Hidden Sins

by Selena Montgomery

  “You idiot.” The insult was mild, a stark contrast to the furiously hooded brows that seemed to measure Rabbe for his shroud. “I told you Stuart was conducting research for me. That he was a forensic anthropologist.”

  Unable to discern why a dead man’s job mattered, Rabbe decided to play along. “Sure. He was a doctor of some kind.”

  “He studied dead bodies, fool. Skeletons. The kind you could plant in a room when you decide to set fire to a warehouse and fake your own death.” If he hadn’t been so livid, Conroy would have chuckled at the ingenuity. What better way to buy time to hunt for his money than to convince everyone that you were dead?

  “But, boss, we were watching the building. Ain’t no way in or out except through the loading dock in the alley.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Shit, he had been until Conroy asked the question. “We haven’t seen anyone enter or leave any other way,” he defended.

  “You wouldn’t, if they were using another exit.” Agitated now, Conroy seized the telephone that rested near his elbow. When the call connected, he instructed tersely, “Bring me the blueprints for the warehouse we purchased in Kiev, Texas.”

  Seconds later a pallid, anxious man hovered in the doorway, red hair receding almost by the minute. “Here, sir. Anything else, sir?” Setting the roll onto the desk, he tripped his way to the door. Summonses from Conroy often led to menacing instructions and the vague, undeniable threat of his untimely death. He danced nervously, wondering what mistake he may have made today. The miniature steno pad that he habitually carried was creased from his hand-wringing. The pencil tucked behind his ear bobbled. “Did I do something wrong, sir?”

  “Shut up, Nigel.” The growl caused both employees to inch farther away. Conroy didn’t notice, his attention glued on the tracery of white lines across the expanse of blue. The Chi Development warehouse had been purchased at his instructions, based on Dr. Stuart’s needs. A working space with coolers and room for laboratory equipment. A loft area for living and recording the doctor’s findings. The former brewery had been a terrific find, cheap and easily purchased. At the time, he had no reason to be concerned about exits and entries, before he learned of the connection between Stuart and Mara.

  Tracking a shaded area in the warehouse, Conroy found what he feared. His fingers curled into a fist and he said, “Nigel, come here.”

  At his approach, Conroy stabbed the page. “What is this?” Willing himself to calm, to think, he resisted the primal urge to throttle the insipid clerk who managed his accounts. Nigel’s only saving grace was a genius for numbers and a preternatural ability to avoid taxation.

  Peering down through trifocals that slid precipitously toward the end of his beaked nose, Nigel hazarded, “A tunnel of some sort?”

  “A tunnel. Yes. A goddamned secret tunnel that seems to lead out and up to the street.” Conroy drew along the tunnel and up to the higher elevation map. “Join us, Arthur.”

  Rabbe, who had sidled to the doorway, cursed beneath his breath. He returned to the desk. “Sir?”

  “Call Guffin. Tell him to go inside the warehouse. Check the cold storage area for a tunnel of some sort. See where it leads.”

  “You think they got out?” Rabbe muttered the question, but believed. Smart bitch, he wouldn’t put it past her.

  “I’m sure of it.” Settling in, Conroy pondered their move. He ignored Nigel and focused his attention on Rabbe. So far the man had proven a dismal failure, and because Seth had vouched for him, both would suffer the consequences. But it was too late to bring in a new team. Rabbe had blood lust driving him, a primitive, powerful force. Like a dog, if he could scent the trail, Rabbe would fall on Mara Reed quickly enough.

  “Ms. Reed and Dr. Stuart are probably in the area. Send out feelers looking for them.” Conroy reached into a drawer and removed a file. STUART, ETHAN had been typed across in bold black letters. He read through the pages, and finding what he wanted, he nodded. “Nigel, call our friend at the Texas Rangers. Have him put out an APB on Dr. Stuart’s mint-green ’sixty-seven Plymouth convertible.”

  “Radius, sir?”

  From his father’s stories, he knew they’d each traveled from Austin to hide the keys. The one he possessed had been found in Round Rock, less than fifteen miles from Austin. Not surprising, Conroy acknowledged, given the fact that his father had been a lazy son of a bitch. The more enterprising members of Reed’s troupe had traveled farther, he imagined. But they would have moved by horse or estimably slower motor transport. “A radius of 150 miles. But tell them not to stop the car, just report back to you.”

  Swiveling in his prized chair, the leather a product of his own hands, he offered the muted warning to the man awaiting dismissal. “Stay in contact with Nigel. When he’s found the car, you need to track them closely. Don’t let them know you’re there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Arthur, this is your last chance. Very last one. See that you succeed, all right?”

  Chapter 19

  The throbbing hum of the motor and the rhythmic slap of air against the windshield. A bluesy number soaring through the speakers, a quixotic rumination on love and loss. Grateful for the breaks in the awkward silence, Ethan drove the convertible at a steady pace, skimming below the speed limit. He longed to open the engine up, to blast down the empty highway, but caution reigned.

  The same caution that held him silent.

  The trio in the car had a million things to talk about, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything to say. He’d explained and apologized several times already that morning. After a while the most sincere contrition seemed trite.

  Instead of repeating himself, he twisted the knob and music poured through louder. Checking his mirror, he zipped around a slow-moving RV and eased over into the right lane. Saturday morning in San Marcos yielded sparse traffic, except for the semis common to Texas. Other than the semis, an indiscriminate trail of SUVS, and the occasional family wagon, the roads were empty. He slid a glance along the front seat to verify that he still had passengers.

  Beside him, Lesley peered through half-glasses and reviewed Mara’s sheaf of notes. She handily balanced an atlas on one thigh, using Ethan’s lap for overflow space. Though she’d forgiven his romantic clumsiness, the frosty politeness that confronted him when he dared ask a question kept him quiet. Perhaps he could have struck up conversation with Mara, but he had no idea what she’d say. And for him, ignorance was bliss.

  Mara turned her face into the swift breeze whipping over the open car. She’d play the next few days out like a long con. Short-term goal—prove to Ethan and to herself that she could stick. But the big payoff, if she could pull it off, would be showing Ethan that he loved her too. That the years and the lies and people in between had never been more than an interruption. Lesley had a point. She lived in Ethan’s heart.

  She just had to show him where.

  Turning on the leather bench, she queried, “Any progress, Lesley? Poncho wasn’t one for journals or letters.”

  Lesley blew out a breath. “No, he wasn’t. According to your notes, Poncho traveled with your grandfather until they settled down at the church. And you deciphered his symbol as qoppa diagamma and lambda. Ninety-six by thirty degrees. But I’ve detected a strange symmetry in the drawing you made of what you and Ethan found on the body. The symbol of ninety-six has been drawn together and then inverted inside itself. And inside the lambda there’s a smaller letter. An n, I believe.”

  “Nu. The symbol for fifty.” Mara tapped the atlas, thinking. “That’s how we realized it wasn’t like the others. Too many numbers.”

  “Do you know anything at all about his background before he hooked up with your grandfather? Any clue at all?”

  Mara pursed her mouth thoughtfully. “My grandmother once told me that Poncho served as a scout with the army before joining up with my grandfather. He would have been very precise with his coordinates, more so because of his relationship with Micah.” S
he traced the faint lines of the map. “Is there any place of importance at 96.69 and 30.50 degrees?”

  Lesley tracked the coordinates and nodded. “Caldwell, Texas. Seventy-nine miles from Austin.”

  “A hard day’s ride, but doable.” Ethan gave the map a swift look. “What is it close to?”

  Mara scanned the tiny dots on the map. Texas was a state of hundreds of miniature towns, closed enclaves born when gold or oil or war struck. She named several that were near Caldwell. “And a place called Santa Therese.”

  Lesley’s head shot up. “There was a huge oil strike there in 1931,” she supplied with a thread of excitement. “Old army scouts often got jobs searching for new loads back then. If Poncho was good at his job, he probably would have been a natural for one of the teams.”

  “Where would you hide a brass key in an oil strike?” asked Ethan.

  “I wouldn’t,” Lesley replied. “Too many people moving around, digging for the next strike. Professionals know better, but amateur wildcatters swarm over a find and scavenge for the dregs. In the twenties, few would have had the equipment to dig carefully. If he returned to Santa Therese, he would have put it somewhere else. A place where it wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “A cemetery.” Ethan and Lesley looked to Mara, who’d murmured the idea. She spoke meditatively. “Nana said he liked cemeteries.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Lesley concurred. “Could be. Santa Therese went dry in the late 1950s. Whole town moved out. But they left their dead behind. We should give the cemetery there a try.” Beside her, she felt Mara stiffen, but she let the collective “we” linger. She might have conceded the war to the little thief, but she wasn’t convinced Mara was good for Ethan. And while she could be gracious, she wasn’t ready to assuage Mara’s sensibilities and vanish just yet.

  Ethan heard the slip too. “Lesley, have you changed—” Before he could finish, he noticed a black SUV dart out from behind the trailer and then slip out of sight. It was the third time he’d seen it peek out and hide. “Mara, check your mirror.”

  “What am I looking for?” She fixed her eyes on the glass, which was filled with the cab of the semi behind them.

  “Wait for it.” Timing his move, Ethan slowed up. The semi honked at him imperiously, annoyed. When the horn sounded again, Ethan dodged out and into the left lane. “Now.”

  Immediately, the black SUV zoomed into the passing lane behind their convertible. Ethan gunned the engine. The rev of the engine barely masked Mara’s response. “Catfish fries and toads! It’s Rabbe and Guffin.”

  “They’ve been on our trail for a while.” Ethan shifted the car into the right lane once more, giving the semi a wide berth. “I didn’t notice at first, but they kept creeping up then hanging back. Caught my attention.”

  “Nice job.” Quickly, Mara calculated their odds. The convertible was fast, but neither she nor Ethan was armed. The men chasing them definitely came with firepower. Right now, Conroy’s goons had no reason to suspect that their prey knew they were being hunted. “How far away is the airport?”

  “Five minutes out.” Following her plan, Ethan spurred the car faster. “Lead them to the airport and then sneak out?”

  “It’s our best option. They’ll track us inside, thinking we’re trying to run. With security these days, we can have the cops on them in no time.”

  “Track us?” Lesley chimed in, voice dubious. “As in, we’ll be bait?”

  “I will be.” Mara twisted in her seat to face Lesley and Ethan. “Drop me off in front of the terminal. Rabbe isn’t a fool, but he’s no genius. He’ll probably drop Guffin off and keep following you. Which means you’ll need to set Lesley out of the car too. With only two of them, they’ll have to pick a target. You’re a known quantity. She isn’t. They’ll pick you.”

  “How do you know?” Lesley folded her arms to stop the tremors of panic. She struggled to keep her voice level. “These are the same men that kidnapped you and shot you, aren’t they? Why wouldn’t he simply shoot me as collateral damage?”

  “Because if they tracked us to the caves, they believe we know where the gold is. Conroy has probably given them instructions to capture but not harm us.”

  “Probably? That’s the best you can do?”

  Mara met the doubtful look with one of morbid comprehension, wishing she could offer more. She recognized the dilated pupils, the sudden pallor brought by unwelcome glimpses of mortality.

  She’d seen the look in a dozen mirrors and learned to control the loss of color. But Lesley’s shocked concern resonated. She was frightened, and she had reason to be. Rabbe and Guffin had gotten to her twice now. Regardless of how fast she ran, how cannily she hid, they scented her. This time she had two novices whose safety depended on how slyly skilled she really was. Brand new territory. Having partners. Having other lives depend on her actions.

  Adrenaline, a shocky jolt to a system wired too tightly, careered through veins narrowed in taut reaction. Impatiently, insistently, Mara warded off the rush of nerves and tension, forcing her pulse to slow, her breath to even. She owed them a way out, and she’d find one. And honesty. “Probably. Maybe. Lesley, I can’t give you guarantees. If I were alone, I’d know what to do. But I’ve got you two to worry about.”

  “We all have our talents, Mara.” Ethan loosed his attention from the trailing SUV and shot her a steadying look. With a shrug, he pointed out wryly, “I found the bones. Lesley located the cave. Yes, you’ve found a couple of the keys, but you haven’t earned your keep yet. But this is your territory. Being smart enough to survive. To take care of the ones who depend on you. You’re the expert here, baby. You know what we need to do.”

  He believed in her, Mara realized, dazed by the easy support. She searched his words for hidden meaning, for subtle sarcasm, but could only find a trust that humbled her. Emboldened her.

  Outside the car, the airport exit sign flashed past, warning them that they only had a quarter mile left to decide on a plan. Mara raced through the options. Something Lesley had said about collateral damage. The phrase rolled in her mind, churning fast. Collateral damage.

  Then it hit her. “Ethan,” she said, speaking hurriedly, a plan forming. “I need you to miss the exit.”

  Lesley frowned. “I thought we were going to the airport. That SUV can overtake us anytime it wants.”

  “I know. And we are. Going to the airport. But first we need to buy some time.” She monitored the SUV while she explained. “Clear?”

  “The exit is coming up. Lesley, get into position.” Mara scrambled to store their notes and the atlas, securing the lot beneath the front seat. In a second everything not latched down would be airborne.

  She watched the mirror closely, muttering to herself. “Sorry, Mr. Trucker. Collateral Damage. Hope you drive good.” The exit lane veered off from the highway, and she commanded, “Now!”

  At her command, Ethan spun the car out, tires skidding wildly. In pantomime of a blowout, he shot past the exit sign and bumped the convertible onto the shoulder. The tractor trailer, with its long, silver containers, laid on the horn and attempted to screech to a halt. The canisters streamed behind him like a banner, sliding across the asphalt.

  “Look out!” Guffin yelled as the trailer swayed blindly. Unprepared for the sudden downshift in the semi’s speed, Rabbe charged into the left lane, placing the truck between the SUV and the green convertible.

  Cursing roundly, he demanded, “Did you see if they took the exit?” Without awaiting an answer, he gunned the engine and whizzed past the truck. Annoyed, the semi also picked up speed, shielding the shoulder of the road from view. “Damnit, I can’t see a goddamned thing!” He jammed the gas and, as the speedometer hit one hundred, he left the truck in his wake. “See ’em?”

  “How could I see anything? Stupid trucker nearly killed us both.” Anxiously, Guffin studied the blacktop. He couldn’t see much with the haze of oil rising in the heat obscuring all but the mirage of other vehicles. “We should go back and
check the airport, Rabbe.”

  “We’ll lose time that way. Mr. Conroy thought they’d move to another town to find the next key. That’s where we’re going.”

  “But which town?”

  “I don’t know.” Rabbe recalled with a greasy horror their employer’s icy reception an hour ago. Bastard hadn’t been happy when they explained how they found the green convertible and the occupants. “He was good and pissed that they’d been in the caves for so long before we arrived. Conroy thinks they found something.”

  “And he didn’t like us not knowing about the other woman.” Guffin had interviewed the gift shop staff. “Ms. Howard said she’s a regular. Teaches at UT with Dr. Stuart.”

  Which gave Rabbe pause. “What the hell do a geologist and a CSI guy have to do with Mr. Conroy’s fortune? And what does that skirt have in common with either of them?”

  Guffin had been puzzling over the same questions, though he hadn’t thought of Ms. Reed so crudely. “The journal you found in Detroit for Mr. Conroy. You said it was some kind of treasure map.”

  “Sort of. Notes talked about a heist back in the 1930s. Mentioned Spanish gold. Conroy gave me $50,000 to pay for it, but I got it from the owner without having to spend a nickel.” A nice profit, until the bitch stole his money. “Thought fifty large was a lot to pay for some old papers.”

  “Maybe she works for them. Got hired to steal the stuff from you.” Secretly, Guffin held back a chuckle. The thought of his misogynistic partner being taken by Mara Reed tickled the dickens out of him. Rabbe reveled too much in the torment of the fairer sex, a practice Guffin abhorred. The job might dictate a bit of harm, he acknowledged, but gratuitous violence against women turned his stomach. “Guess stealing your fifty was a bonus.”

  Snarling, Rabbe pushed the SUV above 120, swearing to catch up with the green car. Now he had three enemies—the bitch, her boyfriend, and the other bitch. Maybe he’d do them both and have the nerd boy watch. Miles flew by as he followed the winding highway.