Silent Cymbals

by Lakes, Lynde

  “If I leave with you,” Rusti said, pretending she had a choice, “I need to go home and pack.”

  “That’s all been handled.”

  “Handled?” She didn’t want anyone handling her things.

  “Yes, ma’am. A female agent packed a bag for you. It’ll be on board when we get there.”

  Rusti took a closer look at Gallagher. He had kind gray eyes. “You don’t understand. I left things at the hotel. So did Razor.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Agent Sanders packed everything. It’s a long flight, but there’s a compartment on the plane where you can rest. Buck’s orders are to see that you have everything you need.”

  “Everything I need?” Anger shot through her. “I need Razor’s arms around me. That’s what I need. Can you provide that?”

  An uncomfortable silence vibrated between them. She reached past Gallagher and cracked the window open a couple of inches. The cool late afternoon wind whipped her hair into her face. Her eyes burned. She wanted to be alone to mourn her loss in private. But if the Fed’s were shipping Razor’s body to Langley, she would go to Langley.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The FBI agents whisked Rusti to a private airport and into a twin-engine jet. “Is Razor’s body on board?” she asked, the words turning to ash in her mouth.

  “Like I told you,” Gallagher said, “we’re not privy to that information.”

  How many times would she have to hear that phrase? Fighting tears, she located the sleeping compartment and locked herself in. Her purse was there, the purse Zena and Bob had taken from her. Two bags sat next to a bunk, the one from the hotel and another she didn’t recognize. Inside were three complete outfits from her closet at home, along with shoes and miscellaneous accessories. Her toilet articles from the hotel room were in a separate bag.

  If only she had gone to the hotel herself, she might have found something of Razor’s to cling to. A strangled sob escaped her throat and she hurled herself onto the bunk and grabbed a pillow to her breast, wishing it were Razor. Tears flowed, hot and salty down her cheeks, soaking the pillow. Razor was lost to her, but so much of him still lived in her heart. No one could take her memories from her. She lay back. Her tears subsided as she recalled the hours they’d spent together. So short a span of days, yet the intensity of the intimacy between them had made it seem as though they’d spent months together.

  Rusti started at a light tap at the door. “Go away,” she called.

  “I’m a friend of René’s. Please let me in.”

  René’s friend? Rusti got up and opened the door.

  A blonde young woman about her own age smiled at her. “How incredibly alike you are,” she said. “I’d know you anywhere.” She paused a moment, then held out her hand. “I’m Agent Laurie Sanders. René and I were best friends.”

  Rusti took Laurie’s hand in hers, instantly feeling a warm connection to her twin’s best friend. “There’s so much I’d like to ask you about her, but right now—”

  “I understand.” Laurie’s eyes glistened with compassion.

  Rusti hesitated, then stepped aside so Laurie could enter. “I’m just so totally…”

  “I know. You must be devastated. First René and now Marc Devaux. I heard that he, that you…well, that he was in love with you.” She pointed to the suitcase from the hotel. “Why don’t you open that?”

  Rusti opened the suitcase. Marc’s sweater lay on top. “Oh, I see.” She pulled it out, eased it on and drew it tight around her, inhaling his scent, imagining his warmth. “Thanks,” she said past the lump in her throat. “I was wishing I had something of his before you came in. Are you sure you’re a federal agent? You seem more like an angel.”

  Laurie gave a sad smile. “René was the angel. Maybe she sent me.”

  Rusti would like to believe that. “I haven’t talked to another woman since—” She broke off, not wanting to relive the other tragedies. “Marc’s presence was so overpowering that I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed the company of women.”

  Laurie reached out and lightly touched Rusti’s cheek, her fingers felt cool and soothing. “Well, now you have me.”

  It comforted Rusti to find that she had an ally on board, and she rewarded Laurie with a small smile. “The other agents couldn’t tell me if Marc’s body is on this plane. Do you know?”

  “It’s not. I think he’s being flown to Langley later tonight or tomorrow.”

  Rusti sighed. “Everything happened so fast we didn’t get to say goodbye. Being close to him—”

  Unable to finish, she pulled Marc’s sweater tighter around her. She would never again feel his strong arms around her, never see those blue eyes teasing and seducing her. Why hadn’t she known until now that she would rather live on the edge of uncertainty with him than have all the security in the world without him? Warm air from the climate vent tousled the back of her hair. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine it was Marc’s breath feathering against it. She felt Laurie’s gaze and opened her eyes. “Did you know Marc well?”

  “No. But René spoke highly of him.”

  Rusti punched the pillow she was holding. “He lived his undercover role to the hilt, right to the end. I wasn’t sure if Marc was Marc or that gangster Razor. If I had him here right now, I’d strangle him.” If she could stay angry, she might get through this. “It’s ironic how the same unselfish, courageous qualities that made me love Marc are the very qualities that took him from me.” When she felt Laurie’s arms close around her, Rusti leaned against her and they held each other. “It’s all been too much. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

  “You’ll never forget. But you will get over it. I promise.” Rusti was so exhausted she almost believed her. She leaned back into the pillow. Laurie drew a blanket over her. “Get some sleep. I’ll be right here if you want anything.”

  If she wanted anything. She wanted to understand. To make sense of all this. If only Razor…Marc…hadn’t leapt in front of that bullet.

  If she could have him back, she would put her fears aside. It wouldn’t matter that they lived in different worlds. It seemed to Rusti there was a level of pain so deep that nothing could touch it. A level of pain she would have to learn to live with.

  It was dark and cold when Rusti and her three escorts pulled up to Buck Williams’ ranch near Langley. Once she entered the den, her escorts disappeared, leaving her to face their chief alone. The silver-haired, solidly built man behind the walnut desk glanced up from what he was writing. Although Rusti had never met Buck, he looked just as she’d imagined. His eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost. He stood and came to her, hugging her as though he never wanted to let go. “You look just like her,” he said in a ragged voice.

  She’d expected condolences about Marc, but instead, Buck was so visibly shaken at the sight of her she hardly knew how to react.

  “I loved her,” he said huskily. “I hadn’t seen her since last spring—since just before you found each other again. We were to be married after this assignment.”

  Rusti was too numb to be shocked by his confession, although it was something she hadn’t even imagined—how strange that both she and the chief had lost their loves in this hellish FBI drama, that they shared this grief in common.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling back and looking at her. “It’s such a shock. I heard you were identical, but seeing you in the flesh brought René back to me for a few moments.” He gestured to a leather chair. “Please, sit down, Rusti.”

  The chair swallowed Rusti. Silence swirled around her. Buck sat on the edge of his desk, staring at her, multiplying her unease. She sensed that his thoughts were on René. No one knew better than she how a loved one can take over one’s thoughts, one’s whole being.

  “When can I see Marc?”

  Buck jerked back; his face went pale. “See Marc?

  “When does his body arrive? We didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. Detective Baxter wouldn’t let me spend any time with him
.” Surely Buck could understand how she felt. He hadn’t said goodbye to René either. “When is the funeral?”

  He looked at her for a long moment as though measuring her. “We’ll talk all that over later. You must be tired.” He reached over his desk and pressed a button on an intercom. “Ms. Collins would like to go to her room now,” he told someone.

  “No, Ms. Collins wouldn’t,” Rusti said. “I’d like to know what’s going on here.”

  He hesitated, frowning. “Going on?”

  “Have arrangements been made?”

  “Arrangements. Ah, I see what you mean. Marc requested cremation.” He sighed heavily. “The thing is, this is rather delicate, Rusti. You remember how it was with René. You simply buried her. Other than a select few, no one knew she was an agent. And in this case it was Razor Jones who died. So you see—”

  “No, I don’t see. When I think about what they both gave to your cause, it just makes—”

  “Rusti, we can’t. Not until this thing in L.A. is laid to rest. Terrilla has outside contacts. If he thought Razor Jones—Well, let’s put it this way. If he thought there was any question about Razor Jones’ loyalty, he would take revenge by having someone snuff you out in a New York minute. That’s why I brought you here. To keep you safe until we’re sure how things are going to fall out in L.A.” He looked suddenly older. And very tired.

  Rusti felt just as weary, and terribly let down. She rose from her chair as a uniformed maid entered. Buck held up a hand to forestall her.

  “I’m sorry we got you into this,” he said. “Clearing the danger will take some time, but we’ll get you out of it. I swear that on René’s memory. You’ll have to trust me.” Had he said the same empty words to René? He handed Rusti the yellow legal tablet he’d been writing on when she came in. He had been composing Razor Jones’ obituary. It was addressed to the obituary editor at the Los Angeles Times. Robert Leroy Jones’ cremated remains were to be returned to his place of birth as per his request. A brass urn had been donated by a local friend.

  Tears welled in Rusti’s eyes. “Will the urn be brought here?”

  Buck nodded, but he didn’t meet her gaze.

  Rusti’s throat tightened; she couldn’t talk about this anymore. “Good night, Buck,” she managed to say, as she allowed the maid to lead her away. She would sort it all out later. Right now she was too tired to untangle the inconsistencies.

  Rusti followed the maid up the spiraling staircase, feeling so very alone in this big house with its country furnishings and efficient, self-composed servant. Her meeting with Buck hadn’t gone anything like she’d envisioned. She’d needed and expected to be comforted, and he hadn’t even mentioned Marc until she forced it on him. She’d thought the two men enjoyed a close relationship. There was a lot he wasn’t telling her. Evasiveness was probably normal conduct for a chief of undercover operations, but it didn’t cut it with her. Not with Marc involved.

  A fire danced in the bedroom’s fireplace, warming the room but not her heart. The large beechwood bed was covered with a gray Indian design spread. She would be alone in that big bed, in any bed, for the rest of her life. Her suitcase was open on the cedar chest at the foot.

  “Shall I unpack for you, Miss?” the maid asked, turning down the bed. When Rusti said no, the woman pointed out a pitcher of hot chocolate and a basket of scones on the small table by the fire. “If you require anything else, Miss, just press this button.”

  No one could give her what she required. Wishing she could feel the warmth of Marc’s embrace just once more, Rusti slowly undressed down to her slip. Then, as her thoughts shifted to their last minutes together, when the bullet ripped through him, the effort of undressing became too much of a chore and she lay down on the bed and sobbed into the pillow. How could there be any tears left? She wanted to sleep, to close out the pain, but sleep was slow to come. She’d never felt so alone, so abandoned.

  Where was Laurie, René’s friend, now? Rusti wondered. Maybe she would see her tomorrow. For tonight, she would have to be satisfied with the warming effects of the fire for comfort. It reminded her of Marc making love to her in the cabin at Big Bear. They’d been interrupted, but they made up for it that night on the boat. She would always have her memories, for what little consolation they gave her.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chief Buck Williams answered his phone on the second ring. Marc Devaux, alias Razor Jones, could tell by the tension in Buck’s voice that he’d been waiting for the call. Only Buck and Baxter—and the sharpshooter who took him down with a rubber bullet—knew he was alive. “Is Rusti all right?” Marc asked.

  “She’s here, upstairs,” Buck said. “Safe and sound. When you land, my driver will pick you up and take you straight to a cabin about a mile from my ranch house. We have to keep you out of sight. Call me when you arrive—I’ll meet you there. What’s your ETA?”

  “Around 1:30 A.M.” Marc paused. What a fool he’d been to refuse Rusti the last time they were together at the hotel. Her inviting signals had shot through him like bolts of lightning. But he’d done what he was ordered to do. “I wish—”

  “I know what you wish. It has to be this way.”

  “If you could’ve seen her, Buck. My God! Putting her through this is nothing short of criminal. Last year she lost her fiancé. Then within weeks, she lost three more people she cared about. It’s just too much for—”

  “I know what you’re thinking and the answer is no,” Buck said, his voice a rough growl. “You’re dead, and you’re going to stay—”

  “Razor Jones is dead! Not me!”

  “We talked this out,” Buck said. “You agreed. The sting went down according to plan, and we can’t change the rules in the wrap-up. Is that understood?” Buck’s voice deepened with heightened impatience.

  “It’s understood, but—”

  “No buts. She’s safe. That’s the bottom line.” Buck paused and softened his tone. “She’ll be okay.”

  “You better be right.” Marc couldn’t bear to think how he’d feel if the situation were reversed. If only he could get his mind off the way she had bent over him, sobbing. They’d had to be sure her tears and sorrow were real. And they were, dear God, they were heart-wrenchingly real. How had he managed to go through with such a cruel deception?

  He should have called it off. But he’d actually believed he was impervious to ordinary human emotions. He was wrong. It was just that he’d pushed his feeling so deep it took a Rusti Collins to dig them out. Would he be able to go numb again? That’s what it would take to put her out of his mind.

  ****

  Razor, now once again Marc, arrived in Langley by private jet right on schedule, and as Buck promised, a limo was waiting to whisk him into the misty night. He appreciated that the driver wasn’t a talkative fellow because he needed the quiet time to think.

  The impact of Razor Jones’ death was sinking in with sickening clarity. Everything that had happened in California had died with him—meeting Rusti—falling for her. But dammit, he wasn’t Razor!

  Memories of Rusti’s sobs were tearing the guts out of him. He’d wanted to rise up, take her in his arms and crush her to him, tell her it was all just part of the plan. If he’d known—if he’d had any idea how much she loved him…

  She’d lost so many people in the last few days—Damn! That thought was so persistent it brought on a sense of foreboding so strong he couldn’t ignore it. He was confident her extraordinary grit would carry her through, but she would still need all the help she could get. Buck would have his head on a chop block for what he was about to do, but he needed to see for himself that she was all right.

  When the driver came to the turnoff for the cabin, Marc said, “Just keep going, Buddy. I need to go to the ranch first.”

  “Can’t do that, sir. I have my orders.” Marc knew by the guy’s posture and the way he handled himself that he wasn’t a Fed. He hated to take advantage of a hired driver, but—

  “This gun a
t your head says those orders just changed,” Marc said quietly. “Pull over, get out and don’t look at me.”

  “You’re the boss,” the driver said, doing as he asked. Marc slid behind the wheel. “Sorry about this inconvenience, Buddy. The car’ll be waiting for you at the ranch.” Then Marc drove away, leaving the driver standing on the dirt road, shaking his fist at the taillights.

  ****

  Minutes later, Marc strode into Buck’s den geared up for a fight.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Buck growled.

  “I need to see her!” Marc said, his voice steely. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I told you, we’re on top of it. I’m not going to let René’s sister down, Marc. You should know that.”

  What he knew was that Buck was counting on him for that undercover job in Corpus Christi. But none of that was important now. Buck would have to understand that although Razor Jones was dead, Marc Devaux was more alive than ever.

  His throat tightened. Dammit, he couldn’t imagine life without Rusti. She was everything he wanted, gutsy, sensuous, smart. Their lovemaking had kindled a fire that burned away his defenses. He should have known that he could never walk away from her. And now Marc Devaux would need to transfer to a job that wasn’t a widow-maker. He could never put Rusti through something like this again. He wished with all his heart she could’ve been in on this final ruse. She was going to be furious. Would she forgive him?

  Razor took a deep fortifying breath. “I’ve decided to throw in the towel. I can’t let her go on believing I’m dead. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  ****

  Rusti thought she heard men’s voices and sat up. Had she dozed off? Someone had been in the room and turned down the lamp, stirred the fire. They were taking care of her, for René, for Marc. Buck said to trust him, and she would. She didn’t have the emotional strength now to take care of herself. The voices grew louder. Then the arguing stopped, and someone tapped on the bedroom door. A pink silk robe lay across the foot of the bed. She slipped into it. “Just a minute,” she said, heading for the door.