by Lynn Viehl
By the time they reached the edge of the walkway leading down to the empty pier she felt ready to explode. She took a moment to look for surveillance equipment before she turned on him. “Okay. I need to know exactly what this is about. For real.”
“So do I.” He studied her face. “I see. You still have some doubts about me.”
“Some?” she snapped. “I’m kidnapped, drugged, and dumped at a Club Med for millionaires. I wake up naked, with pearls in my hair, next to a cripple who is in shock from blood loss and nearly dies on me. Twelve hours later his wound disappears, and suddenly he’s not a cripple anymore. In fact, he looks like he can run the hundred in five flat and tosses me around like I’m a rag doll. So yeah, Sam, I have doubts. Not some; many.” She moved her hand horizontally from left to right. “Imagine a mountain range of doubts.”
“Let’s walk down to the water,” he suggested. “The sound of the waves should cover our voices.”
The pristine, powdery amber sand spoiled her attempt to stalk down the beach, and that annoyed her almost as much as Sam’s neutral expression. Once they were standing in the sea up to their ankles, she glanced back and went still.
Only the tiered, flat rooftop of the mansion was visible from the shore, but the beach itself curved away from them on both sides, hugging the landmass in an irregular circle before it vanished behind it. The only other structure in sight was the long wooden dock. The coast and roadways she had expected to see didn’t exist, and over the very tops of the trees to the left she saw a distant green blur swaddled by ocean.
Suddenly it made sense why she hadn’t been able to pick up any thought streams last night. “We’re on an island.”
“That would explain why he didn’t secure us in the house.” Sam made a slow three-sixty turn. “No boats, no way for us to leave, and no way to call for help.”
Now she noticed just how pristine the empty beach was: no litter, no lifeguard, not even a discarded cigarette butt. “Who kidnaps two strangers and dumps them in a mansion on a deserted island? And why?”
“I wish I knew.” Sam glanced back at the house. “You said you heard a recording over the speaker in the bedroom. Was it the sniper?”
“No, the voice was different. Educated, more polite. He also spoke Spanish and English, but his accent was strange.” She wished she could erase what he’d said from her mind, but his words still needled her. “He knew my name and yours. He called the house Séptima Casa. He said it was our new home.”
Samuel knew just enough Spanish to translate the name of the villa. “The Seventh House.”
“That’s not all he said.” Her voice went flat as she told him the rest.
“So if we follow the rules, become lovers, and don’t attempt to escape, we will want for nothing.” Sam seemed bemused by the bizarre demands. “May I ask you a personal question?”
She folded her arms. “I don’t care what the jerk said or how many pearls he puts in my hair; I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I never presumed that you would.” He glanced down at her arms. “Charlotte, by any chance were you adopted as a child?”
Of all the things he could have asked her. “This is not the time to play ‘Let’s Get to Know Each Other.’ ”
He gave her a direct look. “Answer me, please. It’s rather important.”
“No, I wasn’t adopted.” Honesty made her add, “Not legally, anyway. I was abandoned when I was little. An older couple found me and took me in.”
“I know this is none of my business,” he said carefully, “but can you tell me how you came to be with your new family?”
She didn’t have to tell him what had happened before she’d met the Marenas. “I was hungry, and my parents caught me in their backyard stealing tomatoes and peppers from their little vegetable garden. They didn’t have any family or kids, so they took me in and pretended I was theirs. They’d just moved to San Francisco, so none of the neighbors questioned it.”
He nodded. “Why didn’t they turn you over to the police?”
“At the time, INS was having one of their crackdown sweeps through the city. Mama thought I might be a migrant kid, and was afraid I’d be deported and end up in a Mexican border orphanage.” She looked down and nudged a piece of conch shell with her toe. “They didn’t have much, but they spent every penny they had to get me papers and stuff so I could stay with them and go to school.”
“Where are they now?”
“Planting tomatoes and peppers in heaven, I hope. Papa died of a massive stroke my second year of college.” She took in a deep breath. “Mama’s heart gave out a few months later.”
“I’m so sorry.” His hand moved up to her shoulder. “I have one last question, and then I’ll stop prying, all right?”
When she nodded, he asked, “When your parents found you in their garden, you had been tattooed, hadn’t you?”
She felt sick. “Yeah.”
“May I see it?”
She stepped back until she broke the contact between them and looked at the body ink curling over his collarbones. “It’s not as pretty as yours.” She shrugged off the white lace wrap and turned her back on him, showing him the dark purple oval and the six blunt triangles inked on her shoulder. “Most people think it’s a lopsided sun.”
“It’s a turtle.” He traced the center oval with his fingertip. “It’s actually quite adorable.”
“Glad you like it.” She pulled on her shirt and faced him. “Now tell me how you knew that I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“We are not random strangers abducted purely by chance,” he said. “I believe we were deliberately targeted, although I don’t know how he could have known where we would be.” He saw her confusion. “My parents also adopted me, Charlotte.”
“And when your parents got you, you had that bird tattoo on your chest.” Suddenly it all made sense. “Oh, no.”
“Don’t be afraid.” He tried to put his arm around her shoulders.
She shook her head, backing away from him. “He knew what we are.” Wildly she looked around. “They’ll be coming for us. We have to find a place to hide.” Her stomach surged, and she stumbled away, falling to her knees as she heaved.
Sam knelt beside her and pulled back her hair, bracing her with his other arm as she emptied her stomach into the water. When the last of her heaving subsided, he dampened the hem of his shirt and used it to wipe her mouth. “It’s all right, my dear.”
“No, it’s not.” She staggered to her feet, breathing in deeply. “There’s a biotech company that hunts people like us for our DNA. Sam, they’ll kill us for it.”
“I know very well what GenHance has been doing,” he told her. “But if they had abducted us, I believe we’d already be dead and dissected.”
Another shock wave went through her. “How do you know that?”
“I belong to a very private online group. People like us who have been sharing information about our unusual talents.” His eyes narrowed. “As, I suspect, you do.”
“Your hands.” She glanced at them and then his face. “Jesus. You’re Paracelsus.”
Colotl watched as the two newcomers rose from the sand and walked back to their villa. When they passed by his position, he did not breathe or move. The woman, as dark as the man was fair, appeared bigger and stronger than their women. She resembled one of the master’s concubines, but she didn’t move or speak like one. He found the moments when she had shown her anger to the man and then vomited into the sea particularly intriguing.
So was their body art. Phoenix and turtle. Colotl had never seen such markings, but he sensed the power radiating from both of them.
Once he heard them enter the house, he drew back into the green shadows and made his way to the cave, where the other men waited. Gathering like this was dangerous at any time, but the master’s unknown sentinel seemed to be less vigilant during the day.
“Why did you not bring him?” Ihiyo, always impatient, asked as soon as he joined them.
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“He is an American.” He knelt down to drink from the spring, but the reflection rippling on the surface of the water made him sit back on his haunches. He could hide from everything but his own face. “So is the woman. They speak like the steward.”
“Their scents are strong in the air. The woman has been bled.” Tzinacan dropped a pebble into the spring. “And the man smells of the master’s blood.”
Ihiyo and the other four men all began to talk at once. When their voices grew too loud, Colotl stood and lifted his hands for silence.
“They have only just arrived. For now, we will watch them.” He glanced at Liniz. “What did you see last night?”
“She was afraid at first, but she composed herself quickly. She gave the man her blood by tube, and then sewed up a wound in his side.” When Ihiyo made a rude remark, Liniz scowled at him. “She saved his life.”
“That is what they want us to think,” Ihiyo snapped. “Pici’s time is coming. What will this woman do to her when it begins? What if she comes after your Xochi?”
“If she tries to do anything,” Liniz said flatly, “I will slit her throat.”
“Brothers.” Colotl rose and touched Liniz’s shoulder briefly before he addressed the others. “For now, we will watch. Each of us, in three-hour shifts. The next boat will come tomorrow. Ihiyo, you are the closest; you will go first. Report to Tlemi before sunset. I need to know everything they do.”
Ihiyo’s expression darkened. “What if no boat arrives?”
“Then we will know a little more about them.” Colotl gestured toward the narrow entrance to the cave.
“Go now.”
Each of the men picked up his bundles, shouldering them before he filed out. Only Liniz lingered, and when they were alone he took a small black stone blade from his pocket and offered it to Colotl. The stone’s beveled edge reflected the light with tiny prisms.
“I know what you are going to say,” Liniz told him. “But as soon as I saw him stand, I had to make it. He is almost as big as the master.”
Colotl tested the edge of the stone weapon, which sliced into his fingertip the moment he touched it. “You take too many chances, my friend.”
“Ihiyo forgets that I would do whatever I must to protect what is mine.” He held out his left hand and splayed the stumps of two missing fingers. “Do not make the same mistake, brother.” He removed a string of fish from the water and strode out.
Colotl used one of the hidden paths to make his way back to the other side of the island. He heard the sound of splashing as he emerged from the forest, and changed direction to walk into the water garden.
Tlemi’s long red hair blazed in the sunlight as she stood naked in the center of the saltwater pool and fed bits of seaweed and fish to the baby sea turtles she kept there. The freckles that covered every inch of her resembled golden lace hugging her skin.
“You were a long time,” she said without looking at him.
“The mangoes by the stream were not yet ripe.” He dropped his bundle on the grass and stripped off his shirt and shorts before he stepped into the pool. Immediately a swarm of the small green-and-black reptiles surrounded him, bumping their bullet-shaped heads against his thighs. “They are growing fast.”
“I think we should release them next week.” She scattered the last of the food before turning to him. “The man is awake, and healed. The woman is weary. She did not sleep or eat.” She rubbed her temple. “Her mind is powerful. During the day it sleeps, but it becomes like a beacon after dark. If she suspects …”
“I will see to it that she does not,” he promised. He cupped her cheek. “You are flushed.”
“I have been hot this morning.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and he understood the warning. “Then I will have to keep you wet.” He lowered his head.
Her fingernails dug into his arms as he kissed her, signaling a frustration he shared. Since Colotl was a boy he had known Tlemi was for him—those choices had been made soon after they came to the master—but unlike the others he had not resisted his duty. Not until they had come to the island.
She tasted of coconut and mint, and her warmth sank into him until he could feel her in his bones. Every time he touched her he wanted to be inside her, a need that he’d assumed would dwindle over time. It hadn’t; in the years since their first night he had grown obsessed with having her as often as he could.
She broke the kiss first, her breath rapid and unsteady. “You make me forget myself.”
The passion should have been a gift. Instead it had become a burden they both carried.
“You make me burn,” he murmured against her lips. He eased his hand between her taut thighs and stroked her, watching her eyelids droop and her lips part. “Do you need me now?”
Sadness tinged her laugh. “I need you always.”
He picked her up in his strong arms and carried her out of the pool.
“Señor Frasier?”
Drew looked up from the newspaper he couldn’t read to see a woman he couldn’t stop staring at. His eyes shifted from the top of her glossy black hair down to the open toes of her ivory pumps, and then traveled back up again to her heart-shaped face. Her irises didn’t match—one was the color of sand, the other as jet-black as her hair—but the effect made it seem as if some unseen beam of light had caught her eye.
She appeared as immaculate as if she’d just come from a photo shoot for a high-end fashion magazine. The cream color of her silk suit set off the tawny smoothness of her skin, and had been cleverly tailored to complement her petite proportions without overemphasizing them. The jewelry she wore was made from narrow, hammered gold and glinted discreetly from her ears, throat, and wrists. Dark red gloss accentuated her full lips, but if she wore any other makeup, he couldn’t see a trace of it.
Somehow he got to his feet. “I’m Agent Martin Frasier.” The gray-bearded Mexican detective who had left him to wait in the empty office had said something in broken English about a translator. “Are you the interpreter?” Please say yes.
“No, but I do speak English.” She put down the portfolio she carried and held out her hand. “My name is Agraciana Flores. I’m an agent with La Procuraduría Federal de Protección al Ambiente.”
Drew resisted the urge to rub his hand against the side of his trousers before taking hers. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand all that,” he said as soon as he forced himself to let go. “Does that mean you’re with the police department?”
“PROFEPA is in charge of governing and protecting Mexico’s natural resources,” she explained. “I have been called in to consult on this case.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Part of the investigation involves Las Islas Revillagigedo, a group of islands off the coast that are under federal protection as a priority biosphere reserve,” she told him. “Under our laws, no one is permitted within six nautical miles of the archipelago. My agency has been tasked to oversee any operation that takes place in their vicinity.”
She wasn’t a cop; she was some sort of government conservationist. “I’m sorry; I don’t understand. What do these islands have to do with my case?”
“It is somewhat complicated.” She glanced down at the cup in her hand. “Detective Ortega suggested I bring you some coffee from the squad room, but I like Americans.” She offered him the cup. “I bring this from home for myself. It is a little like, ah, hot chocolate?”
Drew accepted the cup and took a sip. The thick, hot drink tasted dark and smoky, and was only slightly sweet. The tingle it left behind after he swallowed was unexpected but oddly satisfying. “It’s very good. Thank you for not hating me and my countrymen.”
She didn’t smile, but a delicate pink color appeared on her cheekbones. “I hope you feel the same after we have discussed the case.” She pulled out a chair and gestured to his. “Please, sit down. Is this your first visit to Manzanillo?”
“Yes.” Drew wasn’t sure what to think of it, either. Down b
y the water the Mexican seaside town had reminded him of the more expensive parts of the Caribbean, all palm trees and white palatial hotels. But turning east he had left behind the glitz and glimmer and followed the narrow streets up the surprisingly steep hills into the heart of the city, where he expected the powerful sunlight to bring out every detail of the poverty and urban decay the tourists never saw. Instead he found a town as clean and charming as any theme-park resort. “What’s with that gigantic blue fish statue down at the oceanfront?”
“El Monumento al Pez Vela.” She smiled a little. “Sportfishing is very important to the local economy. We call it el camarón—the shrimp—because of the way it is curled up. Are you staying in Obregón Garden?”
“No, I haven’t gotten a room yet.” Drew had driven past some dazzling hotels by the twin bays, and stopped to stare at one that had been built as a replica of a massive Mayan temple, but they were too high-profile for his needs. “I’ll take care of that later.”
From her briefcase she removed several slim files and some sketches, which she set between them in two neat piles.
Drew tried not to stare at the top sketch, which bore a striking resemblance to the photos of Samuel that he had pulled off the Internet. “You’ve found the victims?”
“Unfortunately, we have not.” She opened one file and produced a photograph of a boat. “This vessel was found abandoned at the public docks.” She gave him the registration. “Is this the boat that was stolen from Monterey?”
He took out his notepad and compared the numbers. “Yes. Did you recover the victims?”
“There was only one victim.” She showed him another photo, this one of a dead man on his back, his face covered in blood.
Drew almost snatched the picture from her, but relaxed when he saw the man’s black hair and small stature. “This isn’t Samuel Taske.”
“We have already identified him. His name is Pedro Tacal.” She regarded him steadily. “He left Mexico City last week to visit a sister in Sacramento. We assume he was traveling back home when he was attacked and abducted.”