This Side of Heaven tp-1

by Beverly Barton

The conquistador? Cyn couldn't stop the image from flashing through her mind. Since childhood, when she'd first heard the legend, she had visualized the ancient war­rior and his maiden. And now this man, this stranger on her beach, brought to life the haunting story of tragic love and a prophecy that the present would one day heal the wounds of the past.

  Cyn gazed out across the horizon, noting that the morn­ing sun was just beginning to ascend into the sky. She glanced back and saw the stranger run into the ocean, the surging tide covering his bronzed body in an aqueous ca­ress as his powerful arms and legs glided through the water.

  Who was this man, she wondered? And what was he do­ing on her beach? The nearest neighbor was over a mile away. All the land past her family's cottage and the old building across the road were part of a state park. Perhaps that was it. Maybe this man had ran along the beach for miles and somehow ended up taking a morning swim near her home.

  Time seemed to stand still for Cyn as she watched the stranger swimming, coming out of the ocean, walking along the beach. Then time began again when he suddenly turned and looked at her. He stood yards away, the sun bright be­hind him, but she could tell that he was staring at her. She had the oddest feeling that he wanted her to come to him. She stared at him for endless moments, until he turned and ran back up the beach. It took every ounce of her will­power not to follow him, not to run after him, not to call out.

  Her whole body trembled, inside and out. When she went back into the cottage, she began to wonder if she'd imag­ined the stranger, if all the mental stress she had endured recently was causing her to have delusions.

  Well, whoever he was, real or imaginary, it didn't mat­ter. She'd never see him again. The last thing on earth she needed at this particular time in her life was a man. * * *

  Nate sat on the huge tan leather sofa in his den, the only room in his new residence he'd bothered to fix up. Once things were settled with Ryker, he'd get rid of this musty old house and return to his place in St. Augustine. With his feet propped up on an old trunk and a beer in his hand, Nate felt relaxed for the first time that day. A second ran on the beach after lunch and another rigorous swim in the ocean had helped ease the constant tension with which he lived these days.

  She hadn't been outside on her patio or on the beach when he'd gone out the second time. He'd noticed that a white minivan was parked around on the north side of the cottage and assumed it was hers. That meant she was still here, still too close for comfort, still in danger if Ryker showed up sooner than expected.

  Whoever she was, she was beautiful, Nate thought. He couldn't erase the memory of her standing on the patio, the early morning breeze whipping her blond hair around her face, molding her thin cotton slacks to her rounded hips and legs. Although he'd sensed her presence when he'd been running, he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge her un­til he'd come out of the ocean and faced her. He had stood there staring at her like some lovesick teenager, as if he'd been struck deaf and dumb by the very sight of her. Hell, he'd seen gorgeous women before, he'd even had his share of lovely ladies, but there was something about this partic­ular woman. Something that sent a surge of both fear and longing through him. The longing he understood. The fear puzzled him.

  He had wanted to speak to her, to ask who she was and how long she'd be staying at the cottage. But he'd just stood there staring at her while she stared back at him. After what had seemed like an eternity, he'd turned and run away. If he'd stayed another minute, he'd have been on her patio, taking her in his arms. His body had been hard with need.

  Nate laughed, a mirthless grant. If he'd gone toward her, she probably would have ran into the house screaming her head off. If he'd gotten near her, he would have frightened her to death. After all, he was a stranger, a big, Hispanic-looking man with hair nearly to his shoulders. Hell, he was surprised she hadn't already called the police.

  The insistent ring of the telephone jarred Nate from his thoughts. Before answering, he knew the caller had to be one of two people. John Mason or Nick Romero. They were the only two people on earth who knew where Nathan Ra­fael Hodges was.

  "Yeah?" Nate asked when he set his beer down and picked up the phone sitting on the enormous Jacobean ta­ble behind the sofa.

  "I need to see you," Nick Romero said.

  "Maybe you should come here. See if anyone follows you. Let Ryker know where I am and get this thing over with."

  "Meet me in Jacksonville. Tonight," Romero said. "We know where Ryker is, where he's been and who he's work­ing for."

  "You boys have been busy."

  "The CIA kept track of him before he entered the coun­try. Our man Ryker has made some powerful friends in Colombia."

  "You could give me the information over the phone," Nate said as he ran one big hand up and down the moist beer can he'd placed beside the phone.

  "Probably, but I think we should talk, face to face."

  "When and where?"

  "Let's make it an early night," Romero said. "How about nine o'clock at a bar called the Brazen Hussy?"

  "I know the place." Nate recalled the sleazy bar where scantily clad ladies of the night and streetwise punk drug pushers mixed and mingled with the clientele. "Wise choice. Nobody's going to notice two more shady characters in a place like that."

  Romero laughed. "Yeah, that's us, a couple of shady characters."

  "Hey, Romero."

  "Huh?"

  "Have you done something about protection for John and his family?" Nate knew that Nick Romero would have to call in a few favors to get any type of protection for John and Laurel Mason and their son, Johnny. But there was no way to be sure that once Ryker found out about Nate's business association and friendship with the Masons that they would be safe. Nate had distanced himself from the Masons, hoping to protect them, but there was always the chance that Ryker would harm Nate's friends regardless of the circumstances. Ryker would do anything to see Nate sweat, to prolong the torture.

  "I'm working on it. It's just a matter of time."

  Nate could hear the hesitation in his old friend's voice, and instinctively knew that there was more. Something Romero didn't want to talk about. "What is it?"

  "I've got to ask you something," Romero said. "But I don't want an answer right now. Think about it and tell me tonight."

  "What?"

  "Do you know a man named Ramon Carranza?"

  "Carranza?"

  "Think about it, Nate. This Carranza has been showing a definite interest in you."

  "Who is he?" Nate asked, certain he'd heard the name before. Where or when, he wasn't sure.

  "We'll discuss it tonight. The Brazen Hussy. Nine," Romero said and hung up.

  Nate replaced the receiver, picked up his beer and walked across the room. The whole den was filled with knives. Elaborate display cases covered the walls, the desk and the tables. Nate reached down on the wide pine table by the windows, picked up a small wood-and-glass case and opened it. He lifted a sinew-sewn hide sheath into his big hand, then removed the Apache scalping knife with its sinew-wrapped handle.

  What does this guy Carranza have to do with Ryker? Nate asked himself. What ungodly secret has Nick Romero un­earthed? * * *

  Cyn pushed the bits of lettuce and tomato around in the salad bowl. She had tried to convince herself that she didn't really want any of the chocolate-marshmallow ice cream she'd picked up at the store less than an hour ago. After all, she'd made it through the entire trial without reverting back to her old habit of using food as a crutch. But, with each bite she took, the nutritious veggies with which she'd con­cocted her enormous salad tasted more and more like card­board.

  Shoving the bowl aside, Cyn stood up and turned toward the refrigerator. Don't do it, she told herself. Stay away from that ice cream and your hips will thank you for it.

  With her hand on the freezer, Cyn closed her eyes, curs­ing under her breath. It's that man, she thought. He's got me acting irrationally.

  She had survived Evan's death, four y
ears of loneliness, the year-long trial to convict her husband's killer. She had sought refuge here at the beach so she could come to terms with Darren Kilbrew's senseless murder. Somehow she could make sense of it all. She had to. But what she didn't need was the intrusion of some stranger, a man she identified, foolishly, with her phantom dream lover.

  She wished she hadn't been sitting at the desk beside the back windows when he'd taken his swim in the ocean this afternoon. If only she hadn't seen him again, she never would have made that hasty trip into town. There was something about the stranger that unnerved her. Somehow she knew he was no ordinary man. Her instincts told her that he was dangerous.

  Cyn let her hand drop from the freezer door. Maybe what she needed was a swim, a vigorous swim in the cool spring­time ocean. Anything was better than this nervous hunger inside her, a hunger she had hoped chocolate-marshmallow ice cream could appease.

  Leaving the kitchen, she headed for her bedroom to put on a bathing suit. Just as she walked down the hallway, the telephone rang. Who on earth? she wondered. Even though her father and her brother David knew she was here, she doubted either of them would have reason to call her. And Mimi certainly wouldn't be calling again. That left only one person.

  Cyn opened the door and walked across the bedroom to where the portable phone lay at the foot of the twin bed by the window.

  "Hello?"

  "Cyn, how are you?" the man asked. "Everyone here at Tomorrow House is very concerned about you."

  "I'm all right, Bruce," Cyn lied. She wasn't all right. She probably would have been if some savage-looking stranger hadn't appeared on her beach and stirred her imagination into overdrive. But, of course, she couldn't tell Reverend Bruce Tomlinson such a thing. "Is there something wrong? I know you wouldn't have disturbed my vacation other­wise."

  "Well... I hated to call, and Mimi practically threatened me, but—"

  Cyn thought Bruce sounded whiny. Scratch that. She thought he sounded more whiny than usual. The current director of Tomorrow House had little in common with Reverend Evan Porter, who, although he'd been the gen­tlest of gentlemen, had been quite capable. "What's the problem?"

  "It's that Casey kid who came here about a week ago. I told you he would be a problem."

  Cyn wanted to scream. For the past four years, Bruce had come to her with every situation too nasty, too dirty, or too much trouble for him to handle. "What has he done?"

  "It's not what he's done," Bruce said. "It's what he's going to do tonight. Mary Alice overheard Casey on the pay phone. I thought maybe I should call the police, but Mimi is totally opposed."

  "Bruce, you're not making any sense." For the eleven millionth time in four years, Cyn wanted to shake dear Reverend Bruce Tomlinson until his teeth rattled.

  "Casey is meeting some guy tonight to buy drugs, and he's... he's taking Bobby with him."

  "Bobby!" Cyn had suspected that Casey was a user, but Tomorrow House had made many a runaway addict wel­come for brief periods of time, had even helped a few kick the habit. Evan's death had been the only tragic result of giving safe haven to a junkie.

  "I thought I should just confront the boys, but Mimi said confronting them would do no good, that Casey will leave in a few days and Bobby might go with him if I push him too far. She suggested that I speak to Bobby alone."

  "Did you?" Cyn asked, praying silently. Bobby was a good kid, only thirteen. He'd been at Tomorrow House for nearly a month, longer than most, and there was a chance he would eventually agree to try another foster home.

  "I couldn't. He's gone."

  "What?" Cyn cried, gripping the phone tightly.

  "And Casey's gone, too. I imagine they left early for their night on the town."

  "Did Mary Alice overhear where they were going to meet this dealer?" Cyn asked.

  "Some place called the Brazen Hussy at around nine-thirty, tonight. I've never heard of it, but I can guess by its name what sort of establishment it is. What on earth am I to do?" Bruce's voice sounded as distraught as Cyn felt.

  "Don't do anything Bruce. It isn't our place to play po­licemen with the kids who come to Tomorrow House." Cyn recited the words she'd been told over and over again. "If we start calling in the police, the word will get out and none of these boys and girls will come to us when they need help so desperately."

  "But Bobby—"

  "I'll take care of this."

  "What are you going to do?" Bruce asked.

  "I'm not sure, but I'D think of something." Cyn knew she should take her own advice, but she also knew that she wouldn't.

  "I'm sorry I bothered you at a time like this. I realize how badly you needed to get away from all the problems here, but I didn't know who else to call. You're our tower of strength around here, Cyn. We just don't know how to deal with you being... well, out of commission, so to speak."

  "Don't tell Mimi that you called me," Cyn advised the minister. "She'd never bake you another pineapple upside-down cake as long as you live."

  Bruce chuckled in his good-natured way. "Thanks, Cyn. You take care, and hurry on back to us. We miss you."

  "Goodbye, Bruce. And don't worry about Bobby. Just leave him to me."

  Cyn punched the off button and lowered the antenna, then tossed the telephone back onto the twin bed. She moved her overnight bag off the wicker settee, put it on the floor and sat down. Dear God, what was she going to do?

  Bobby, abandoned at the age of five by his parents, had moved from one foster home to another. His last foster fa­ther had physically abused him and he'd run away. He'd been eleven at the time and had been on the streets ever since. Cyn could only imagine the nightmares the boy had lived through, but she knew one thing for certain. Bobby had never used drugs.

  What would Evan have done in this situation? she asked herself, and immediately knew the answer. Evan would have gone after Bobby and Casey. He would have talked to the boys and, in his own loving yet professional way, would have talked Bobby into returning to the shelter. Cyn had become just enough of a realist in the past four years to know that Casey might be a lost cause.

  Did she have the nerve to go to a place like the Brazen Hussy? She'd be a fool to go alone at night to one of the most notorious bars in town. But what choice did she have, other than calling the police?

  She would just put her can of Mace and her whistle in her purse, dress appropriately and pray that her guardian angel would protect her.

  Chapter 2

  "Ryker is in Miami," Nick Romero said, then took a lei­surely sip of his Scotch and soda, eyeing Nate Hodges over the rim of his glass.

  Instead of replying immediately, Nate let the informa­tion soak in as he glanced around the smoky bar. Tonight the Brazen Hussy was as loud and smelly and crowded as it had been the last time he had stopped by, over a year ago.

  Noticing the small group of teens crowded around a ta­ble at the far side of the room, Nate took a deep breath be­fore turning his attention back to Romero. "Some of them aren't dry behind the ears, but the scum that owns this place doesn't give a damn. He's been busted twice for allowing minors in this place, but somehow he manages to stay in business." Nate grunted with disgust. "Just look at them. They're smoking pot and waiting around for their dealer to show up."

  "When did you start worrying about kids you don't even know?" Romero asked. "I'll bet if you bothered to check every boy would have an ID to prove he's of age."

  "Yeah, fake ID."

  "They really think they're tough, don't they? I was just like them once. I thought that growing up in a tough neigh­borhood had prepared me for anything. Until I went to Nam."

  "They'd all flip out if they knew a big, badass DEA agent was sitting across the room from them."

  "I'm not here tonight as an agent." Romero gave his old SEAL comrade a hard, intent look. "I'm here as your friend."

  "Yeah, I know, and I'm grateful even if I don't act like I am."

  "I've arranged for some protection for John's family. Unofficially, of course.
By the way, how is he now that he's a happily married man?" Romero grinned, then took an­other sip of his drink.

  "Happy," Nate said, not looking directly at Romero, but at some point over his shoulder where a tall, buxom bru­nette was giving him the eye. "He says he's in love, and damn if I don't believe him."

  "Who would have thought it, huh? The three of us shared some good times together, didn't we?"

  "Yeah." Nate gave his head a negative shake when he noticed that the brunette was coming straight toward him. He wanted her to know he wasn't interested. He'd lost his taste for her type years ago. "But you and I shared some bad times, too."

  "Mm-mm, starting with when we first got to Nam and our entire platoon got the runs from drinking the Vietnam­ese water."

  Nate chuckled, the memory distant and harmless enough to laugh about. "So, Ryker's made it to Miami. No big news. We knew it was just a matter of time." Nate lifted the glass of straight bourbon to his lips, savoring the taste when it hit his tongue.

  "He's working for the Marquez family as a bodyguard."

  "Big-time drug dealers." Nate wasn't surprised. Ian Ry-ker had been a mercenary, a soldier of fortune and a drug smuggler. He was the type who understood the system and used it to his advantage. No matter what, he always found a loophole, a back door out of trouble. "What else does Ryker do for them?"

  "He's an enforcer," Romero said. "He's been with the family for over a year, first in South America, now here."

  "Were they the ones who got him out of the prison where we thought he'd died?" Nate asked.

  "Our information is sketchy, but it's possible. All we know is that Ryker was reported killed five years ago when he was serving a sentence for smuggling, then miracu­lously, he reappeared a few months ago, alive and well and back to business as usual."

  "Who spotted him?" Nate knew that Ryker would have taken no chances of being seen, of making himself visible, and, with his looks—a patch over one eye and his left hand missing—it would have been difficult for him to move around Miami incognito.

  "Not one of our guys." Romero looked squarely at Nate. "Remember the man I asked you about earlier today?"