by Gayle Wilson
“I don’t know. I guess it would depend on how trusting I was,” she said finally.
He laughed, the sound low. Unamused. “I don’t think these people are very trusting. But the plane crash has been widely reported, and they’ve released Diaz’s name.”
“What about Jordan and Hawk? What do you think’s happened?”
Griff didn’t like the images those words conveyed. He hoped to hell nothing had “happened” to them. They hadn’t hesitated when he had asked for their help, but everything was different now than when they had been members of his team. This wasn’t their job. And they had responsibilities they hadn’t had then. People to protect. And to care for.
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully, wondering how he would tell those who were waiting for their return if Hawk and Jordan didn’t make it back. What would he say to their wives, and in Jordan’s case to Kathleen Sorrel’s children, if something had gone wrong?
Keeping his men safe was something he had always managed to do before, no matter how dangerous the situation. No matter the odds against their survival.
“They seem capable of looking after themselves,” Claire said softly, probably reading his anxiety.
And they were, of course. No one knew that better than Griff, but he was worried. There seemed no reason to respond to her comment, however, and again the silence stretched, tense and uncomfortable. Which he found sad, because, although they had been many things when they were together, they had never before been uncomfortable. Not even the first night.
“Well,” she said hesitantly. “I just came up to check on you and Jake. I guess...I guess you’d rather be alone.”
She turned, moving silently across the deck.
“No,” he said. His voice was so low he wasn’t sure she would hear. And he didn’t understand why he had made that admission. Other than the fact it was the truth. He didn’t want to be alone.
He was pushing the cruiser through the coastal waters as fast as he dared. Probably faster than was safe, but that wasn’t why he wanted company. After all, he hadn’t wanted Jake up here.
But Griff didn’t want Claire to leave. He wanted her with him. Of course, he acknowledged, again remembering, he had always wanted that.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He looked up. She was standing at his side once more. He reached out and took her hand. The bones were fine and delicate, and they felt as fragile as porcelain under his fingers. He pulled her forward a little, directing her without speaking to the pilot’s chair beside the one he was occupying.
She obeyed, but when she was seated, he didn’t release her hand. Her eyes, focused on his, were questioning, and the smooth oval of her face was as beautiful to him as the first time he’d seen her.
She had borne his child, and he hadn’t even been there. And she had mourned his death. Hawk, his controlled voice more emotional than Griff could ever remember it, had told him about Claire’s visit to his grave. About the solitary rose she had left there. As much a message as Griff had intended the one he had sent her to be. A symbol of what had once been between them. And, in a way, what still was between them. Embodied in their child.
“I’d like to hear about her,” he said.
He ran his thumb slowly over the fine-textured skin on the back of her hand, the gesture unthinking, provoked by the familiarity of her fingers resting, relaxed and unmoving, in his. Again. In spite of everything.
“I’d like to tell you,” she said.
And so, her voice low and unhurried, and very intimate, she talked to him about Gardner until they reached their destination.
Chapter Ten
The path that disappeared into the low-growing vegetation on the tiny key had been visible even from the cruiser. And from there it had looked a lot less rugged than it was proving to be, Griff acknowledged, as they fought their way through the dense undergrowth of saw palmetto and salt-wort.
He and Claire had waded through the shallows and climbed around the exposed mangrove roots. Then they had hit this. His damaged leg probably made progress over the terrain even more difficult for him than for Claire, which was particularly frustrating.
According to the instructions Griff had been given during the phone call he’d made in Miami, their meeting with the kidnappers was supposed to take place in the small gray house he could see beyond the overgrown palmetto and scrub palm.
Jake had stayed on board by the radio, hoping to hear something from Jordan and Hawk. Griff had intended for that to be Claire’s job, but she had been adamant about going with him. She was going to be there when they gave Gardner back, she had said, her eyes challenging, just as they used to.
Jake had shrugged his agreement. His expression warned that he thought Claire had probably reached the breaking point. So Griff had given in, which, he acknowledged, was turning out to have been a smart move. This undergrowth would have made it difficult for him to carry a six-month-old. And neither he nor Jake, he had to admit, knew a whole hell of a lot about babies.
“Almost there,” Claire said, as she turned to wait for him. He had let her lead the way after they’d gotten over the mangroves, preferring that to having her walking behind him, watching his progress.
Right now, her gaze was focused on his face—rather obviously focused there, he decided bitterly. And then, looking at her more closely, he realized that the thick vegetation and tangled roots had probably demanded an equally strenuous physical exertion on her part.
Her face was covered with a film of perspiration. A strand of hair clung to the moisture there after escaping the confinement of the long single braid, which lay over her left shoulder. As he watched, she pushed the tendril off her temple with the back of her fingers.
The gesture was so familiar, almost exactly like the one he had seen her make on television. Obviously feminine, it was enormously provocative as well. Griff lowered his eyes, fighting memory, fighting need, forcing himself to concentrate again on the uneven ground.
When he reached the place where Claire was waiting, he didn’t look at her, but focused instead on the house that stood behind her. It was located in a ragged clearing, surrounded by more of the same vegetation they had just fought their way through.
It was apparent that the cleared area around the house had at one time been much larger. Given the climate, however, the creeping undergrowth had reclaimed almost everything that had originally been hacked away.
Weathered, squat and close to the ground, the house had probably withstood its share of tropical storms. It certainly looked as if it had been designed for that purpose.
Griff wondered briefly why anyone would want to live in this place. Maybe someone’s idea of paradise, but its isolation, the unremitting heat and humidity, and the prospect of what might be hiding in the surrounding scrub meant it wasn’t his.
“Do we just knock on the front door?” Claire asked.
Her question had a thin edge of sarcasm, probably injected to hide her anxiety. She was now facing the house as well, standing at his left shoulder.
“If they’re in there, they know we’re here.”
“If?” Claire repeated.
“There was no boat in the cove. No sign of activity there or around the house.”
“But Jake is sure that this is—”
“This is where they told him,” Griff confirmed before she could finish the question. “Jake knows these keys like the back of his hand. Come on,” he ordered.
Without waiting for her to obey, he started across the clearing. In the heavy stillness, there wasn’t a bird cry. Not even a whisper of wind rustling through the dry spikes of the palmettos. The silence around them might simply be the result of their presence in a place that didn’t get many visitors, but it was strange that there seemed to be no sound here at all, other than their own labored breathing.
When he reached the front door, Claire trailing closely behind him, Griff hesitated, again listening. The quietness of the clearing was unbroken, and d
espite it, Griff could hear no sound from inside the house. No conversation. No radio. Nothing. It felt as if he and Claire might be the only two people on the planet. Certainly the only two on this island.
As he thought that, Claire reached past him and fastened her hand around the knob of the door. She didn’t turn it immediately, hesitating long enough to give him time to protest. But despite his misgivings, and a growing sense that something was very wrong here, he knew they had to go in.
When Claire’s hand began to move, the knob turning slowly beneath the same fingers that had rested in his while she had told him about his daughter, he didn’t stop her. She pushed the door open, revealing a sheltered dimness that seemed almost inviting after the outside glare.
There was still no sound. Nothing emanated from the dark interior but a miasma of late afternoon heat, mildew and rot, all ubiquitous in the tropics.
Griff moved past her and into the entrance hall, pausing just across the threshold to give his eyes time to adjust. He heard Claire follow, the soles of her running shoes making a faint noise on the old-fashioned terrazzo floor.
He fought the urge to call out to the people who were supposed to meet them. Whoever had set this up had to know they were here. They should have been watching ever since he and Claire climbed down the ladder of the yacht and waded into the shallows.
Claire, who was now beside him again, touched his arm, questioning his hesitation with arched brows. He tilted his head down the hall and then stepped forward, making no effort to mask the sound of his steps.
The hallway, when they reached the end of it, opened into a spacious room, obviously the main living area of the house. The ceiling seemed very high, especially compared to the low entryway they’d just left. On one side was a wall of glass, fogged by years of buffeting by the sea wind.
At one time the vegetation, which could still be discerned through the salt-hazed windows, must have been kept cut back, revealing a view of the ocean. All that could be seen of the water now was a blear of turquoise beyond the palmetto spikes and moss-draped dwarf cypresses.
Part of the musty odor that pervaded the house came from the furniture. Sun-faded cushions covered a matching set of chairs and couch that hadn’t been in style for more than forty years. Now, especially along the seams of the pillows, black mold almost obscured the once-bright colors of the fabric.
There was no one waiting to meet them. And still no sound except an indistinct buzzing. Insects, Griff decided, dismissing the low, distant hum from his evaluation of the situation.
His gaze slowly circled the long room. There was a kitchen on one end, separated from the living area by panels of white latticework. On the other end was an opening that led into another hall, this one even darker than the entryway had been.
“Stay here,” he ordered, starting across the expanse of terrazzo to explore it.
His uneven footsteps echoed off the stone floor. But he had already decided it didn’t matter how much noise they made. The house was empty. It felt empty, devoid of life, and obviously it had been for a long time.
He didn’t know what game the people who had taken Gardner were playing, but the frustration he had fought throughout the last year was again boiling up inside. A sick disappointment about failing at something this important. And almost as powerful as those, his dread of having to justify his failure. To Claire, and perhaps even more importantly, to himself.
When he entered the hallway, he discovered there was a windowless bathroom on his right. A few steps farther down on the left was the open door of what he assumed would be the bedroom. The hum he had vaguely been aware of since they’d entered was louder back here.
A broken window? he wondered, walking toward the doorway. It seemed strange he hadn’t heard the insects outside. He’d been aware of that hum only after they had come inside. Only after they’d reached—
The sick sweetness of the smell should have warned him, but he didn’t put it all together until he stepped into the room. Then he didn’t need any of the clues he had missed.
Whoever had done this had opened all the windows in the bedroom before they’d left, very probably to ensure that what was going on would happen. The open windows had made the smell less obvious in the rest of the house. And of course, the body had to have been here less than forty-eight hours.
Griff closed his eyes, blocking out the image of what was on the bed. He fought a surge of nausea so strong he literally swallowed against it, trying desperately to push the bile out of his throat. And he forced himself to stand in the fetid dimness, trying to make his mind work. Trying to make this an intellectual exercise. Trying to figure out exactly what message he was supposed to receive from this obscenity.
Because there was no doubt in his mind this was a message. And that it was what they had been sent here to find.
“Dear God,” Claire said, her anguished whisper coming from behind him.
Griff opened his eyes. They felt as burned as they had yesterday, unprotected from the blaze of the sun reflecting off the water. Listening to the sounds of Claire’s retching behind him, he made himself take another look at the thing on the bed.
His lips flattened with disgust, but he realized he hadn’t been mistaken. The second look left no doubt. Despite the condition of the body, he hadn’t been wrong about his identification.
He turned around, moving a few steps out into the hallway before he took a breath. He hadn’t even realized that he had been avoiding breathing while he was in the bedroom, an action automatic and unthinking.
Claire was standing at the end of the hall, her head bent forward, her right hand resting high on the wall beside her, as if for support, her left clamped over her mouth. The diffuse light from the salt-glazed wall of windows limned the back of her body and touched the long blond braid with silver.
He walked up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. Immediately she turned, leaning into him, laying her head against his chest. His left arm enfolded her. He could feel her trembling, her slim body vibrating as strongly as his had when they’d pulled him out of the water last night.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’re all right. Whoever did that is gone, Claire. Long gone.”
Without thinking, he lowered his head, setting his chin on the top of her head, feeling the sun-warmed softness of her hair under it. He closed his eyes, remembering other times he’d held her. The good times.
The fragrance of the shampoo he had noticed before had been released by the heat and exertion of their trek. He took a deep breath, welcoming the sweet normality of its scent. It cut through the sickness that was thick in his throat. Purifying it. And him.
“Who is that?” Claire whispered, her face still buried against the front of his shirt.
He thought about lying to her, but he had done enough of that. There had been more than enough tricks. On both sides. More than enough cleverness to go around. Griff’s mouth tightened briefly before he opened it, but he told her the truth.
“Ramon Diaz,” he said.
It took a few seconds for the name to register, as he had guessed it might, and he waited through them. It might take a few more for all the implications of what he had just said to sink in, but Claire Heywood was very bright.
Her head lifted suddenly, and she took a step back, moving away from him. Breaking whatever bond had been between them.
Her eyes seemed very blue now, as blue as the water in the lagoon they had crossed to get here. And despite yesterday’s ordeal, the whites were clear. The dark pupils had widened, however, as they focused on his face. Trying to read it despite the dimness. Trying, he knew, to understand.
“Diaz?” she whispered.
Her voice sounded puzzled, but the knowledge of what this meant was already in her eyes. Her intellect was fighting against accepting it, he supposed. Just as his had done when he’d identified the body.
“He’s...he’s supposed to be dead,” she said finally.
“He is,” Griff s
aid bitterly. “Spectacularly dead.”
They had cut his throat, the wound deep and running from ear to ear. There was a lot of blood, but most of it seemed to be on his clothing rather than on the bed, which argued that Diaz hadn’t been killed here. This was strictly for show. A message intended for Griff.
Claire shook her head, the movement contained, and her eyes didn’t release his, still questioning. “Dead and in the ocean,” she clarified. “That plane exploded.”
She said the last word as if there was no doubt. As if that phrase answered everything. Diaz’s plane had exploded over the ocean. She had seen it or heard it, and had seen burned and broken evidence of the crash in the water. Therefore, Diaz shouldn’t be on the bed in this house with his throat cut.
“But he wasn’t on the plane,” Claire said softly, coming to the obvious conclusion. “He was never on that plane.”
The last was accusatory. And Griff deserved it. Whatever she wanted to say, he knew he deserved to have to listen to it. And to have to explain.
“Briefly,” he admitted.
“Just so the cameras you’d set up could film him boarding.”
When he nodded, she went on, piecing together what they had done. What they had done and not told her about. That was the one part of this, he suspected, she would find unforgivable.
“Then you got them off the plane somehow....” She paused, thinking about it. “Hawk and Jordan got them off, out of camera range—Diaz and his bodyguards—and you took the plane up alone. You exploded an empty plane over the ocean, so...” Again she faltered. “So the kidnappers would think Diaz was dead.”
Maybe this was better, letting her work it all out in her head. Without him having to tell her all the reasons he had chosen to do it that way.
“But you never intended to kill him,” she whispered, her voice shocked and then accusing. “Not from the first. But you didn’t tell me that.”
“What we do... What the team did,” Griff amended, “was never like what they wanted. We never killed for personal reasons. I would never ask my people to do that, Claire. Not even in this situation.”