“No, you nimrod,” Conroy snapped, “I don’t have a key. I don’t need one. Christ, I hate working with amateurs.”
“Sorry.”
“Because I am a generous man, Arthur, I will forgive your sluggish wit.” Conroy closed his eyes and leveled his breathing. The blood pulsing at his temple returned to an undetectable beat. “It seems the building in question is currently occupied by an employee of mine, a Dr. Ethan Stuart. He is working on a project for me, and should be on-site. My guess is that Dr. Stuart and Ms. Reed have a history, if he’s willing to harbor her. You and Seth should find out exactly what that history is. Today.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Conroy.”
“Do not make another move on Ms. Reed, unless she appears to be leaving town. In fact, I want you to make your presence known, but do not approach her.”
“You don’t want us to bring her to you?”
“No. I don’t.” The steepled fingers wove together and clenched. “Keep an eye on her. And don’t lose her, Arthur. If she eludes you again, I would advise you to run. Very, very fast.”
Chapter 9
Ethan slept fitfully, his dreams filled with Roaring Twenties gangster mols bearing submachine guns, stolen kisses in the midst of gunfire, and frolicking cadavers showered in gold coins. By dawn he was eager to escape his tortured imagination and face his real nightmare.
He jackknifed into a sitting position, cursing the crick in his neck and the knot in his stiff back. No surprise, he conceded sleepily, considering the narrow gurney he’d converted into an awkward bed. A week of sleeping among the dead had him feeling their pain. Resignedly, he rubbed at swollen eyes and swung cramped legs over the side. Yet another perk of having Mara reenter his life.
After studying his feet for a moment, Ethan blinked at the murky sunlight filtered through the high slats of window near the ceiling. Lesley would arrive around six P.M., which left him only hours to come up with a plausible explanation for his ex-lover’s presence, the charming police escort that would meet her at the airport, and the gunmen lurking out by the trash.
The thought nearly had him lying down again. But he was no coward, Ethan chided himself. If his world planned to collapse around him today, he’d be right in the thick of it. With a sigh, he swiftly sifted through the options. Sending Mara along with Linda made the most sense. The police could better protect her from Rabbe and would ensure that he and Lesley would be left in peace. The downside was that the only living clue he had to the treasure would leave with her.
The next best option was cooperation. Find out what Mara knew about her grandfather’s heist and compare her information to his own. Ethan rolled his neck to ease the tension. He’d get the information, but he’d have to harbor Mara and entertain Lesley at the same time.
Well, he thought fatalistically, sailors had the devil and the deep blue sea. He merely had to contend with two beautiful women, each with her own special reason to hate him. Cheered by the dismal thought, Ethan trudged up the stairs.
Since Mara rarely surfaced without help, and never before nine, his first act of the day would be blasting her out of bed. As he ticked through his morning itinerary, the furrow in his brow grew deeper. Fifteen minutes of cajoling Mara to wakefulness, another ten arguing over who got the bathroom first. Then the inevitable fight over their next move. Pausing at the studio door, he kneaded the tense muscles in his neck. Perhaps Daniel was better off. Ethan ducked his head, and in a warning shot, tapped on the studio door and opened the door.
“Wake up, M—” Ethan froze in his tracks, then rubbed his eyes again. “Mara? What the hell happened here?”
“Good morning. Thought you’d be up soon. Breakfast is almost ready,” she chirped from the kitchen, fully dressed and draped in a makeshift apron that closely resembled one of his lab smocks. “I don’t remember. Do you like your eggs scrambled or over easy?”
“Scrambled,” Ethan answered automatically. “You cook?”
“On occasion.” She began to whisk eggs into the bowl with a competent hand. “Why don’t you go wash up while I finish?”
“Am I awake?”
“Funny boy. Go get dressed.”
Dazed, he rummaged through his closet for clothes and stumbled into the bathroom. To shock himself out of the obvious hallucination he was having, Ethan twisted the taps in the shower into full cold and stepped inside. The frigid blast forced a string of ribald curses, and accepting that he’d actually just witnessed Mara Reed making him breakfast, he adjusted the temperature and quickly showered.
When he emerged fifteen minutes later she waved him to a seat at the island, where she’d set out plates and utensils. And napkins. He didn’t realize he had napkins.
“Made pancakes. I love syrup.” With an expert flick of the wrist, Mara turned the browning disk in the air and caught it on the griddle easily. She caught Ethan’s stupefied look and explained, “Waitressed at a dive in Tuscon when I first left Kiev. You should see what I can do with a pizza crust.” Transferring the pancakes to a platter, she asked, “Could you grab the juice from the refrigerator?”
“Sure.” Ethan retrieved the carton and brought it to the counter. With a soft voice, attempting not to spook her, he inquired gently, “Did you get into the medicine cabinet, Mara? Some of those pills aren’t for human consumption.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Definitely not dreaming.” He sat, watching her for signs of a trick. But all he saw was genuine pleasure. “Are you okay, Mara? Seriously.”
“I’m fine. You’ve seen me happy before,” she scolded, carrying a platter covered with pancakes, bacon, and eggs to the counter. “And you’ve seen me cook.”
Ethan nodded. Suddenly starved, he heaped his plate with food. “But I’ve never seen you willingly wake up on the correct side of dawn before. Usually, you’re surly and nasty this early in the morning.” He shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “These are good.”
“Thanks.” Mara poured juice into glasses. “Try the pancakes. You had some pecans in the cupboard. I hope you don’t mind.”
Shaking his head, he cut into the steaming golden pile that he’d slathered with butter. When the first forkful hit his tongue, he moaned in ecstasy. “Why have we been eating soup all week if you can cook like this?”
“I don’t think you trusted me around your knives.”
“Touché.” Ethan smiled good-naturedly. “However, for the record,” he added, jabbing the air with his empty fork, “I would have risked it if I’d known you could do this with flour.” Flashing a contented grin, he tucked into his meal. Maybe the devil was on holiday. After all, he’d been expecting a row over his edict that she stay inside, not a home-cooked meal and enjoyable company. The fatigue that had trailed him upstairs evaporated, and he reached for the mug of coffee she’d set by his glass. “Thanks, Mara. Really.”
“You’re welcome.” She speared her eggs and chewed slowly. Swallowing, she said, “I’ve changed a lot, Ethan. More than you’d imagine.”
“Twelve years is a long time, and I have a fairly healthy imagination.” Sensing a truce, he asked, “What else has changed? I noticed you cut your hair.”
Mara lifted a hand to the short bob of curls. “This is easier to manage. In my line of work, keeping salon appointments can be difficult.”
“I guess.” Ethan thought of her narrow escape yesterday. “Why do you do it, Mara? You’re smart, talented. Resourceful. Why not do something else?”
“What else? I don’t exactly have résumé skills. Short order cook. Computer hacker. Recovery specialist.”
“Recovery specialist? Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.” Mara refilled his cup to distract them both. Sebastian wouldn’t take too well to her use of the phrase in polite company. “It’s a family trait, Ethan. My grandfather was a train robber. My dad conned fragile souls out of their hard-earned paychecks. Even my mother did a stint as his evangelical sidekick before she ran off. Other than my grandmother,
I haven’t exactly had counterexamples to follow.”
“That’s bullshit. We grew up in the same town, Mara. Same lives. I didn’t become a crook. I worked hard. Honestly.”
“There isn’t a dishonest bone in your body, Ethan. Besides, you were always destined for something better. Teachers knew it. Our classmates knew it. Even my father could see the potential. All you had to do was get away from here.”
“I would have taken you with me.” The words slipped out and hung between them. Too late to take them back, Ethan thought. Might as well finish it. “I thought we were leaving Kiev together. You and me against the big, bad world. We had plans, you and I. Real ones.”
Mara stirred sugar into her coffee, thinking about the nights they’d plotted their escape. Ethan had been so certain hope lay around the bend or in the next town over. One of the many qualities she had adored in him was his sense of purpose. Of destiny. With Ethan, she could believe she’d been meant for more. For better. They would make love and fantasize the world they’d create together, and she had to believe.
The trouble came when she had to leave his arms and return to the real world. Try as he might, Ethan never understood the difference. “We had pipe dreams, love. I could sketch pictures, but I was never going to be a famous artist.”
“Maybe not,” Ethan protested, “but you had—have—other talents.” As Mara pursed her lips in denial, he thought of other, heated expertise she possessed. Caught up in his imaginings, their fingers touched as they simultaneously reached for the cream. At the point of blistering contact, both snatched their hands away. “You could have become anything.”
“My grades weren’t going to get me a scholarship, and we both knew it. Only one of us was going to college, and the day your letter came—” She stopped, caught.
Ethan stared at her, stunned. “You read my acceptance letter?” One of his deepest regrets had been that she left before seeing their dreams come to fruition. But to hear that she’d known and left nevertheless was a fresh blow. “The night you left me.”
Mara watched camaraderie fade into a flat, black look that had her searching for excuses, but none occurred. Nothing would suffice except for the truth, and she couldn’t offer him that. “It came that afternoon. The envelope was pretty thick, Ethan. I knew what it meant.”
“That you and I could leave town. Together. Like we’d planned.” He pushed his plate away, his appetite gone.
“Your plans, Ethan.” Mara thrust away from the table. “I didn’t apply to college. If I’d come to Austin, I would have been dependent on you. That wasn’t what I wanted.” To become another anchor on his dreams had been unthinkable. Unbearable. Especially that night.
“We were a team. You and me against damned near everything else.”
“But who was going to protect you from me?” Mara burst out. She lifted her hands in mute entreaty. “You were so smart, so kind. Like some fairy-tale knight. Mean kids, nasty teachers, my ogre of a father. Ethan would fight every battle for me. And I let you. I allowed you to take care of me, and you never once asked for anything from me in return. Not even my love.”
“Would asking have made a difference?”
“I don’t know.” She paced away from the kitchen over to the window. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she watched a flight of swallows winging north from the coast. The flock soared high, arrow-straight. Together. “Besides, you shouldn’t have had to ask.”
“That doesn’t make sense. You left because I didn’t beg you to love me?”
“No. Because you would have stayed whether I loved you or not.” Mara shivered in the warm room, and Ethan joined her at the window.
“I deserved to make my own choice, Mara.”
“Well, it’s too late now.” She shifted incrementally, leaving a gulf wide between them. Unwilling to look at him, she watched the sidewalk below. And hastily stumbled back, grabbing at Ethan’s arm.
“What are you doing?” he demanded as he staggered into her. Quickly, he caught her up to steady them both. She splayed her hands flat against the solid muscle of his chest, tempted to curl her hands and hang on. Instead, she wriggled away, but he simply shifted his grasp to her elbows.
“Down there. I saw Rabbe and Guffin. They’re standing in front of the building.”
“Oh.” Ethan relaxed his hold reluctantly and returned to the window.
Mara gasped and seized ahold of his shirt. “What are you doing? I just told you who’s down there.”
“And I want to see the men who are holding me hostage. Plus, the window is tinted from the outside. They can’t see us.” Ethan pressed against the tall pane and studied the men. “The one in the black suit?”
Relaxing slightly, but still on edge, Mara sidled up to him. “That’s Guffin. He likes to dress like a Gambino. Thinks it makes him look professional.”
“Nice suit.” He cocked his head to focus on a smaller man wearing what he knew to be Armani. “That one’s better.”
“Arthur Rabbe. He considers himself a ladies’ man. Makes a decent living running card scams in Detroit, Chicago, and Milwaukee. Businessmen who want a pretty lady on their arms and a stack of chips on the table. Rabbe supplies both and leaves with their cash.”
As they watched, Rabbe motioned to Guffin, who waved his arms in the universal signal for do it yourself; however, Rabbe did not appear to concur. He latched onto Guffin’s collar and jerked the big man down to put them at eye level. Soon Guffin was nodding quickly, and Rabbe released him.
“Can you figure out what’s going on?” Ethan asked softly, as though they could be heard on the street below. “What’s he saying?”
“I don’t read lips, Ethan.” She spoke sharply, frightened by the reminder of how she’d led the killers to him, then softened her tone. “But given the direction they’re headed in, I’d say Rabbe wants to do some recon. Guffin doesn’t want to desert his post, but Rabbe’s in charge.” She pointed to the ominous black SUV parked across the street. “Look, they’re heading for the truck. That means we’ve got some time.” The idea she’d mulled over since their encounter last night hardened into a plan. Neither she nor Ethan had enough information to lead them to the gold, and what she’d seen in his laboratory indicated that she might know more than she thought. Resolved, she tugged on Ethan’s elbow. “Let’s go.”
Ethan resisted, his head still spinning from her earlier revelations and his first sighting of the men who wanted Mara dead. He looked at her when she yanked at his arm a second time. “Go where?”
“To the one place that may have some answers.”
Faded yellow clapboard clung to the frame of the ramshackle ranch house, its paint peeled and chipped. Weeds had run amuck across the almost barren yard, and wiry chickens pecked at the green sprouts that dotted the ground. Mara waited for a wave of sorrow or disgust, some remnant of feeling for what had been her home.
She felt nothing.
The windows were thick with a coating of cobwebs and dust, mottled and graying. Screens lurched from their moorings, and doors hung loosely on rusted hinges. In the distance, bulldozers stood idle. Beyond their shovels, mounds of loamy black soil had been piled high.
Mara opened the car door, wincing as the heat surged inside. “Are those from the construction company? Chi Development?”
“Yes.” Ethan watched her, her profile haunted and lovely. He waited for some sign that she needed comfort or to escape. But she merely lifted her jaw, as she had a million times in their past. The finely sculpted chin would angle in second, he thought, indicating that she was ready for battle. Whether she knew whom she was fighting or not.
“Are they digging over here?”
“Not yet. They don’t have permission to dig on your father’s property. Apparently, the rightful heir hasn’t responded to their queries.”
“Dad passed away six years ago. I didn’t bother to come home for the funeral. The court sent me some papers, but I didn’t read them.” He didn’t need to know that she’d l
earned about her grandmother’s failing health from a court clerk. He thought poorly of her as it was. No need to give him any more ammunition. “I couldn’t care less about this place.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“I don’t need your approval, Ethan.” Mara swept her arm wide. “But out of curiosity, how much would it cost to sell off the last of my family’s lovely mark on this earth?”
Hearing what sounded like sorrow beneath the bluster, Ethan bit off his retort. Instead, he watched her closely, looking for a reaction, something that showed she cared. “I don’t know. But no one would blame you if you sold out.” He alighted from the car and circled the hood to help her out. Because she seemed to need it, or because he wanted to believe she did, he draped a comforting arm across her shoulders. “We don’t have to do this now, Mara.”
“Yes, we do.” She inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of juniper and clay, the acrid smell of oil that hung over the entire town. “He was an evil man,” she offered as she walked along the cracked sidewalk. Cobblestones had long since eroded into a treacherous path that made it simpler to walk on the dirt path that ran alongside. “He was a zealot. A preacher.” She twisted the silver band she wore on her thumb. “Maybe God did tell him to do everything he did.”
“God had nothing to do with what happened to those bodies,” Ethan declared. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, he watched her closely. “Your father put those marks on dead people. Not the hand of God.”
Mara gave a short laugh. “Didn’t you know? He was the hand of God. Every time I got a beating for running around or being out too late, I became quite familiar with God’s palm print.” Unconsciously, she lifted her fingers to her cheek, rubbing at a memory. “Sometimes, the good Lord needed help.” She slipped from beneath Ethan’s arm and moved slowly to an azalea bush that held soft pink blooms. “If Daddy was feeling extra spry, I’d have to come and pick a few branches for my punishment. Pick too small, and there’d be the devil to pay.”
Hidden Sins Page 13