by CJ Lyons
Besides, both she and Carver were self-proclaimed loners. Her last relationship had ended disastrously, something she wanted to avoid repeating at all costs, while he had sworn off commitment after his first marriage crashed and burned. His fault, he admitted readily. And that was as far as any talk of taking their own not-a-relationship-or-a-commitment to the next level went.
So she called him Carver. Better than using his undercover biker name, Goose. Yet lately, sometimes, only in her mind, Caitlyn found herself slipping and thinking of him as Jake. Wanting to ask his opinion on a case or share an interesting tidbit from her day, she’d call him up while she was on the road. He was so easy to talk to, always had great ideas, and she’d hang up, lie alone in bed in some motel far from her home, and fantasize about what her world would be like if she had him in her life every day.
Wasn’t going to happen. As soon as he was done testifying, he’d be shuffled to a remote field office far from any vengeful bikers, probably stuck behind a desk the rest of his career. Hell, given the way the Bureau and AUSA threw a fit when he’d first outwitted his security detail and came to Caitlyn’s place after refusing to be placed into protective custody, he’d probably end up in Guam. If he was lucky. If not, then Fairbanks, Alaska.
Carver was just a visitor to her world; that much was clear. Taking things further would only hurt them both in the long run. So Carver he would remain. At least outside her fantasies.
Sheriff Holdeman was finishing her summation. “Schultz has been giving county projects to the crooked contractors for years, taking kickbacks, and then giving them new contracts to fix the shoddy work they do in the first place. Our schools are falling down, the hospital has a roof that leaks like a sieve—actually had to evacuate after a blizzard when the snow began to melt, short-circuiting their electrical systems—and there are bridges just waiting for a strong gust of wind to blow them down.
“It’s a miracle no one has been killed—and it’s my job to make sure that this all stops before it gets that far.” No one could claim the sheriff wasn’t passionate about her job. It was one of the reasons why Caitlyn had taken this case, come up here in person to help.
“Wow,” Carver said. “Now I know how you got elected, Sheriff. What can I do to help nail this bastard?”
*
Maria pressed her face into her palms, inhaling her own sweat and fear. She’d quickly realized that running wasn’t her best option—not with all the noise and rustling branches pointing the way for her pursuers—so while the man with the scar called for reinforcements, she’d found a place to hide.
Hiding was what she did best. Emotionally, hiding the pain of a lonely childhood, constantly trying to prove herself worthy of her father’s love, escaping into a world of books and imagination. She had a gift for physical concealment as well. Her father said her vision was better than 3-D glasses, the way she could look at something and translate it into multiple dimensions—it was that gift that had helped her locate the temple from the professor’s satellite images. Instead of studying archeology, her father wanted her to use her talents to figure out puzzles like protein structures and enzymes—stuff that would help his biotech company. Boring stuff.
Even as a kid, she could spot the best hidey-holes, places that to the casual observer appeared too small or not the right shape for a person to fit inside. Like this rotten tree stump. The ground around it appeared empty, but Maria spied a depression beneath one large root, partially covered by low-hanging branches of another tree with wide, flat leaves. She had no idea what kind of tree it was—palm, banana, manna from heaven—but the shadows it cast onto the hollow carved out by the roots of the dead tree made for perfect concealment.
Curled up in a ball, ignoring the scurry of insects as she burrowed deeper into the soft soil left by the decomposing stump, she hid and waited, barely breathing.
Her heart pounded so hard and fast, she was sure it would knock over the dead stump above her or make the leaves of the other trees rustle and quake. But unless her pursuers took the time to poke and prod every dead tree and raise the lower branches to look beneath every live one, they’d never find her.
At least not quickly. Not unless there was an army of them. But she’d counted only five, including the man with the scar, the one who’d shot Prescott.
The man’s words still puzzled her. Had Prescott led them here, lured by the prospect of finding the treasure? But the man said Prescott was supposed to take her to el doctor—that had to be Professor Zigler. And the professor—what would the men be doing to him and his team? He was old, in his seventies—surely they wouldn’t hurt him.… The image of Prescott’s bloody face destroyed that small hope.
As she crouched, arms and legs going to pins and needles, she created a mental map of the area. The temple was less than two miles to the northeast in a direct route, a little longer via the twisting road—but she would need to avoid the road. The nearest town was over thirty-five kilometers—about twenty-two miles—away, so forget that. But if she could make it to the river, she could follow it downstream to a hospital she remembered seeing on the map. Following the river would take longer, with its twists and turns, but safer than trying to follow the more direct route the road provided. All she had to do was make it to the river.
“Maria,” a man’s voice called, setting off a wave of raucous echoes from the birds. He spoke English with a slight Spanish accent. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help. Come out now.”
Yeah, right. Did they think she was stupid? Even if Prescott had been after the treasure, these men were still killers.
The men were between her and the road, but that was a good thing. She wasn’t going back to the road. They wouldn’t expect that.
“We need her alive,” the man told his partners. “Fan out and cover back to the road. She couldn’t have gotten past here, we’ll drive her into the open.”
No, you won’t, she thought stubbornly. Her legs cried out for release, and the urge to shift her weight was overwhelming. She bit the inside of her mouth, using one pain to distract from the other.
Men stomped through the jungle, rustling the undergrowth around them. She imagined them wielding machetes and machine guns. They moved all around her, one actually raising the leaves on the other side of the tree covering her.
Maria closed her eyes, waiting for a bullet to hit her. Her pulse pounded through her temples and her chest tightened.
Then he was gone. She had the sudden need to pee, but forced it aside by thinking of something—anything—else. Her father with his military posture and stern scowls, daring anyone to disobey him, yet beneath it all he was so unhappy that Maria treasured every smile he gave her. Her mother, regal in her beauty, so poised and confident, everything Maria wasn’t.
She wished she’d never left home. She should have listened to them. They were right. She didn’t belong here. She belonged safe at home, curled up with one of her books.
“Maria, please, let us help,” the man called. “Your father sent us. We’re old friends of his from the army. He’s very worried about you.”
Maria listened hard, hoping against hope to hear a familiar voice. Had her father discovered her deception? Was he coming to rescue her?
“It will be night soon,” the man continued. “You can’t survive out here alone in the jungle. Not at night. That’s when the jaguars feed.”
Still she said nothing. If these men knew her father, wanted to save her, then why had they killed Prescott?
Lies. Everything the man said was lies. Her father wasn’t coming. She was on her own. Her tears mingled with her sweat as she struggled to stop crying, to keep still and quiet.
“Maria, have you ever seen a jaguar? Their claws are so sharp, they can eviscerate a man with one swipe.”
Now she had something else to fill her mind as she huddled in the darkness, smothered by the stench of decay. The jungle fell still, its silence oppressive.
One of the men shouted and fire
d his gun. Suddenly a howling noise, someone screaming in pain, broke through the air, making every muscle of her body clench.
“Don’t shoot!” the man yelled. “We need her alive.”
The screams got louder and multiplied as if a horde of tortured souls stampeded through the jungle.
“Damn howler monkeys,” one of the men said as he passed Maria’s tree stump, jogging toward the man who’d fired the shot.
There was a mix of Spanish and English, ending with laughter. From what Maria could make out—her Spanish was limited to hello, good-bye, and ordering beer—it sounded like the man had tripped and fired accidentally. Good thing he wasn’t aiming anywhere near where Maria was.
“She couldn’t have gotten this far, let’s head back to the road.” Their footsteps retreated as they moved past her.
She didn’t risk raising her head to look, but she felt the trees sway around her as the troop of howler monkeys passed, their screeches deafening. After they were gone, the jungle returned to normal. No sounds of the men. Just parrots squawking, frogs belching, and small animals rustling through the undergrowth.
Still she waited. Wasn’t sure if she could move even if she wanted to—her legs had gone numb. Her mouth was dry; she longed for a sip of water but couldn’t risk reaching for the bottle at her waist. Her fanny pack was now all she had left to help her survive: a bottle of water, protein bar, bandanna, notepad and pencil, compass, and her cell phone.
Plus her mind. Her will, her determination. She was an Alvarado, and Alvarados never surrendered.
The sound of a truck engine came from the distance. Traveling west, down the road. Her cue to move farther into the jungle, find the river.
They wouldn’t stop looking for her, not if they thought she was the key to finding the treasure. And men like that—they wouldn’t stop at killing Prescott, she was sure. The professor and his entire team were in danger.
Slowly, she unfolded her body from its contorted position and brushed the bugs and detritus from her hair and clothing. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her hat. She took a drink of water—only half a bottle left—and stretched her legs, taking her bearings. Her compass had cost her only a few dollars at a camping store, but now it was her most valuable possession. It confirmed her natural sense of direction, pointing her north, in the direction of the river. Her only hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
There really wasn’t much left to do except for the paperwork, but the sheriff was happy to have Jake’s second opinion on Schultz’s finances while she and Caitlyn interviewed Schultz and made arrangements for his daughter. It was dark by the time they finished their after-action reports and had everything tied up for the state prosecutor.
“So why did you really come here, Carver?” Caitlyn asked as she led him into her room at the Blue Ball Inn, a single-story 1950s-era wood frame motel. “Worried about me?”
“Not about you being on the job.” He threw his knapsack onto the second bed and looked around the dingy room done in various shades of scratchy brown tweed. “Hey, Magic Fingers. Got a quarter?”
“Then why?” she persisted, standing against the closed door, arms crossed. She didn’t like surprises—not even pleasant ones. They had a way of turning sour, spinning out of control. Caitlyn thrived on control. Yet another reason why she lived and worked alone.
“I was going crazy cooped up in that apartment of yours. I needed a little action.”
His “action,” leaving the safety of her apartment, was likely to give the U.S. Attorney apoplexy, but that was none of Caitlyn’s business. She also didn’t point out the fact that there probably would never be a next time for Carver to get in on any more field action. Not after he testified against the Reapers.
She knew how it felt to be sidelined from a job you loved—she’d had emergency brain surgery after an encounter with a killer last year, and it almost ended her own career. Now she had one last chance to prove herself with her new assignment as Local Law Enforcement Liaison.
Then he added, “I couldn’t help but notice how close this place is to Chambersburg and your grandparents. Figured it was the first time you’d seen them since you learned the truth about how your dad died, so…”
He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. So was she. Sometimes she forgot he knew things about her and her family that no one else did. So much easier to hide behind the jokes and sex and the idea that he’d soon be wandering out of her life as easily as he’d strayed into it.
Since he and Caitlyn met two months ago at the end of his undercover operation, Carver had been shuffled around by the FBI and U.S. Attorney to debriefings, depositions, and the dreaded post-operation psych evals. One rainy night he’d shown up on her doorstep, looking a lot like a stray cat with his wet hair straggling down to his shoulders and his duffel carrying everything he owned in the world. “Figured the Reapers would never come looking for me here,” he’d said—his way of inviting himself into her apartment and her life.
Every night when Caitlyn came home from Quantico, she expected to find him gone. That was the kind of relationship they had—no strings attached, nothing to curtail their independence or freedom.
It was the kind of relationship they both wanted. Needed even, as he eased his way back into a normal life after being undercover for so long and Caitlyn dealt with the challenges of her new job. At least that’s what Caitlyn told herself. When it came to relationships, her track record was worse than dismal. There was a stray cat she’d tried to befriend. When the weather turned cold, it abandoned her to move in with her landlady, sacrificing freedom for regular meals and a warm lap to sleep on. Then came the neuroradiologist who’d wanted to marry Caitlyn. She’d abandoned him for irregular meals; a cold, empty bed; and her career.
Yet lately, every night as she reached for the keys to her apartment door, she had this strange feeling of anticipation, anxiety, uncertainty, and … hope. All because of Carver.
“Saw my dad’s folks on the way up.” Talk about uncomfortable. Her grandparents had dragged her to Meeting. People sitting around, solemn, quiet and still, waiting, when all she wanted to do was scream and curse at God for taking her dad the way he had. For the lies and betrayals she now had to face.
It was their way, the Quaker way. Definitely not Caitlyn’s. Probably why she’d been so aggressive with her approach to Sheriff Holdeman’s case. But it all worked out in the end.
And Jake—Carver, she corrected herself firmly—had worried about her enough to come hold her hand. He need not have bothered. She could take care of herself, thank you very much. She’d been doing it since she was nine and her dad died.
He plopped down on the bed, patted the gold paisley bedspread. Arched one eyebrow in a suggestive leer. “They’re fingers and they’re magic.”
She glanced at his body stretched out across the bed. His T-shirt had bunched up, revealing the well-defined lines of his abs. And the way those jeans hugged his hips … She didn’t need handholding, but there were definitely other needs he could satisfy.
Digging a quarter out of her pocket, Caitlyn tossed it to him. “I’m in the mood for a little magic.”
“Your wish is my command,” he said, tugging her onto the bed with him.
Later, after they’d run out of quarters, she lay back, eyes closed, and for the first time since she’d left her home four days ago, relaxed.
“You know why I like you, Carver,” she mumbled, only half-aware she was even speaking out loud. He lay behind her, his hand lazily stroking her breast, avoiding the scars that crisscrossed her chest. “When I’m with you, I don’t have to think, don’t have to work. I can just … be.”
His hand fell away. Shit. Had she really just said that? It was the truth, but it wasn’t exactly the nicest thing to say to a guy. He’d think she was just using him for sex. And she was, of course she was—wasn’t she?
She opened her eyes and twisted to face him, expecting to have to work hard to soothe his bruised ego. But he was smiling at h
er, a smile that brought out the wrinkles around his eyes as if he was holding back laughter.
“You know,” he drawled, the Kansas farm boy he’d long ago left behind reappearing in his voice, “that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He leaned forward to kiss her, a kiss that felt like it meant something more than a prelude to sex. Caitlyn sank back against the pillows and let his embrace ease the confusion of emotions tangling her mind. Thinking too much. That was always her problem.
A few moments later, it wasn’t a problem anymore.
*
If Maria had any tears left, she’d be crying. Her stomach twisted in an empty ache. It had given up on growling. She’d already eaten her only food, a protein bar, to keep her spirits up. Had to swallow it dry; she’d run out of water hours ago.
The sun climbed high, turning the jungle into a sauna. Then, too quickly, it moved to brush the tops of the mountains to the northwest, stranding her in darkness. The jungle was a strange mixture of small trees fighting for any sunlight and towering trees that soared into the sky before spreading their branches. Both conspired to trap her inside a bubble of humidity and shadows.
As soon as she knew the men had gone, the sounds of their vehicles banished by the constant chatter of jungle noise, she’d pushed her way through ferns and palms and scraggly pine trees with long needles that stung when she brushed against them, hoisted herself over dead logs using a walking stick and clinging to the vines that twisted around tree trunks as if intent on strangling their hosts, using her phone as a light to guide her through the jungle’s gloom—it wasn’t good for anything else, as there was no cell signal—until it died at about the same time the sun had.
She’d dreamed of being an explorer all her life. But this was the first time she’d ever found herself actually in the wild. Unless you count camping out on the deck surrounding their pool when she was a kid. Her whole life had been spent pretending—all this reality hit with a shock.