by Anne Stuart
“You do?”
“You’re going to serve as bait to pluck a rather mild pigeon. They’re looking for you, and I intend to let them find you—once I’m there, ready to kill them.”
“Will it be very nasty?” she inquired, her china-blue eyes wide and innocent.
“I expect so.”
She flashed all her perfectly orthodontured American teeth at him. “Sounds delightful,” she said. “When do we start?”
Chapter 19
IT WAS A COLD, blustery day. The sky was icy blue over St. Mark’s Square, and the thick white clouds scudded above them. Elizabeth sat at the outdoor cafe, watching the pigeons and trying to control her shivers. The coffee should have warmed her up, but she’d already had two cups of the thick, strong stuff, and she didn’t dare put any more caffeine in a system that was already overloaded with nerves.
Anyway, as she well knew, there were different sorts of cold. She much preferred the icy chill that bit its way through her thick cotton sweater to the inner chill radiating from things she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see. Unfortunately, she was prey to both sorts right now, and the shivers reached so deep inside her bones that she thought she might shake apart.
She looked across the table at Sam, knowing he’d be staring into space, into his coffee, anywhere but at her. They’d slept side by side in the sagging bed last night, somehow managing not to roll to the middle and touch each other. Not until the first streaks of dawn had begun to reflect off the murky canals did he move, pulling her underneath his fully aroused body, sheathing himself in her damp, impossibly ready warmth. He took her with a kind of desperation, and she met his lost passion with a despair of her own, certain he was going to die, too afraid to let herself look too closely. When it was over he lay against her, his breath rasping in her ear, holding her as the tremors began to leave her body. And then he lifted his head, looking down at her, and once more asked the question she’d refused to answer. “Where’s the blue house?”
Her sense of betrayal and hopelessness had been complete. She’d told him, knowing he’d force it from her through a pleasure that was somehow close to pain, and when she did, he simply nodded, dropping his head back to her shoulder. And reaching her hands up to push him away, she instead cradled him against her, staring up at the cracked ceiling and trying to memorize the water stains, trying to stop time.
He’d barely spoken to her since they’d risen that day, half his brain reserved for his own inner thoughts, the other half ever alert for the danger surrounding them. They’d been sitting at the outdoor cafe for more than an hour now, and what little body warmth Elizabeth possessed had long ago vanished.
“It’s too cold to be at an outdoor cafe,” she said, pushing the dregs of her coffee away.
He pulled his gaze back from the far side of the square and focused on her for a moment. “There are plenty of other tourists out,” he said diffidently.
“That’s because they’ve come to Venice on an expensive vacation and they don’t want to let the weather stop them from experiencing any part of it. We, on the other hand, are not here to see the sights.”
“No,” he said, turning his gaze back to the columned portico across from them.
“Why are we sitting here?”
“I thought you wanted coffee.”
“We could have had coffee in our room. Why are we sitting here? What are we waiting for?”
He lost interest in whatever had fascinated him and turned to her impatiently. “This is the safest place I could think of for you. There isn’t any more public place in all of Venice. No one can sneak up on you. No one can stab you in the back. Everything’s in the open.”
“Including us. Which means, if someone’s looking for us, they’ve found us.”
“That goes without saying. Any number of people are looking for us, and they might be watching us right now.” He glanced over at the imposing edifice of St. Mark’s Cathedral with all the interest of a street cleaner assessing the litter.
“Then what are we doing here?” she asked again, getting impatient.
“Waiting for Danny.”
“You’ve decided to trust him after all?”
“Not particularly. But at least I can trust him to a greater extent that I can anyone else. I know how his mind works; we were trained by the same people. The problem with that is that he knows how my mind works. I’m going to be hard put to keep one step ahead of him.”
“But you’re going to?”
“I have no choice.”
“Then why are we waiting for him? Why don’t we just take off?”
“Because we aren’t going anywhere,” he said flatly. “He’s meeting us so that he can watch you. Keep you safe. While I go after Shari.”
“Damn you, Sam, you can’t do that.”
“Try me,” he said.
She shut her eyes for a moment, thinking of all the pleas, the bribes, the reasonable excuses, she could come up with. All she could see was his blood.
He took her limp, cold hand in his, and her eyes flew open to meet his, hoping to find tenderness, love, reluctance. All she saw was a certain rueful determination. “I don’t want you to die,” she said clearly.
He shrugged, but for a moment she felt a shaft of remembered pain sweep through him, pain and guilt. “Better me than you,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “I don’t want to have your death on my conscience. It’s heavy enough as it is.”
She felt the warmth pulsing through his hand, felt the pain and withdrawal, and she wanted to cling, to pull him back to her. But he was going, fading, and if she didn’t stop him, he’d be gone. “I’m not going to die,” she said.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he said, gently pulling his hand away from hers. He glanced around the square, searching for Danny. “Damn it, where is he?”
She knew she only had moments. Once Danny arrived to take over guard duty, Sam would disappear. “Don’t leave me behind, Sam,” she said desperately, but he ignored her. “Sam, please.” He made no response.
She had one weapon left, and she had no idea how powerful it might be. “Sam,” she said, suddenly very calm. “Who was Amy Lee?”
She had his full attention now, and his eyes were dark with pain and rage. “The reason I’m leaving you behind, swami,” he said. “She was my wife.” And without another word he pushed himself back from the table and walked away from her.
She let him go, sitting back in the wire chair and absorbing the blow, waiting for the pain of betrayal to rip away at her. It never came. Was his wife, he’d said. She was dead, along with Phil and a hundred others, and in that death was a gut-wrenching betrayal. But whose betrayal had it been?
Sam was out of sight. He’d walked away from her without a backward glance, moving at something close to a run. She knew perfectly well that he hadn’t been running from her, but from memories too painful to face. She glanced around her, over her shoulder, for Danny’s deceptively guileless face. He was nowhere in sight.
Sam had left a pile of lire on the table, and she could only hope it was enough to cover the exorbitant cost of the coffee. She shivered, wondering if she dared follow Sam, then decided against it. Sam was on a wild-goose chase on the right bank of the Grand Canal. The blue house was tucked in a seedy old neighborhood on the left. She’d lied to him, still trembling with the aftermath of his lovemaking, still holding his body tight within hers. She’d looked up into his implacable face and lied, to save his life. She’d only bought a little bit of time, a day at the most. When he returned to the penzione he would know she’d lied. And this time she wouldn’t be able to hold out against him.
She glanced around the huge, crowded square, wondering if Danny were watching her from a distance. Younger tourists were few and far between, and they seemed to be in family groups. There was no sign of her dangerous nursemaid; no one paid the slightest bit of attention to her.
Her eyes drifted over a dark-eyed, slender man at a table near her
s, moved on and then stopped. She didn’t look back at him—she didn’t dare. She knew she had never seen him before in her life. And she knew who he was.
She allowed herself a brief glance as she once more surveyed the piazza. He was looking to her left, paying no attention to Elizabeth at all, and she breathed a tiny sigh of relief, wondering if she’d somehow sent her odd talent into a tailspin by trying to force it. Wondering if she was imagining monsters in the closet, murderers in every stray tourist. Shifting in her chair, she followed his intent gaze. And looked directly into Shari Derringer’s placid blue eyes.
She was sitting alone, seemingly unaware of the man’s inimical gaze, or of Elizabeth’s shocked expression. Her mane of golden blond hair was shorter than the photographs, closer to Mary Nelson’s. Her face was as open, as cheerful, as guileless, as an innocent child’s, and Elizabeth wondered if they’d made a very grave mistake. If Shari Derringer was simply one more victim of some monstrous plot.
There was only one way to find out, a way she dreaded. But she couldn’t hide from her responsibility any longer. She couldn’t leave it up to Sam, or Sam would die. She had to make a move on her own, and quickly, before the dark man made his, before Shari Derringer disappeared, this time never to be seen again.
Elizabeth rose, dropping her napkin on the table, and headed over to the woman, half expecting the blonde to run. She didn’t. She greeted Elizabeth’s steady approach with nothing more than mild curiosity.
“This seems awfully rude,” Elizabeth said, her voice huskier than usual with the strain, “but you look like you’re an American. I’m alone here in Venice, and I haven’t had anyone to talk to for days. Would you mind letting me buy you a cup of coffee and giving me a chance to talk to someone from home?”
God, it sounded lame, even to her own ears. But Shari Derringer simply smiled at her and gestured toward the wire chair opposite her. “I’d like that,” she said, her voice softly accented from her native Virginia. “I’ve been here for ages with no one to talk to.” She leaned forward, her blond hair brushing her pretty face. “Do you see that man over there?”
Elizabeth squirmed in the chair, not having to look. “You mean the one staring at you?”
“That’s it. Does he look familiar to you? I can’t get over the feeling I’ve seen him before. At first I thought he was just one of these Italian Romeos, but now I’m not so sure.” The waiter arrived with two cups of coffee, and she accepted hers with a flirtatious smile that sent the waiter off in a daze.
Elizabeth allowed herself a glance backward. The man was still watching Shari, watching her, and that definitely wasn’t lust in his dark eyes. “Never seen him before,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. It was sweeter than the stuff Sam had ordered for her, but just as potent. “He’s handsome enough.”
“In a creepy sort of way,” Shari said. “My name’s Mary Nelson.”
Elizabeth spat out her coffee, then tried to cover it with a fit of coughing. “Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her coffee-stained sweater. “It must have gone down the wrong way. I’m Amy Lee Oliver.” It was the best she could come up with on short notice, but Shari just smiled at her, that sweet, otherworldly smile.
“Hi, Amy Lee,” she said. “God, this coffee’s good. Almost worth being in Venice.”
Elizabeth took another tentative sip, concentrating on the woman opposite her, wondering if she really didn’t know who she was. There were all sorts of mind-altering techniques, from drugs to hypnosis to things she couldn’t even begin to imagine. If Shari were a victim, she could have been subjected to one of those techniques.
She took another drink of her coffee, hoping the hot stuff would warm the deep chill that had settled in her bones. She could only be glad they were in the midst of St. Mark’s Square. She wouldn’t want to be anywhere more remote with that man watching them. “Why are you in Venice?” she asked, hoping she sounded casual as she drained her cup.
“Beats me,” Shari said cheerfully. “I was traveling around Europe with a bunch of friends and ended up here. The rest of them went on to Marrakech and were supposed to pick me up on the way back, but I think they might have run into trouble. Want some more coffee?”
She was going to have to touch her. Elizabeth didn’t want to—she’d rather touch a snake, but she couldn’t quite convince herself why. Shari Derringer might be completely innocent, and all Elizabeth had to do was reach out and put a casual hand on her arm. There were bruises on that slender arm, nasty bruises, not the sort an innocent tourist might acquire, but there was no fear, no deception, in those beautiful blue eyes. Just limpid friendliness.
Damn, she was so cold her head was throbbing. Her veins were turning to ice; even her heart was struggling with the strain of fighting the chill. She held out a hand toward Shari, but it didn’t reach, it flopped uselessly on the table, and she knew she was going to slide out of the chair, onto the pavement, and where was Danny, where was Sam, where was anyone . . . ?
“Al,” Shari said to the dark man who’d come up behind them. “I think Elizabeth is ill. We’d better get her home to bed.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, to scream for help, but nothing came out. The man picked her up effortlessly, his arms tight, like those of an octopus, and she knew she was being wrapped in a shroud. Sam wasn’t going to die, she was, and there was nothing she could do about it. No sound came out of her mouth, much as she tried.
She could see the faces around her, the concerned faces of strangers. And she could see Shari, a smile wreathing her pretty face, as she put a solicitous hand on Elizabeth’s face and carefully closed her eyes. And then everything was dark, and silent.
ELIZABETH WASN’T sure when she awoke. The darkness was still all around, but she could hear faint noises. The lapping of water against the house, the distant sound of a cat-fight, the scolding voice of a mother and the whine of a child. She tried to shift, but her arms were bound so tightly that the pain was almost unbearable. She put it in a tiny compartment of her mind, knowing there was nothing she could do about it, and tried to roll over.
She was on some sort of makeshift pallet on a stone floor. Her hands and feet were tied, and her mouth was gagged with something foul. For a moment she thought she was blindfolded, too, but as she twisted her head around she could begin to make out shapes in the inky dark room.
She knew where she was, of course. It didn’t take a psychic to know she was a prisoner in the blue house. What she couldn’t understand was why it was so silent. It had been teeming with people yesterday. Now it felt empty. Deadly. Like a tomb.
She managed to sit up, ignoring the pain in her arms, and leaned back against the wall, trying to ease the pressure in her body. As she pulled her feet beneath her she realized with sudden horror that she wasn’t wearing the same clothes she’d been taken in. At some point when she’d been unconscious from whatever filthy drug they’d put in her coffee they’d stripped her clothes off and dressed her in something long and flowing. She didn’t need to peer at it in the dark to know that it had to be dark—blood-red.
She started to cry, letting the tears roll down her face and soak into the gag binding her mouth. It seemed silly, childish, but there was no one there to watch. She sat there, alone, and waited.
The light that flooded the room was blinding, and she shut her eyes tightly against it, against the slender, scantily dressed figure that sauntered into the room. She kept them shut for as long as she possibly could, until she felt a slender hand stroking her tearstained face, and she shuddered with real horror.
“Poor baby,” Shari crooned, kneeling in front of her. “Don’t cry.”
At that inanity Elizabeth glared at her, her expression contemptuous. But Shari simply slid her arms around Elizabeth’s body, pressing her against her silk-covered breasts, smothering her in perfume. “You’ll see, darling. It won’t be so bad. You’ll grow to like the pain. You’ll want him to keep on, and on, and on.” She smiled down at her, a dreamy, doped-up smile. �
�Al’s very good at it. I promise. You won’t even mind when he kills you.”
Elizabeth shut her eyes in horror. Not at the thought of her own death at Al’s evil hands. That had been a foregone conclusion from the moment she’d felt her consciousness fading in the outdoor cafe. No, she was reeling from something far worse. Shari’s weird, scented embrace had opened doors that had remained tightly closed, and she now understood what Shari was doing. Why she was important enough to a group of international criminals to make them go through the elaborate charade of the Colorado Slasher.
Inside that vapid, drug-soaked brain was detailed mathematical knowledge that was going to kill thousands of people. Perhaps hundreds of thousands of people. Inside a brain that held only a minimal IQ were the secret locations of a dozen missile silos all over Europe and Latin America. Not only the secret locations, but the means of overriding the security to enter them. In the next few days the Spandau Corporation was going to tap into Shari Derringer’s limited mind and use that information to set off nuclear warheads in a series of accidents that would trigger world chaos. And there was nothing to stop them. Unless someone stopped Shari.
“I know you don’t understand,” the woman crooned, rocking her body back and forth. “But try not to worry. Don’t cry, baby. It won’t do any good. There’s nothing you can do to stop it—it’s too far along. Just try to relax.”
“Shari!” The man she called Al was standing at the door, bristling with rage. “Get away from her.”
Shari sat back, releasing her reluctantly, her head bowed like that of a naughty little girl. “I was just trying to comfort her, Al,” she said softly.
“There’s no comfort for her,” Al said flatly. “She’s going to die, and painfully. She knows that. It’s no wonder she’s crying like a baby. Come back downstairs.”