11

by Kylie Brant

  Raiker’s teeth flashed. “You wouldn’t want to see a slideshow of where I’ve been.” And Jude was reminded again of all the man had endured. Nodding toward the photo, Raiker said, “See that area circled on the skull?”

  Jude peered closer. “I see the circle. No idea what it’s supposed to signify.”

  “Caitlin Fleming is working the case. One of my forensic anthropologists. Someone left that young woman in a mineshaft in Wyoming. A pair of trespassing spelunkers discovered her. Two things in Caitlin’s report caught my attention. One was that no hair was on or near the body. Given the state of decomposition there should have been clumps, or at least strands still clinging to the remaining scalp. Barring that, some should have been found in the tarp. Or at least in the vicinity.”

  “Okay.” He’d take the other man’s word for it. Raiker was the one with the world- renowned forensics agency.

  “Caitlin found a mark on a scrap of scalp. She’s narrowed it down to ink. The kind used by tattoo artists.”

  Jude stilled. And at last the reason for his friend’s visit became apparent. “That was part of Mia Deleon’s account when she returned home. That her captor kept her head shaved. Tattooed with a number.”

  “Eleven.” Satisfied, Raiker sat back in his chair and reached for his glass again. “Caitlin’s findings with this corpse reminded me of Deleon’s story.”

  Jude handed the photos back to the man. Watched him slip them back in the briefcase. “Then you should have recalled that nothing ever came of following up on that story, despite some pretty intensive investigating. Upton told me that Mia’s father tried to have her committed once she’d returned. Twice.” He sipped, watching Adam over the rim of his glass. “She’s not exactly a reliable source.”

  “Still.” The inexorable tone was familiar. “I want to speak with her myself. I’ve had no luck. Either she’s off the grid or she’s left the country, although not under her own name.” He paused a beat. “I figured since you have some expertise in that area, you could help me find her.”

  Security wasn’t the only service at which Jude’s agency excelled. He also had a reputation for discovery. People, things, information. The flip side of that skill was an acquired expertise in helping them disappear.

  “I could.” Jude sipped, deliberately holding the man’s gaze. “But I don’t divulge that kind of information about my clients.”

  “I’m not asking you for client secrets.” Impatience threaded the words. “I want you to contact her. Tell her we met. Ask if she’ll talk to me about this case. That’s all.”

  Jude frowned. “False modesty aside, once I find her I can’t promise she’d consider your request. Unpredictability is her MO.”

  “Just a phone call,” the man pressed. “I can be very persuasive.” He nodded toward the photos in the closed brief case. “The family of the woman in those photos deserves closure. Even if I end up agreeing that Deleon is a nutcase, at least I’ve eliminated the possibility that the two are connected.”

  Jude thought of the unidentified woman in the mineshaft. And he had to agree with his friend. Everyone required answers. Even the dead.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It seemed to be enough for the other man, and they both finished their drinks in a companionable silence. Perhaps because Raiker knew with Jude on the job, it wasn’t a matter of if Mia Deleon would be found.

  It was when.

  * * * *

  The woman known as Samantha Simmons pedaled down the Da Nang streets, winding through a snarl of street vendors packing up their wares and narrowly missing a collision with a brightly colored four-wheeled taxi. The driver’s spate of furious Vietnamese warred with the shrieks of the egrets wheeling against the sky. Palm trees flashed by as she rode further out of the urban area toward her high-rise apartment building near the beach. For once the charm of the coastline dotted with palm trees was lost on her. Her mind had only room for one thought.

  Dr. Halston was dead.

  The words hammered through her until her insides throbbed with the bleak truth. He hadn’t been too busy to continue their now occasional correspondence. He hadn’t grown ill, despite the fact he’d been over eighty. The reason he hadn’t responded to her last two messages was because he couldn’t.

  …killed in a home invasion…

  Her dry eyes burned, blind to the scenery flashing by. Her knees pumped powerfully on the bike, an outlet for the violent emotion churning through her. It had taken her nearly a month to get curious enough to look for other possible explanations for Halston’s unusual silence. A simple Google search to discover it.

  …friends and family are invited to gather to commemorate his life…

  Samantha had been neither. She bent over the handlebars, letting the hot sticky air whip through her hair. She’d been an anonymous cry for help in the vastness of cyberspace. Halston was dead. But because of him she still lived. Had perhaps even found a sliver of contentment.

  She’d never be able to articulate how much she owed to a man she’d never met. Or how bereft she felt now that even that tenuous lifeline had been clipped.

  Whizzing by her building, Samantha then coasted for several more blocks before turning and heading toward home on the road that ran in back of it. It was a mistake to form attachments. She accepted that as one of the few absolutes of her existence. So this rush of emotion was surprising. Unfamiliar. And utterly devastating.

  Braking to a stop in front of her favorite cà phê, she walked the bike to lean it against the fence separating the property from the sidewalk. Crossing the small cobblestoned patio area, she sat down at one of the scattered wooden tables. The breathtaking view of the Sơn Trà mountain and peninsula to the north failed to soothe her as it normally did. Her tee shirt was damp with perspiration. The grass umbrella gave little relief from the brutal heat, which hovered in the nineties, with humidity to match. Her apartment had air-conditioning, but thoughts of her empty home were unappealing. Hoa, her roommate, was a flight attendant. Gone for days at a time, she wasn’t due in until later this afternoon.

  A narrow street and small courtyard were all that separated Samantha from her building. Trees obscured her view of the lower level, but counting up three floors she could clearly make out her small terrace. The potted palm. The small metal table and chairs that sat on the outdoor woven mat.

  “Sam-an-tha.” Quyen, the owner came out of the cà phê to greet her with a big smile. “You are hot?” You need cà phê đá? I bring quick.” The woman bustled off.

  The traditional Vietnamese iced coffee with cream was usually a favorite. But Samantha could feel no pleasure in what had come to be an almost daily custom. She felt disconnected in an odd way that had nothing to do with the years she’d spent living in foreign countries, or her solitary lifestyle.

  Shrugging out of her navy backpack, she placed it carefully beneath the table between her feet. A gaggle of young Vietnamese schoolgirls, riding three and four abreast, went by on bicycles in their blindingly white uniforms. Samantha watched them until they were out of sight. She’d once been that young. A lifetime ago. She’d been that careless, exactly that unobservant of safety precautions. The image of the girl she’d been was clear, but the memory felt as though it belonged to someone else.

  Quyen returned with a tray from which she took two glasses, one filled with ice and topped with a metal phin, the coffee brewer. The other held the condensed milk to be added. She set both on the table. “You pay now? We close soon. Open later.” Belatedly, Samantha realized the significance of the schoolgirls returning home. Everything came to a halt in the country between eleven and one-thirty for lunch and naptime. She took her wallet from her backpack and counted out the correct dong notes to hand to Quyen.

  “Hoa returns soon?” the woman asked chattily.

  “Later today, I think.” Samantha removed the phin, and poured a thick stream of the milk to the beverage. “But she never stays long.”

  The other woman
made change then wiped her brow. “You drink. Go home. Nap.”

  Samantha said nothing. The Vietnamese custom of the midday break was one she’d never embraced. Sleep wasn’t a condition she welcomed. Slumber lowered inner defenses, allowed memories to rush in. More often than not she woke sweating and shaking, terror trapped in her chest. A scream on her lips.

  “You nap. I’ll enjoy my coffee.”

  Quyen shook her head, obviously puzzled by the idiosyncrasies of foreigners, but after a few more minutes of small talk, she bustled away to enter the shop. Locked the door.

  Samantha busied herself with pouring the coffee, following it with a stream of sweet milk. She couldn’t get Halston’s death out of her mind. Couldn’t prevent a feeling of loss for a man she’d never met.

  Traffic thinned to the occasional vehicle. Taxis—either scooters or cars—remained open for business, but it was a slow time. The occasional shopkeeper might skip the traditional break time in order to prepare for the next influx of customers, but as a rule the city rested. Even most police and government officials would be at home during the searing noon heat.

  A man on a motorbike approached at a leisurely pace on the street. The pale skin beneath his helmet caught her attention. Tourist, was her first thought. Or a visitor like her who didn’t practice the customary daily rest. His head turned, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction of a second too long. Paranoia, honed by hyper-vigilance reared.

  He wasn’t a threat. She took a deep breath. Released it slowly. She was safe. The mental assurances had become automatic under Dr. Halston’s tutelage. It was normal to notice another pale-skinned foreigner among the Vietnamese. But her gaze was wary as she watched him pass. Non-citizens were prohibited from driving, but that didn’t stop many visitors to the country. The government was loath to disrupt their newfound tourism, so turned a blind eye to such infractions. Samantha had never chanced it. Her false ID had been good enough to get her into the country, but there was no reason to invite increased scrutiny.

  She had only a moment to study the stranger as he went by. The helmet covered his face, but foreigners stood out in Da Nang. Samantha had tried fading into the anonymity of the largest cities in the US. But felt safer living outside its borders. At times living halfway around the world could almost make her believe she’d run far enough.

  The man passed and her gaze traveled beyond the street and across the narrow courtyard to her building. A flash of movement at her terrace door caught her eye. There and gone so fast she thought at first that she’d imagined it. But in the next moment the terrace door burst open. A woman rushed to the balcony.

  Hoa. Samantha started to raise her arm to wave. But a scream split the air. Someone followed Hoa out the door. The stewardess turned. The two locked together, as if moving in a silent choreographed dance.

  “Oh my God!” Terrified she jumped up, not noticing when her sudden movement had the coffee sloshing over the rim of her cup. The stranger forced Hoa backwards. Another scream sounded. As if in slow motion, Samantha watched her struggling roommate forced over the railing. And fall to the ground three stories below, out of sight.

  Time freeze-framed. Then the stranger on the balcony looked in all directions. Caught sight of Samantha. Stared hard.

  Under that gaze the blood congealed in Samantha’s veins. A chill carved a path down her spine, leaving ice in its wake. She opened her mouth. Couldn’t utter a sound. Could only gaze at that face. The fall of blond hair wasn’t familiar, but the features…

  An instant later the stranger disappeared back into the apartment. The action released Samantha from the numbness that gripped her. She turned, clumsily stumbled across the patio to the door of the shop. Pounded on it with both fists. “Quyen! Quyen! Help! Please help!” Her voice was broken. Craning her head around she threw a glance over her shoulder, half-expecting to see the intruder heading across the small courtyard toward her. There was nothing. No traffic. No pedestrians.

  No witnesses.

  She resumed pounding, a persistent rhythm that had her fists and arms aching. Finally Quyen could be seen through the door’s window, a frown of concern on her face. “Call the police! Someone hurt Hoa. Call an ambulance!”

  The other woman seemed to take forever to unlock the door and pull it open. “Sa-man-tha. What is wrong? Hoa hurt?”

  The words tumbled from Samantha’s lips, forgetting for a moment the woman’s limited English. “Someone pushed her over the balcony. Hurry! Call the police and a doctor.”

  The sound of an approaching motor had panic streaking up her spine. Turning, Samantha raced back to the table, reached beneath it for the backpack and shrugged into it, all while running toward her bike. She wasn’t thinking now. Fear had catapulted her back to that sticky morass of terror that could still suck her in. Suck her under. Transform her from a rational adult to a quaking terrorized mass of primitive emotion.

  She hopped on the bike, glancing up as a motor neared. A car. She began to pedal, hugging the curb as her legs pumped faster, waiting for the vehicle to pass.

  It drew beside her. Her nerve endings quivered as seconds ticked by and it didn’t pass. She threw a glance into the vehicle and her legs stopped movement. She stared hard at the driver. Blinked.

  It was impossible. Had to be. Because inside the car was the person who’d thrown Hoa off that balcony. She didn’t recognize the hair, but she knew that face. It belonged to someone she’d thought never to see again.

  It was the woman she’d once known only as Four.

  2

  She turned sharply and jumped the bike over the curb. The car followed her onto the sidewalk, the driver attempting to pin her against a building. Samantha screeched to a stop just short of the vehicle’s bumper and it grazed the stucco of the shop beside her. Caught between the wall and the car, she used her feet to back the bike up until she could turn and take off in the opposite direction.

  Her heart beat a frantic tattoo in her chest, the rhythm of it ringing in her ears. Dimly logic reared. How could the woman be here, now? And if she was here…he must be close by.

  The thought threatened to paralyze her limbs, leaving her helpless. Prey. The word flashed across her mind, strengthening her will. She’d spent years ensuring that she’d never be vulnerable again. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw the driver attempting to turn around in the nearly empty street, almost hitting a scooter in the other lane. Samantha’s knees pumped faster. She had the advantage here with her familiarity of the neighborhood. That would have been more helpful if she didn’t know all the shops would be closed. Locked.

  The sound of the motor was drawing closer. She turned sharply, shooting down an alleyway too narrow for the car to follow. The pack was heavy on her back, weighing her down. But it had everything in it she needed. She wouldn’t have to return to the apartment to pick up her things...

  Hoa. Samantha shot out of the alleyway and across the two-lane street. The memory of her roommate being injured or killed because of her could summon crippling remorse at a time she could least afford it. So she shoved all thought aside and concentrated only on survival.

  It was a condition she was all too familiar with.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. She could only hope that meant help was headed to her apartment building. The screech of tires behind her was much closer. And much more critical.

  Samantha wheeled into another narrow passageway, this one barely wide enough for her bike. At one point she had to get off and hoist it in her arms, shimmying by a large Dumpster. The bricked exterior of the building caught at her thin tee shirt, abrading the skin beneath. Her progress was slow. She got to the mouth of the passageway and saw the car fast approaching, already pulling up on the sidewalk to block her exit.

  Trapped. The blood coursed through her veins in a torrent. Fear transported her back in time. She wasn’t in Da Nang anymore. She was in her cell in that large shadowy building, at the mercy of a monster. And the woman chasing her now had been nearly
as bad. What had she become after spending five more years in captivity?

  Samantha lifted the bike again, this time throwing it at the car. It bounced on the hood and the blonde behind the wheel put up an arm, as if to shield her face. Samantha took the opportunity to turn and run, retracing her steps through the narrow alleyway, her breath coming in jagged little gasps. The suffocating heat and humidity squeezed her lungs in sweaty fists. Adrenaline spurred her on.

  She burst out onto the sidewalk and dashed across the street and, after a moment’s hesitation, took the alley again. Reason was making a belated appearance. She wasn’t going to be able to outrun the woman, so she needed to outsmart her. Samantha knew the city. She had to believe her pursuer did not.

  Although, she realized darkly, her hand going to rub at the stitch in her side, the other woman knew the culture well enough to realize when she would be most likely to get away with her crime. In the full light of day, while the city slept.

  Taxis were one business that didn't close down midday. An occasional yellow cab could still be seen on the streets. Other drivers operated scooters and suffered the brutal heat in the hopes of a fare. A line of them dotted the curb across the street, many of the drivers stretched out atop their motorbike, waiting for customers. Samantha peered around the edge of the building at the alley entrance and eyed the row of vehicles. The blue car could be seen pulling around the corner to the left. In half a block it would reach her.

  Samantha drew back into the alley, the warm brick of the building pressed against her back as she sidled to a doorway and ducked out of sight. She waited, breath strangled in her chest for the car to pass by the entrance. Ten seconds. Twenty. It wasn't until a minute ticked by that she realized she was holding her breath and released it in a long stream.

  The driver would have to park or go by. And if she parked...Samantha's hand crept to the knife she kept strapped beneath her tee shirt. She stood a far greater chance of survival if the battle was hand-to-hand. Since escaping her prison, she'd learned a few things. And she had no qualms about using her newly acquired skills on the woman behind the wheel.