suffer. “Go to sleep,” he said simply, and rammed the man’s head into the stone.

Where was Trace? Gillian thought as she approached a small white compact. If he didn’t come soon, she and the altered notes would be on their way to … She didn’t even know where.

“Please, tell me where you’re taking me.” She stumbled, and the knife slashed through the cotton of her blouse to flesh. “I feel faint. I need a moment.” When she leaned heavily against the hood of the car, the man relaxed enough to draw the knife away from her side.

“You can rest in the car.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

He made a sound of disgust and pulled her upright by the hair. Trace’s fist sent him reeling back three feet. “She may be a bit of a bitch,” he said mildly, “but I can’t stand to see a woman manhandled. Look, honey, I just wanted to get you naked. No rough stuff.”

Gillian let the bag slip out of her hands and fled.

“That’s a woman for you. No appreciation.” Trace shot the man, whose mouth was spurting blood, a grin. “Better luck next time.”

The man swore. Trace knew enough Arabic to catch the drift. When a knife was drawn, he was ready. He wanted badly to pull out his own, to go head-to-head with this man he knew had killed his closest friend. But it
wasn’t the time, and it wasn’t the place. He wanted not only the instrument, but also the man who’d given the order. Keeping his gaze locked on the blade, Trace lifted both hands and backed off.

“Listen, you want her that bad, she’s all yours. One woman’s the same as another as far as I’m concerned.” When the man spit at his feet, Trace bent down as if to wipe off his shoe. He came up with a nickel-plated .45 automatic. “Abdul, isn’t it?” The half-amused light in his eyes had become deadly. “I’ve already taken care of your two friends. The only reason I’m not going to put a hole in your head is that I want you to take a message to your boss. Tell him Il Gatto’s going to pay him a visit.” Trace saw the quick widening of the dark eyes and grinned. “You recognize the name. That’s good. Because I want you to know who kills you. Deliver the message, Abdul, and put your affairs in order. You don’t have very long.”

Abdul still had the knife in his hand, but he was aware that a bullet was faster than a blade. He was also aware that Il Gatto was quicker than most. “Il Gatto’s luck will run out, the same as his master’s.”