by Brenda Joyce
Kait stood, shaking. “I’m your aunt, but I love you as much as if you were really my own daughter,” she whispered.
“No!” Marni stomped her foot. “You are my new mommy now and I won’t let you go!”
Trev took his daughter’s hand. “Sweetie, Kait has to go. She has another life in New York.”
“I won’t let her leave,” Marni shouted, pulling away from her father. “Daddy, don’t let her go!”
Kait stared at father and daughter, Marni furious and frightened and beginning to cry, Trev with tears welling in his eyes. She silently begged him to ask her to stay.
He did not. “Kait has to go back to New York.” He was hoarse but firm.
Marni whirled. “Don’t go!”
Kait felt as if her words were a robotic fist, somehow striking right through her chest and body, splitting her flesh apart. Her soul crumbled in its wake. “I did a terrible thing, lying to you and Sam and your father about who I really am,” she said.
“Mommy asked you to do it! It’s not your fault!” Marni screamed.
Kait heard the front door open and close; she glanced back, it was an ashen Sam. “Lying was my fault, honey. It was wrong. Can you understand that?”
Marni nodded, remaining fiercely determined. “But you’re not lying now! So now you can stay!”
Kait was completely broken now. She looked up at Trev.
“Elizabeth already packed your bags,” he said to her. “If she missed something, we can send it to you.”
He was really going to do this. He was really going to forget everything they had shared, and let her go.
“I’ll go call a cab,” she said hoarsely.
Trev nodded, not offering to drive her the hour it would take to get to Reagan National.
“Dad!” Sam cried. “Don’t let her go!”
Trev didn’t answer.
Kait knew that if she didn’t leave immediately, she wasn’t ever going to make it out of Fox Hollow in one manageable piece. She walked past Sam, incapable of sending her the faintest smile of reassurance, and reached for the door.
“How can you do this?” Sam screamed at her father.
Kait glanced back.
“Mommy!” Marni wailed, in panic. “Mommy!”
Kait couldn’t move.
“Ssh, ssh,” Trev soothed, taking her into his arms.
Marni kicked and punched him, wildly, desperately; Kait closed her eyes and somehow made it inside.
And she heard Sam shouting at Trev, “You suck!”
“Sen˜or? I am leaving now. Do you want anything else?”
Colin Farrell came out of the bungalow’s single bedroom, his cotton short-sleeved shirt completely unbuttoned, several days’ growth of beard upon his face. The cleaning girl that had been hired by the Realtor from the local village stood in the bungalow’s single room, a combination of living room, kitchen, and dining area. The bungalow was spanking clean and as neat as a pin. The refrigerator was fully stocked. A fan slowly whirled overhead. All of the villa’s windows were wide open, all thanks to the slender Mexican woman standing near the rattan couch. And just past Rosita’s head, Colin could see the wide brilliantly white expanse of beach and the sparkling azure of the Caribbean Sea. “No, gracias,” he said.
She smiled at him, her big brown eyes flickering over his chest and torso. “I am pleased to stay, sen˜or,” she said softly, meeting his eyes.
He had no time for this. He knew what she wanted and was not interested at all. “I will see you tomorrow, Rosita. Man˜ana. Hasta luego, gracias,” he said firmly.
She pouted but smiled once more before she left, leaving the front door wide open, the better to catch a breeze.
Colin walked to the fridge and took out a bottle of ice-cold beer, which he popped. He drank thirstily, then walked to the front door and stared out of it, first north and then south and then north again. Not a single vehicle could be seen. And there was one pedestrian, Rosita, walking slowly toward the village that was three kilometers away, her fine gauze skirts swinging about her swaying hips.
His heart lurched. Where was Lana? She had been due hours ago, and soon the sun would set.
He swigged and reversed direction, crossing the too neat and so empty bungalow, and finally halting on the veranda outside. A path led from it the short distance to the beach. He leaned against the porch’s post, staring out to sea.
She had not been caught. Lana was the smartest and most resourceful woman he knew. No, she had not been caught, but clearly she had experienced a delay, or she had missed her flight. He had been waiting for her arrival all day.
But he would not worry. Not about Lana. She could take care of herself.
But he was worried. Because she had his number, and she had not called him on his cell phone. He was sick with worry now.
Suddenly he heard the most welcome and miraculous noise—that of an approaching vehicle. Colin dashed inside and to the front door. He ran into the driveway. A large vehicle—a bus, a van, or a lorry—was coming down the road at a snail’s pace, and it was coming from the north.
His heart skipped and then beat hard. He tossed the beer into the shrubs and hurried to the mailbox, shielding his eyes and gazing into the sun.
Lana was on that bus. He knew it.
An eternity passed as the van approached. When it was but yards away, he saw that it was filled with passengers, but other than two boys riding the sidesteps, hanging on to the windows, he could not make out the identity of anyone in the old beat-up Chevy. He waited for the Chevy van to begin to slow down and then stop, so as to discharge Lana.
But it did not slow down.
In disbelief, he watched it creep by him.
And then it was going past him, not even stopping.
“Hey!” he shouted. He ran after the van. “Hey! You! Señor! Stop the van! Detenga el carro! Quiero hablar contigo!”
The van slowed and Colin ran after it, finally reaching the driver’s window. “Un Americana,” he panted. “¿Donde l’americana?”
The driver looked at him as if he was crazy. In perfect English, he said, “There are no Americans here. Do you want a ride, sen˜or?”
Colin stared at the sweating Mexican in disbelief. He finally shook his head. The van rolled forward and Colin leapt away to avoid having his foot run over by a back wheel. The two boys hanging on to the side of the car laughed at him, pointing and jeering.
He began to slump. Why wasn’t Lana on that bus? He dug into the back pocket of his cotton chinos for the hundredth time that day. There was no message icon on his cell phone. Colin returned to the bungalow, grabbed another beer, and this time, he walked down the grassy, palm-shaded path to the beach. He was not going to worry. Lana was going to appear at any moment, like the mirage of an oasis in the desert, only she would not be a mirage.
And then he squinted down the beach, directly into the setting sun.
A figure appeared to be approaching.
He stared, willing the figure to be real and not a figment of his imagination.
The figure was real. His heart began to pump with insistence, with the seeds of joy.
He wet his lips, starting forward. Jesus Christ—the approaching person was a woman! She was too distant for him to make out her features, but she had dark brown hair that glinted with reddish tones in the sun, and she was Lana’s height. He began to run.
Smiling.
The woman became clearer. A long, graceful step, a bright white bikini, no top. Brilliantly white breasts. Hair that was shoulder-length...
Colin stopped.
Lana had cut her hair a week ago, and the woman’s face and body were suntanned.
He stared in dismay.
She smiled at him, a local girl with the high cheekbones of the native Indians.
Colin dropped his beer as she walked past.
She sent him another smile, this time over her shoulder, and he saw that her bikini was a thong. He turned away.
She was coming. He knew it.
She had not been caught. It was simply impossible.
He made his way slowly back to the bungalow and then outside. There was a big white rock by the end of the drive where the rotting mailbox was. Now the unmarked two-lane highway was empty as far as the eye could see. Colin sat down on the rock and sipped his beer, staring north. He would wait until she came.
And if she didn’t come today, then she would come tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day afterwards.
He would not leave Puerto de Raya until Lana arrived.
He would wait days, months, years.
CHAPTER 22
He glanced into the rearview mirror as the unmarked sedan crept north on the freeway. The traffic was extremely heavy as it was almost five p.m. and everyone who worked in D.C. was on their way home. And the prisoner seemed troubled and sad.
But it was not his business. It was not his business that she claimed she was Kait London, that she looked exactly like the photograph on her driver’s license, and that she had spouted off enough information about her identity and her life to fill two novels. They were merely transporting her back to Skeritt County, from whence she came.
She met his glance in the rearview mirror and smiled gently.
Automatically, he smiled back.
Bill, who had recently become his partner and who was driving, immediately noticed. “Cut it out,” he said, looking at the rearview mirror and speaking to Lana Coleman/Kait London.
She said softly, “I have to use a rest room.”
Bill ignored that.
Dan turned. “We’ll be back in Three Falls in about an hour. Surely you can wait?”
She recrossed her long legs, her blue dress riding higher on her thighs. It was impossible not to look, because she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in person. Not that it mattered. He’d been happily married twenty-eight years and he had two kids and two grand-kids, not to mention a wife who hadn’t left him in spite of the job. He loved Mary. She was plump now, and short-tempered, but she was still a beautiful woman and the best wife a man could have, to his way of thinking. Still, the woman in the backseat was the kind of woman men had fantasies about, and he’d had quite a few in the past six hours since picking her up at the airport.
Not that he would ever cheat. Never had and never would. But there was nothing wrong with a good, hot, triple X–rated fantasy, now, was there?
Tonight he would make love to his wife, all right. He was already hard thinking about it.
“It will be two or three hours at this rate,” she protested softly. “I have handcuffs on. You can leave them on. Or you can come into the bathroom with me.” She smiled a little. “I trust you not to look.”
Their eyes met. He thought, She knew. She knew that he had the hots for her and if he wanted it, he could have it. Christ. For one moment, the temptation was so overwhelming, he actually considered it. Then he turned to his new partner. “Pull over at that Texaco, Bill.”
Bill snorted. “She has to piss like I’m a fairy.”
“Just pull over. Where’s she going to go?”
Bill swerved hard into another lane, cutting off the car behind them, causing horns to blare and someone to curse through a rolled-down window. Bill slapped their siren on top of the car and turned it on. He gave the driver behind them an “I’m gonna break your balls” look followed by the finger and shoved through the next lane and onto the shoulder of the highway. Using that, he drove the next mile to the exit.
The Texaco had five cars at the three islands. Bill halted the sedan by the side of the minimart. “I’ll check it out,” Dan said, climbing out of the car. He smiled at the woman in the backseat. “One moment. You okay?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He went into the store and was told by a young Hispanic man with a goatee and acne that the bathrooms were in the back. Bill walked down an aisle filled with chips and candy, grabbing a bag of Fritos as he did. He opened the door to the ladies’ room. There was a toilet and a sink with a mirror over it, a garbage can, the paper towel dispenser and the hot-air dryer. God, Bill was such a dick. Shaking his head, he walked back outside, tossing the Fritos on the counter as he did so, intending to pay for them later.
“No problem,” he announced to his partner. “No window, nothing.”
Bill grunted, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes, apparently taking a nap.
Dan opened the back door, helping Lana out. Their eyes met. She didn’t say a word, but she looked at him as if he were twenty-five and all muscle again. He shouldn’t take the cuffs off, but where would she go? And more important, how? There was simply no way for her to escape.
He unlocked the cuffs and tossed them on the backseat, slamming the door closed and taking her soft, slender arm. “This way.”
“Your partner could use a lesson in how to be a gentleman from you,” she said as they entered the store.
He flushed with pleasure, leading her to the back. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Her look was direct. “I never forget a kindness.”
“I’m married,” he blurted, and felt himself turn red. She laughed softly. “I know.” She glanced down at his simple wedding band. “I need to buy some Tampax.”
He knew turned redder. “Okay.”
She seemed grateful. He watched her choose a box and handed her a fiver to pay for it. Then he escorted her to the bathroom, where she promised to hurry. “Don’t rush,” he said, still blushing. “The traffic stinks.”
She laughed and disappeared inside the bathroom, and he heard her lock the door.
He didn’t care. She wasn’t going anywhere, and he leaned against the door, imagining her dropping her panties. They’d be lace and sheer. No, she’d wear a wisp of a thong. The setting changed. She pulled off her dress. They were in a hotel room. Her breasts were big and white. He already knew she wasn’t wearing a bra. Now, she had no underwear either, not even a thong. Smiling, she got down on her knees, unzipping him. She sucked him down her throat.
He started, wishing he’d had his jacket on. He paced, shaking himself free of the extremely graphic and vivid fantasy he’d succumbed to. God, he’d actually felt her lips....
He glanced at his wristwatch. How long had she been in there? Two minutes? Five? He had no idea now. Couldn’t be more than five. He’d give her five more, then politely knock.
An image of her naked and spread wide for him on a bed assailed his mind. He shoved it away, and thought about how it would be a good four or five hours before he got home tonight to his wife.
When five minutes had passed, Dan said, awkwardly, “Kait? I mean, Ms. London? Er... Mrs. Coleman?”
There was no answer.
He knocked on the door, deciding to use the name she claimed was her genuine one. “Ms. London? You all right in there?”
No answer.
His blood rushed. He reminded himself that there was no window and no possible way for her to get out. He knocked again, this time forcefully. “Ms. London? Time to go. You all right in there?”
There was still no answer, and the silence was resounding now.
Dan rushed to the pimply-faced cashier, showing his badge and demanding a key. He was sick now, sick in his gut, but he kept reminding himself that the woman could not have escaped. Had she passed out? With the curious cashier on his heels, he raced to the back of the store and unlocked the door.
The bathroom was empty.
The garbage can was upside down and on top of the toilet, which had its lid closed. The bottle of soap had been taken from the dispenser, and was lying on the floor, where it had been dropped. In horror, Dan looked up at the ceiling.
There was a grille above the toilet. It had been pushed up and away, and a square black hole gaped down at him.
He stared in disbelief. She had escaped.
He whirled, gun in hand. “Where the fuck does that vent go?”
“Like, how the hell would I know?” the young man said, amused.
“Did you see he
r go out of the store?”
“No,” he said, as if Dan were a moron.
Dan dashed into the store, but there were no dislodged ventilation units in any part of the ceiling there. Was she still in the crawl space above?
“Hey, there’s a storeroom in the back. Maybe she’s in there?” The cashier suggested with growing enthusiasm.
They raced to a door that was not locked, but which had a sign on it telling customers that entry was forbidden. The cashier pushed it open and Dan walked in as the young man hit the light. The small storeroom instantly became illuminated, and the first thing Dan saw was the wide-open door and through it, the parking lot at the back of the store.
“Hey, she must have dropped down in here.” The cashier glanced up at the ceiling above their heads.
So did Dan. Another square hole grinned mockingly at him.
Dan ran outside. A block away was the freeway, lined with cars, and damn it, the traffic was moving now at a nice forty-five or fifty miles an hour.
“Guess she got a ride.” The cashier grinned. “She a murderer or something?”
He knew his career was over. “Or something,” he said grimly.
Sam was beside herself. She stood in the foyer, where two suitcases and a garment bag had been ominously placed. Her father had retreated to his study and Kait had gone upstairs. Sam imagined that she would shower and change for her trip back to New York.
She swiped at the tears on her face, dashing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her huge chunky heels got in the way and she fell. She launched herself upright and ran down the corridor and into the master bedroom, not knocking. She halted breathlessly there.
Kait stood in the center of the room in a pale beige pantsuit, staring either at the bed or out the window beyond it. She turned.
“I can’t let you go. We love you, Kait! Even Dad loves you.”
Kait smiled sadly. “Your father may or may not love me, Sam, but I did something that he will never forget, and more importantly, will never forgive.”
Sam couldn’t breathe. First her father had hit her, then Gabe had been shot, and now this. “I don’t get it. You and Dad—you’re both hypocrites!”