Kellen followed Xander, eased herself onto his massage chair and put her face into the cradle. “I’ve got fifteen minutes. No more.”
“Time has no meaning in the boundless eternity of the universe.”
By which she guessed he meant she should set an alarm. So she did.
He applied a heating wrapping on her neck and worked his fingers into the rigid muscles of her shoulder. In that calm, soothing tone, he said, “Dismiss those thoughts that disturb you, and breathe with me.”
Thoughts that disturbed her… All of us out here are running away from something.
What did Mara mean by that? It was not like she knew Kellen had been running for the past seven years, from a past corroded by guilt and a year that had vanished from her mind.
“Breathe with me,” he said again. “In… Out… In…”
She concentrated on the slow breaths, blanking her mind as she relaxed…and dreamed.
* * *
Through the darkness, she could hear him calling her. “Ceecee. Ceecee. Where are you? Come back to me…”
She loved his voice. Unlike Gregory’s, this voice was deep and warm, loving and despairing.
“Ceecee, I love you. Come back.”
Who was he? Memory came in flashes, like a night sky split by lightning. Deep brown eyes surrounded by long dark lashes. Tall, over six foot. Fast, smooth, physical, accomplished.
“Ceecee…” His voice grew fainter, like a spirit’s fading into the gray lands.
She strained to open her eyes, but the darkness would not yield. The lightning was moving away, over the horizon.
She was alone in the night. Alone…
* * *
Kellen woke and sat straight up on the massage chair.
Her pocket was vibrating, her alarm going off.
She pulled out her phone and silenced it, then placed a hand over her racing heart. The dream. The man. The dark. Again.
On a stool across the room, Xander sat balanced in the lotus position.
“Did I say anything?” she demanded.
“You were silent, but your soul walked in a far, dark place where combat rages and death holds sway.” His large, sad eyes watched her as if he could see her pain. “You’ve returned from war to find your own battlefield still waits.”
“The war is over. Only the shadows remain.” Enough of that. If she hung around Xander much longer, she would start talking like a guru, too.
“Every hour, do one thing. Take a moment to stop and breathe.” He lifted a hand and breathed in, lowered his hand and breathed out.
“I do know how to inhale and exhale,” she snapped.
He looked a reproof.
Right. He didn’t deserve to have her snap at him. “I’ll do it. Thank you, I feel better. You are a magician.” She checked her texts.
Nothing back from Temo about the animal carcass. If she didn’t hear back soon, she’d give him a call.
She strode to the door, opened it and halted, her head cocked toward the commotion down the hall.
“She’s one of my best masseuses. She’s got appointments!” Mara shouted.
Mr. Gilfilen’s deep, distinctive voice sounded as if it was coming from the depths of a crypt. “She has stepped over the line.”
Beneath the sound of conversation, Kellen could hear a woman crying, and she headed out to intercept what sounded like a rip-roaring fight.
In the spa waiting room, Mara and Mr. Gilfilen had faced off, Mara furious, Mr. Gilfilen austere.
Mr. Gilfilen inclined his head. “Miss Adams, we have a security situation.” And just that quickly, her mind produced his information.
VINCENT GILFILEN:
GENDER UNDEFINED, POSSIBLY MALE, OF AFRICAN DESCENT, FRENCH ACCENT, 38, 6’1”, 145 LBS., FIT. FORMAL CLOTHING, ALWAYS BLACK. ECCENTRIC FACIAL HAIR CHOICES. MILITARY/SECURITY BACKGROUND, SPECIFICS UNKNOWN. OBSESSIVELY PRIVATE. POSSIBLY A VAMPIRE?
Today he wore a black turtleneck, slacks and loafers. His thin face started at the top with carefully styled curls and ended with a curling goatee that emphasized his long chin. His brows looked as if they’d been shaved and drawn back on to point at an angle toward his hairline. His deep voice rolled out like the clap of doom. “Miss Longacre left the outside door to the spa unlocked to allow a friend access.”
“Her boyfriend,” Mara said. “He’s from town. He’s not much. Of a threat, I mean.” The nearby town of Cape Charade was nothing more than a bump in the two-lane highway: eight hundred people, a ten-room motel built in the 1950s and one grocery store that sold food, swim gear and souvenir sweatshirts. But it did supply the resort with about half of their staff. Destiny Longacre was from Cape Charade; that alone guaranteed she would continue working at the resort until she’d saved enough for college.
Mr. Gilfilen offered not a shred of empathy. “Accidentally leaving the door unlocked is a violation of resort policy and warrants a reprimand. Deliberately leaving it unlocked could result in the loss of supplies and equipment and, most important, is a danger to the guests and the staff. Miss Longacre must go.”
“I can’t replace her right now,” Mara said.
“You’ll have to work around that,” Mr. Gilfilen answered.
Mara got on her toes to get into his face. “This is stupid. Did Destiny or her boyfriend steal anything? Did they threaten anybody?”
“I believe their intention was to have intercourse in the comfort of the spa.” Mr. Gilfilen appeared to feel bilious. “Regardless of her relatively innocuous intentions, she caused a security breach and she must. Be. Fired.”
Mara looked at Kellen in appeal.
Kellen shook her head. When it came to security, Mr. Gilfilen was clear in his rules, and on the rare occasion an employee challenged those rules, there was no appeal. Not even Annie or Leo went up against Mr. Gilfilen.
“All right. But she’s a nice kid. Losing her will put a kink in my schedule, and it’s going to devastate her. Plus I have to fire her!” Mara flounced away.
Kellen felt sorry for Mara and Destiny…
…Until Mr. Gilfilen said, “Miss Adams, I have an announcement. I am leaving on vacation.”
“What?”
“There’s no need to shout.”
She modulated her voice. “What?”
“I’m leaving on vacation,” he repeated.
“When?”
“Now.”
His audacity took her breath away. “You are kidding.”
“I never kid.”
“Does Annie know about this?”
“Yes. She did object on your behalf, but Leo and I agreed now was the time for me to take this action.”
Men. Men who made decisions without thought to preparation or convenience or plain, simple courtesy. “Take this action?”
“If you were not capable, the Di Lucas wouldn’t have left you in charge.”
“Damned with faint praise! Who have you lined up to replace you?”
“You will replace me.”
Kellen was speechless. Then her brain snapped into gear. “Me? I’m to run the resort and be head of security? These are two separate jobs. Two people fill those two separate jobs. One person cannot fill those two separate jobs. Certainly not one person who started one of those jobs today!”
“The resort is almost empty of guests, and, Miss Adams, I wouldn’t leave if I hadn’t assessed you as being competent.”
“Competent!” Kellen almost danced with rage. “I demand you appoint one of your people to take over!”
“That’s not possible. When it comes to staff, I suffer exactly the same problems as Miss Philippi and everyone else at the resort. I cannot hire enough competent, experienced security personnel. None of my subordinates are capable of overseeing the entire operation. You are.”
“You’re not being rati
onal.”
“Miss Adams.” He lowered his voice. “I’m trying to tell you I don’t trust everyone on my own staff. It is very possible my absence will provide some insight into who is causing problems with the resort’s security.”
“Oh.” Her indignation faded…just a little. “You’re setting a trap.”
“Indeed.”
“Who do you expect to catch? What do you believe they’re doing? Are we talking simple theft, or am I facing potential violence?”
“I’m handling the matter and no one will be in danger.”
Her indignation rekindled. “Who’s going to apprehend these untrustworthy members of the staff? You’re not going to be here!”
He acted as if she hadn’t spoken. “Follow me. I’ll acquaint you with the inner workings of security procedures and the resort video room.”
6
After her security tour, Kellen should have grabbed lunch. Instead, aggravated and with a nagging worry about those bones moldering out on the plain, she bundled up and fought through the worsening wind and rain to the maintenance buildings to spend a few minutes with her friends. Or, as she called them, the real people.
The resort had a three-bay garage complete with hydraulic lifts, air compressors, welders, tire storage and enough steel tool cabinets to work on jeeps, ATVs, vans and the old-fashioned tour buses used to convey guests and staff. Maintenance for everything else—heating, air-conditioning, plumbing, electrical—was next door in an equally spacious and well-supplied area. A long table, chairs, benches, stools, vending machines and two small, old refrigerators separated the two trades. All was housed in a structure that mimicked the castle’s architecture and included a loft that overhung the back of the shop with storage for vehicle and operational manuals, light bulbs, Christmas decorations and odd tools they occasionally needed but that were too fragile to leave on the main floor.
Adrian Wright stood at a workbench filling grease guns. He glanced up and gave Kellen a half-assed salute. “Hey, Captain, want to get dirty with me?”
“Hmm.” Kellen pretended to think. “No.”
ADRIAN WRIGHT:
MALE, WHITE, 23, 5’9”, BROWN HAIR, BLUE EYES, BURN-AND-PEEL SKIN. BORN NEW ORLEANS: PICKPOCKET + STREET GANG. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. GOOD WITH WEAPONS, ENGINES. MOUTHY, BRASH, EDGY. EMPLOYED 49 DAYS. FRIEND. POSSIBLE TROUBLE?
He lifted his greasy hands and wiggled them. “Admit it. You want me. You love me.”
“I do love you,” Kellen said. “Like a disgusting, loud, gross younger brother who deserves to have his head stuck in a toilet and flushed.”
“Sweet talker.”
“Where’s Birdie?”
“She’s getting dressed.” Adrian went back to work. “Someone has to go to the landing strip to pick up guests.”
Kellen called up the schedule in her mind. “Right.” She checked the housekeeping schedule. “Rooms will be ready. Where’s Mitch?”
“He’s not back from taking Leo and Annie to the airstrip.”
“Really,” she said flatly. She checked her device to see when their plane had taken off.
Mitch should have returned an hour ago.
Temo sat at the cluttered table. His prosthetic leg leaned against his chair. He was massaging his thigh and talking into his cell phone in rapid Spanish, none of which sounded like a compliment.
TEMO IGLASIAS:
MALE, HISPANIC AMERICAN—SECOND GENERATION, 25, 5’7”, 150 LBS., BLACK HAIR, BROWN EYES, FIT. SPANISH SPEAKER. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. PROSTHETIC LEG. BORN EAST LA. FATHER DEAD, DRUG-ADDICTED MOTHER, BROTHER TO YOUNGER SISTER, REGINA. EMPLOYED 62 DAYS. MECHANIC, HANDYMAN, LEADER. FRIEND.
She had tempted Temo, Birdie and Mitch to the resort with the offer of a job, and they had all taken her up on her offer.
Adrian had come by a different route. One day, he’d appeared, told her he’d hit the skids, offered his services doing anything. She knew him pretty well; she’d served with him for most of her deployment in Afghanistan. He never knew when to shut up and lately, when she caught him glancing over his shoulder or jumping at an unexpected noise, she suspected his big mouth had finally caught up with him.
Temo got quiet; he sat listening to whoever spoke at the other end. He met Kellen’s gaze and rolled his eyes, then launched into another tirade in Spanish that ended with him slamming the phone on the table, picking it up, hanging up and slamming the phone down again.
“Those phones don’t grow on trees, you know,” she said mildly.
“It’s not broken.” He flung it on the floor.
She picked it up, examined it. The tough case had saved it. “This is why we call you…Lucky.” She tapped his artificial leg.
“Call me by my real name… Cuauhtemo.”
She laughed. “Like I could.”
In Afghanistan, when Kellen met Temo, he had been belligerent; he hated her for being white, in charge, an officer and a woman, and he let her know it.
She hated him for being smart, mean and tough.
Then on a dark mountain road, he spotted a trap.
She rerouted the convoy, got them in a defensible position and saved his sorry ass.
They made a great team.
He lost his leg on his next assignment, in Peru, to a car bomb.
When she offered the job in maintenance for the resort, he took it sight unseen. In the first month, he discovered his boss was siphoning materials to a construction firm south of Portland. Temo went from flunky to manager of a thirteen-man crew, fixing whatever needed to be fixed: HVAC, leaky toilets, fire damage caused by a cigarette smoked in a nonsmoking room. In the spring when the guests arrived, that crew would double.
Kellen wasn’t surprised at his fast promotion. Temo’s near-fatal injuries, his long recovery, his rehabilitation had put fire to his already iron ambition. Before it was over, this guy would own the resort. Which made this display of temper unlike him.
She wiped the phone clean on her skirt, handed it over and asked mildly, “What’s up?”
“None of the new room controls for the gas fireplaces are working and those bastards who sold them to us are ignoring us. Smart controls, my ass.”
She’d been the one to recommend they try something more than a timer. “Are you going to be able to make them work soon?”
“If I had a manual written by someone whose first language is English!” Temo’s Spanish accent was fierce, but he had been educated in American schools and he had no sympathy for foreign firms who used a translation program for their communications.
“Okay,” she said in a bright tone. “About the animal carcass…”
Temo stuck his phone into his pocket. “I haven’t had a chance to get out there.”
“I’d bet none of the guests will venture out in this weather, but now that I’ve said that, some intrepid soul will go exploring. Can you send one of your guys?”
“My guys? The guys I inherited from the last maintenance man? The guys who can’t scratch their own balls without an instruction manual?” Temo’s color rose. “Too bad none of them can read a manual, English or Chinese or Spanish or any other language known to man. Maybe Klingon!”
“All of them are idiots?”
Temo sighed and subsided. “Two of them are okay. The rest of them have to go, but not until I find someone to replace them.”
“Have you checked in town?”
He eyeballed her evilly.
She backed away. “I just asked!”
“I’m looking around the US, trying to find old friends. If you don’t mind, I’ll go to LA and check on…friends.”
The way he said the word friends made her think he was trying to tell her something. But while she remembered every chart and schedule she’d ever seen, she couldn’t understand the unspoken words of a man who had faced too many challenges. Sh
e took his hand. “Go when you need to. Just…come back.”
“Sure. I can’t stay down there. There’s nothing for me there. My mom…and that guy she calls my stepfather.”
“What about your sister?”
“Poor kid.” He shook his head. “Poor kid.” He attached his leg, shoved his arms through the sweatshirt hanging on the back of his chair, got up and stretched. “I’ll go rescue that carcass from the scavengers. I could use a ride in the fresh air, plus it’s the only way I know to get Smart Home to call, so they can complain I was out of touch.” He headed toward the coatrack, wrapped himself in a muddle of scarves, hats and the warmest gloves he could root out. Yep, that was Temo. Add the slightest touch of winter and the guy froze. You could take the boy out of LA, but you couldn’t keep him warm.
Birdie walked out of the changing room.
BIRDIE HAYNES:
FEMALE, 24, 5’10”, 130 LBS., AMERICAN OF COLOR—HISPANIC, AFRICAN AND FAR EASTERN. BIG RAW HANDS, LONG FINGERS, CONSTANT BAND-AID ON AT LEAST ONE KNUCKLE. BEAUTIFUL SMILE IN A NOT-BEAUTIFUL FACE. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. RECENT WIDOW. EMPLOYED 70 DAYS. LEAD MECHANIC, GARAGE MANAGER. BEST FRIEND.
Birdie wore a starched white button-up shirt, the resort’s blue scarf and black slacks, and she held keys in her hand. When she spotted Kellen, she headed right for her. “I’m off to the landing strip to pick up the guests. I’ve got nobody to ride shotgun. Can you come?”
“I’m not dressed.” In the appropriate outfit for welcoming guests, Kellen meant. Then she looked around.
Temo was gone. Mitch had returned and slipped into greasy coveralls. Adrian was dirty, and due to his big mouth, he was never appropriate to greet guests.
Kellen ran through the working roster in her mind; in the whole resort, everyone was either on vacation or trying to cover for everyone else. She was stuck. “Only if I can drive.”
“Feeling out of control?” Birdie asked.
“Driving would help.” Driving always helped. Feeling the vehicle respond to her command promptly, smoothly, efficiently gave her a measure of peace. “Do you have the hors d’oeuvres?”
Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade Book 1) Page 5