Angel Face

by Suzanne Forster

  Peter, the man who brought her back with a promise to rehabilitate her and give her the only thing she’d ever wanted, a normal life. He’d touched her frightened heart with his sincerity and made her believe he cared. He was friend, mentor, father figure. How she hated to believe this of him.

  And yet it was Peter who’d designed the experiment, put her in charge of it, and sent her out to do the interviews, using the excuse that they were short-staffed. Who else could have known that she was fantasizing about Alpha Ten, except possibly Sammy? Maybe they were tapping her brain. The thought made her skin crawl, although she must be too far away now for even the strongest signals to get through.

  Peter may even have known that she’d been fantasizing about Jordan Carpenter long before he was Alpha Ten in her study. That had started in her teens when she discovered him in her foster father’s medical journals. She even had a collection of articles about him. It was nothing more than an adolescent fixation, but what if Peter had used it to set up her own study subject to trap her, perhaps even to get rid of her? Was that possible? She struggled to understand it, especially since Jordan Carpenter had accused her of trying to kill him and of killing other doctors. He swore that he knew everything about her, even what she’d had to erase.

  God, what did he know? And what a twisted irony if her guardian angel was sending her to her death and had picked a doctor to do it. No, no, she reasoned, that was too paranoid a fantasy even for her, and despite the sick logic of it, there were other things that didn’t fit. Nothing in that theory could account for the look on Jordan Carpenter’s face as he stared at her—as if he knew her, as if he were already half in love with her. In a different world he could have been the man she imagined would come into her life and change it . . . but that was absurd now. And dangerous.

  “Real trouble,” Angela said, aware that Silver had been observing her pensive mood.

  “Not anymore.” The other woman waved her over. “You’re here.”

  Angela walked right into her friend’s open arms, and they hugged until it hurt. They’d been frightened teenagers when Angela saved Silver’s life. A decade later, Silver had returned the favor. There had been only those two face-to-face encounters in their entire history, but they had taken incredible risks for each other, and a strong bond had been formed.

  At their first brief meeting, Silver had given Angela a card with a PO box on it, which Angela had used to contact her when she was in trouble. They may have exchanged E-mail addresses at some later point. Angela’s memory was still frustratingly fuzzy about so many things.

  Her eyes were moist as she let Silver go, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d shed a tear, either. No, that wasn’t true, she realized. She had wept over a bird with clipped wings.

  “Look at us,” Silver laughed. “Aren’t we a fine mess. Come on in the kitchen. I’ll make us some chocolate Mexicano, and you can tell me what’s going on.”

  Angela balked. “I’d kill for chocolate of any kind, but first you have to tell me what’s going on. What’s the story on this room?”

  “Oh, you mean my gallery?” Silver nudged Angela aside and scooped the string of bones from the floor, rearranging them into a skeleton that she hung on a carved wooden stand.

  “I collect folk art,” she said proudly, “and this is my Día de los Muertos collection. You’re familiar with the Mexican Day of the Dead? They’re celebrated near our Halloween. You were still here then, remember?”

  No, Angela remembered none of that, and she was just as glad. “You can sleep at night with these skeletons and masks in the house?”

  “I couldn’t sleep without them. They ward off evil spirits.”

  She beckoned Angela to follow her as they walked through the halls and colonnades of the beautiful old house. “I guess you didn’t know about my fascination with things beyond the grave.”

  Angela actually knew very little about Silver. They’d first met when Silver showed up at her foster father’s medical clinic with a gunshot wound, saying she’d been mugged. Angela had long suspected that some of her foster father’s intakes weren’t regular patients. They nearly always presented with bodily injuries that required inpatient surgeries she wasn’t allowed to assist on, and inevitably there were complications. Those patients died with alarming frequency, but their wounds were reported as accidents or not recorded in their charts at all.

  Earlier, on the day Silver arrived, he’d asked Angela to ready their small operating room, even though they had no surgeries scheduled, and a terrible foreboding came over Angela. She knew what was going to happen. His new intake, a young woman not much older than she was, would die from her injuries. The realization forced Angela into action. She didn’t give Silver the sedative that was ordered. Instead, she hustled her out the back door of the clinic and told her to run, that someone wanted her dead. Silver hadn’t asked any questions, but she had given Angela the card with the PO box on it.

  “One day you might need to run,” she’d said.

  It felt as if Angela hadn’t stopped running since.

  “Lead me to the chocolate,” she told Silver now.

  The large, cheery kitchen was a welcome contrast to the muertos gallery. With evident pride, Silver pointed out that the house was over a hundred years old, and the floor was made of original oak planks, secured with black hobnails. Iron candelabra sat at either end of a long, narrow table that was overlaid with bright Mexican tiles, and in the far corner, a brick open-hearth fireplace was stacked high with split logs.

  Within moments, Silver had a pot of chocolate bubbling on the stove and the rich aroma permeated everything. Angela’s mouth was watering, but her hand had begun to throb again.

  “I hate to stop you, but I’m going to need some help.”

  She exposed the angry red cut on her hand, and Silver was quick to respond. “Here, stir the chocolate,” she said, handing the wooden spoon over to Angela on her way out of the kitchen. “Back in a jiff. I have everything you need.”

  Angela had barely given the chocolate one turn before Silver was back with a first aid kit the equivalent of a military medic’s. She took out a syringe and a vial of liquid. “Want me to do it? I have ampicillin tablets here, too.”

  “Thanks,” Angela said, “but I can handle it. I did everything but prostate exams in my foster father’s office. He didn’t think that was appropriate, although it never seemed to bother him that I had no formal medical training.”

  Angela cleaned the cut and the injection area with alcohol she found in the kit, filled the syringe, and made quick, clean work of the tetanus shot. Meanwhile, Silver worked at the stove, adding milk, sugar, beaten eggs, and cinnamon to the chocolate. When the mixture was ready, she removed it from the fire and began to whip it with a large wooden spool, twirling the handle between her palms and working the chocolate into a high froth. Her skill and confidence even at making a hot drink, confirmed Angela’s belief that she was in good hands.

  She’d never known exactly what Silver did or who she did it for. You didn’t discuss such things in the intelligence business, even with friends. Silver could have been an informant like herself, or she could have been more, and it was Angela’s right-brained hunch that she was more. Much more.

  “I kept thinking I might hear from you after you left here.” Silver filled a large mug with steaming chocolate Mexicano and brought it over to Angela at the table. She also set out a plate of sugar-dusted cookies.

  “I wouldn’t have known who to contact,” Angela admitted. “I could remember almost nothing about the trip, except that I’d run away to Mexico, and that Peter Brandt had come after me.”

  She held the earthenware mug to her lips and sipped gratefully, concentrating on how rich and delicious it was. Experience had taught her it was important to savor these moments when you were on the run because you could take nothing for granted. You might never have hot chocolate again.

  Silver had seated herself at the table, too, but she wasn�
�t drinking her chocolate, and Angela couldn’t imagine why. It was ambrosia.

  “Apparently, you also don’t remember that you erased your memory while you were down here,” Silver said. “And that I helped you.”

  Angela set down her mug. “You helped me?”

  “Yes, you’d attempted to do it yourself with hypnotic suggestion and drugs, but it didn’t take. You were having nightmares, and I knew about a powerful hypnotic plant, something right out of the rain forest and not even tested, but you agreed to try it. I made an infusion, and we coupled that with autosuggestion, and the nightmares went away.”

  It all went away, Angela thought, nearly a year of her life.

  “You know then?” she asked Silver. “You know everything, even the things I can’t remember?”

  The other woman was quick to respond. “Not everything, only as much as you needed to tell me so that I could make it go away and stay away. You gave me some names, some dates.”

  Angela started to shake. It hit her so hard she felt as if she were going to be sick. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “I don’t want to know. It’s coming back, and I’m petrified I won’t be able to deal with it.”

  “You’ll deal with it just fine. You have more resources than you realize.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You learned a lot more than you may remember when you were here last. It was a crash course in how to survive mentally as well as physically, and you don’t forget those things, Angela. I taught you a few tricks, too.”

  Like how to kill? Angela thought. Had Silver taught her that?

  “You know how to take care of yourself,” Silver assured her.

  But neither one of them actually knew what she would have to deal with, and Angela wasn’t nearly so confident as Silver. Whatever she’d erased had the power to make her physically ill, and how much worse could it be than what she already knew about? How many women had killed their own fathers?

  She had begun to perspire profusely, perhaps from the tetanus shot.

  “They want me dead, Silver. I’m certain of it.”

  Silver rose from the table and stood near the stove. She still hadn’t touched her drink. “Does anyone know where you are?”

  “Not here in San Luis, but Mexico’s a no brainer. It’s where I ran last time.” And she’d never had any intention of going back. There was nothing but heartbreak and horror waiting for her. But one day Silver had talked her into taking the bus to Córdoba, a larger city, to shop, and Angela had called her voice mail from a pay phone. She’d expected the number to be disconnected, but there were recent messages from Peter Brandt, begging her to come back. He’d promised she would be safe and have whatever help she needed—medical care, a job, a place to live—and he swore there was never any reason to run.

  “You were never in any danger, Angela,” he told her in a tone so firm with conviction it was easy to be swayed. “Come home now and let me help you. That’s all I want is to help you.”

  Eventually she’d agreed to meet him in Mexico City, even though it was clear he believed she’d suffered a psychotic break. He swore it was in everyone’s best interests that she be rehabilitated, especially hers, and there was never any plan to kill her. She’d been afraid to believe him, but she’d accepted his offer for one simple reason. She desperately needed help. Even she recognized that.

  “We may need to get you somewhere more isolated,” Silver said, adding with a rueful smile, “if that’s possible. Meanwhile, you’re safe here.”

  She picked up the pot of chocolate and came around to Angela’s side of the table to give her a refill. “Is there anyone you should contact?”

  “No one I’m sure I can trust.” Not even Sammy, she thought.

  “It’s that bad, huh? Well, listen, I have a gun you can use, and I’ll ask Pedro to keep an eye on things.”

  “I don’t need a gun or someone hovering, Silver.” Angela didn’t think she could stand being watched any longer.

  Silver topped off her cup and set down the pot. “Tell me what you’d like to do then,” she said. “Do you need to be left alone to think, do you want to talk and strategize? I’ll be happy to put in my two cents, which is about what it’s worth. Or shall I give you a pick and put you to work in the fields?”

  “The fields!” Angela clasped her hands, pretending rapture. But hard physical work did sound good. “I’ll blister my palms and cleanse my soul.”

  “I can also offer you your own personal calavera while you’re here to keep the evil spirits away. Sometimes that comes in handy.”

  Angela could imagine that it did. She actually could. If her Spanish was correct, a calavera was a skull.

  She and Silver exchanged smiles, one refugee to another.

  * * *

  “¡ SEÑORITA! ¡Señorita!”

  Angela turned from the water bucket with a dripping, half-full dipper to see Pedro running toward her. He was zigzagging through rows of cocoa trees and waving his hands in the air.

  “¡Entraz en la misión!” he gasped, halting as he reached her. “Not safe here. You go! ¡La misión!”

  Angela had been working from dawn to dusk in the fields for the last three days, and her exhaustion was profound. “¿La misión?” she said in confusion. “The mission? Why should I go there?”

  “You go! Go now!”

  “What do you mean, it’s not safe?” Angela didn’t understand. She couldn’t have been in San Luis long enough for anyone to have tracked her down.

  “Yes! Not safe. Silver say you go.”

  “Wait! Pedro—” Angela made a grab for his shirttails, but he pushed her away and started back to the ranch house at a run. Bewildered, Angela watched him go. Silver had left early that morning for Córdoba to get supplies. The trip should have taken her all day, but maybe she’d seen or heard something and come back. Angela wondered if she might be waiting for her at the mission.

  “What did Silver tell you?” she called after him. “Did she send you here?”

  He didn’t respond, and as she watched him get tangled in a tree branch and nearly rip his shirt off, she realized something that made her drop the water dipper: Pedro was terrified.

  CHAPTER 11

  ANGELA was soaked in a cold sweat by the time she got to the mission. She’d grabbed her backpack and run most of the way, only to find the pueblo church bustling with activity, which plunged her into further confusion. If she was supposed to seek sanctuary within the church, the timing couldn’t be worse. Villagers milled outside, murmuring and fanning themselves. The women wore bright shawls and scarves, which told Angela it probably wasn’t a funeral, but whatever the event, it appeared to be breaking up. A few dawdlers lingered around the fountain in the small town square, but most were already drifting toward the crumbling cobblestone streets that would take them home. Angela saw no sign of Silver anywhere, or anyone who looked as if he might be there searching for her, although it was unlikely they’d send someone obvious. They hadn’t been able to fool her with Jordan Carpenter, but that had been dangerously close. Goose bumps stung the back of her arms and left her shivering. She’d moved into the cover of some trees to wait, and the breezes felt icy against her damp shorts and blouse, despite the late-afternoon heat and the pack she had clutched against her middle.

  Who would they send to do their dirty work? she wondered. Would Peter Brandt be forced to finish what he’d started? Would it be a faceless, soulless contract killer? Or the surgeon with pewter hair and razor blue eyes who claimed to know the unthinkable about her—what Angela herself didn’t know—and who sliced right through her with his gaze?

  What would her executioner look like? And how would she die?

  She wanted to laugh, it all sounded so dramatic and delusional. If only she was crazy. If only none of this were true and just some figment of her imagination. She knew better than most how the brain played tricks, especially when you were pushed to the very brink.

  A short time later, when the crowd had c
leared, she slipped through the mission’s doors. It was dark and still inside. Only the glowing votive candles revealed that anyone had recently been there. Not knowing what else to do, she sat down in a pew at the back and waited. The air was hot and cold on her bare skin, and the wood beneath her burned like stone, but she was aware of nothing but the need to hold body and soul together.

  A terrible sense of destiny filled her. She had always known it would come to this. She’d been living under the sword for years, maybe all her life, and waiting for it to fall had drained everything out of her. Now that it was falling, she didn’t know if she had the strength to get out of its way.

  “Enciende un cirio y tomalo contigo al altar.”

  Angela’s head snapped up. Someone had spoken to her from the pew behind her. She couldn’t tell if the hushed voice was a man’s or a woman’s.

  “What?” Angela got out. “I speak very little Spanish.”

  “Don’t turn around,” the person whispered. “Just do as I told you.”

  “What did you tell me? I don’t speak—”

  “Light a candle and take it with you to the altar.”

  “But why? Who are you?”

  “When you have the candle, kneel at the altar as if you were going to pray, but don’t let the flame go out. Do you understand?”

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s not important. I’m here to help. It is important that the candle keep burning.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Shhh, no more questions. There isn’t time. When you kneel, a panel will open, and you’ll see a passageway. It will lead you to an old mining tunnel. There were once hundreds of silver mines in the valley, and the tunnels still exist. Follow the passageway as far as it goes. At the end, someone will help you.”