I prayed that was not the case.
“I didn’t realise you were here,” I said, struggling to keep my voice neutral, as if nothing unusual or unsettling was taking place. There was no way I wanted to start an argument from this kind of disadvantaged position. “I’ll be out shortly. Can you give me a few minutes?”
Instead he levered away from the doorframe and stalked forwards, letting his arms drop. I resisted the urge to cover my body from his gaze. Even with all its wounds and scars, it was nothing he hadn’t seen before.
But not like this.
Even so, I didn’t expect him to yank open the cubicle door heedless of the pounding spray. The steam roiled out, sucking a billowing waft of cold air in over my skin which goose bumped instantly.
“Sean!” I protested, low and shaky. “Get out!”
But he just stood there, subjecting me to a long scrutiny while his hair and clothing absorbed the sodden heat.
I felt my chin lift, my shoulders square. I met his gaze with defiance despite the colour flaring in my cheeks.
“What I asked,” he repeated with deadly precision, “was - ”
“I know what you damn well asked,” I threw back, not bothering to waste my breath on questions when it was only too obvious what he’d been asking. “But if you think I’m going to discuss that kind of wild accusation in here like this - ”
“What better time?” he demanded. “And where better place?”
And before I knew it he’d swung the door wide and stepped fully dressed into the shower with me.
The water beat his hair flat to his skull and ran from his brows, pushing his eyes into shadow behind the flow. The shirt turned transparent in a moment, the dry-clean-only suit trousers ruined.
The shower cubicle was a generous size. We’d shared it in the past but back then we’d been more than happy to occupy the same footprint, the same heartbeat. Now, when I was trying to keep him from touching me, it seemed impossibly small.
Sean bunched me back into the tiled wall, grabbed both wrists and wrenched my hands above my head, holding them there bracketed in his left. He was right-handed, but the gunshot wound to his left temple had affected his right side and he was still building back the strength of his grip. The fact he’d deliberately chosen to use the hand currently stronger, going against natural dominance, sent alarm bells clanging inside my head.
“I wasn’t ‘here’ when you arrived, but I was close by all right,” he said then in a savage whisper. “Close enough to see your fond farewell to Parker. The man you work for. The man I’m in partnership with. The man I’m supposed to trust.”
I jerked my hands but he tightened his grip, stretching my arms a little more taut overhead until my muscles began to quiver. He leaned in, right hand fisted into the wall alongside me for balance. And all the time the water lashed down on the pair of us like a tropical typhoon.
“So how long’s it been going on between the two of you, Charlie? Were you using him as a substitute for me all those months when I wasn’t around to … satisfy you? Just how long did you wait before you and he - ”
“Enough!” I snapped, my voice vibrating with anger. “Think the worst of me if you want, Sean. Why not? You always did before. But leave Parker out of this!”
“How can I?” he demanded, “when I saw the way you went to him out there, and I saw the way he kissed you. Got it bad, hasn’t he?” He leaned in closer still, so the water splashed from his face down onto mine. I told myself that was the reason I shut my eyes. “So I think I have a right to know - does he touch you like this?”
I began, “You have no rights - ”
Sean’s free hand slicked up my ribcage to cup my breast, tormenting with fingers that knew how to cause both intimate pleasure and pain. Too long denied, I responded in spite of myself. Heat blossomed low in my belly, flushing the surface of my skin.
Sean sensed it and gave a mirthless laugh.
“Or this?”
He claimed my mouth in punishment while his hands balanced me teetering between restraint and caress.
I gasped onto his tongue and he swallowed the little mewl as if stealing my voice and my soul. From the first, Sean had seemed to know all my body’s secrets. Hell, he had created most of them. I tore my mouth free.
“I’ve never slept with Parker!” I cried wildly. “Yes, I know how he feels about me. But he knows I can’t give him what he truly wants and he would never force me to try.”
I don’t know what finally got to him. Maybe it was the word “force” that did it. That and the fact that Parker - his friend, even his mentor - would not stoop so low.
Sean’s head lifted. I felt the shift in his balance, braced my right arm and jerked down hard with my left, rotating my fist against the joint between his forefinger and thumb - the weakest part of his grip. Pulled in opposite directions, his hand sprang open.
I let my knees sag until I was almost squatting in the shower tray, then drove my heels downwards and surged up again. I kept my arms bent close to my chest and used the power from my legs instead. Both clenched fists landed in the fleshy vee beneath Sean’s ribs, angled sharply upwards, with enough force even in the confined space to paralyse his diaphragm.
He fell back, chest heaving as he tried to claw air into his lungs. Without bothering to shut off the water I looped my arm through his from the front and kept him going. Before he knew it I’d marched him backwards out of the shower cubicle, stumbling through the bathroom and into the hallway.
The punch was an improvised close-quarter technique that came from the necessity of fighting in an enclosed space. The arm lock was standard for neutralising and removing troublemakers from a crowd. I wondered if Sean would find it ironic that he was the one who’d taught it to me.
In the living area I manoeuvred him around my open travel bag and sent him sprawling over the arm of the sofa. He landed heavy on the cushions, still shuddering for breath and now shivering in his drenched clothes.
The suit was past repair in any case, so I wasn’t careful how I stripped him of his trousers and everything beneath. Why should I be the only one naked?
He didn’t help but I didn’t need him to. About half the shirt buttons remained attached. The rest were scattered to the four corners.
At least his Breitling wristwatch was waterproof to greater depths than we’d just plumbed. I was unfastening the strap by the time he had the breath to speak.
“Charlie,” he rasped. “What the hell are you doing?”
He tried to bat my hands away but he was still in enough respiratory distress to make it a poor attempt. I twisted his wrist into another lock, one I could maintain using only two fingers and my thumb. With my free hand I reached for him, let him feel my nails curve against the most sensitive area of his skin.
He froze. I could almost see the beads of sweat pop out among the water on his forehead.
“What am I doing?” I echoed tightly. “What do you bloody well think? I’m doing the same to you as you were going to do to me.”
I watched his eyes as I said it and watched the flare in them, the way his pupils dilated. It might be lust rather than love, but I told myself at this stage I’d settle for what I could get.
I tightened my grip, relentless. He might have forgotten the last four years we had together but I had not. Every place I’d ever touched him, every time I’d sent him up in flames for me, I could recall in clear and utter detail.
And now I used that knowledge coldly, ruthlessly, to drive any jealous thoughts of Parker, disdain for me or disgust with himself, right out of his head. By the time I released the lock on his wrist he could do nothing but hold onto me.
But in the morning, he was gone.
Seventeen
“All I could think about was getting out of there.”
The man in the hospital bed had his eyes fixed on mine but I knew he didn’t see me. His voice was raspy from the screaming and the acid-etch of concrete dust in his throat.
“
How much can you remember?” I asked, but he let his head drop and I realised I should have reworded the question. How much are you willing to remember?
“I mean, it would help if we could start with who you are?” I said, trying to give out an encouraging vibe, “You weren’t carrying any identification when you were found.”
He frowned for a moment and then said, “My name is Santiago Rojas. I came here from Sao Paulo in Brazil, I think ten years ago. This much I know. I remember my past, my family back home, my work there, but here?” He gave me a hesitant smile and gestured toward his head. “I am struggling to recall anything about the last few years, never mind last week, or yesterday.”
“Don’t try to force it. It will come back to you in its own time,” I said but I looked at the dressings around the surgical repairs to his skull and could not prevent the voice in the back of my mind from adding, if it’s going to come back at all …
He nodded and used his unbroken arm to push himself uneasily straighter against the thin hospital pillow. There was only one to cushion him against the angled metal bedframe, but the way the casualties had been coming in steadily from all over the city, he was lucky even to have a bed.
“Can you perhaps tell me,” Rojas asked, “was I found at my place of work? I know I have a store in the tourist district - I sell jewellery and deal in precious stones.”
His voice carried a hint of something, as if he was trying to remind himself as much as inform me. And suddenly it was fiercely important to me that he did remember. For those close to him, if not for himself.
Don’t project, I told myself. It’s not the same.
Something about Rojas told me he would have been a good salesman of jewellery. Standard-issue hospital gowns are a great social leveller but he had well-looked after skin and expressive eyes. The fingernails that weren’t torn were well manicured and polished smooth.
And more than that, he was aware of what he did with his hands, even the one in the cast. Each little gesture was imbibed with forethought and meaning, maybe even that certain sensuality that women seem to require when buying precious gems. I’d watched enough of them do so to have formed a theory. It was as if they needed to feel precious themselves, to feel worthy. Rojas’s manner, his eyes and his hands, would have given that to them.
I explained what had happened to the street of boutique stores where he had his business, about the stone facades and the devastation. I didn’t set out to give him nightmares by describing exactly how he’d been buried after the collapse of the storefronts, but when he pressed me I wasn’t going to lie to him.
Rojas looked down at his hands as if amazed to find them still attached to his body.
“Holy Mother of God,” he said, genuine awe in his voice. “I asked the wrong question. It should not have been ‘where’ did you find me, but ‘how’?”
“For that you have to thank a very talented search and rescue dog called Lemon,” I said. “And Hope, who is Lemon’s very persistent handler. She’s the one who made them keep looking for you.”
“Hope,” he repeated softly. “What a beautiful name for a woman with such dedication.”
For a moment I thought he’d got the wrong person. It seemed a strange description of the skinny girl with the quick fingers and the dog who was, it seemed, trained for far more than just searching.
“She’s a constant source of wonder,” I agreed.
“It is my hope,” he said with a smile, “that I am able to meet with her? To express my thanks.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, although it was a team effort.” And I told him about Wilson and California Ken, who were both volunteers from police forces on different sides of the world. I told him about Joe Marcus keeping him safe, about Dr Bertrand keeping him alive, and Riley airlifting him to hospital to ensure he had the best chance of remaining so. But that meeting any of them in person might be tricky. “There is still a lot to do out there - still a lot of missing people to be found.”
He looked momentarily shocked. “I would not expect her to interrupt her work, of course,” he said quickly. “Perhaps there is some small way I can repay her …?”
He let his voice trail off suggestively. I gave him a bland stare. “Hope works for an organisation called Rescue & Recovery International,” I said. “They are supported by grants and donations. I’m sure they’d welcome any amount you’d care to give them, however modest.”
In fact, I’d no idea what R&R’s policy was on people who wanted to pay them for their efforts, but I hardly thought they’d be turning money away.
Not if the rumours were correct …
I thought of Mrs Hamilton’s concerns about R&R, and remembered again the way Hope’s nimble fingers had dipped into the police commander’s pocket so smoothly he never felt a thing. But I also remembered the way she’d put the wallet back among the dead woman’s possessions, all without knowing I’d clocked what she was doing.
How did that square with the rumours?
“Do you know if I was alone?” Rojas asked now, a little diffident. He gestured to his head. “I do not even know if I have staff who work for me, or if they were working yesterday.”
It was two days ago now, but I didn’t think I ought to tell him that. One of many things I didn’t ought to tell him, no doubt.
I hesitated. “If there was anyone else alive in the store with you when the earthquake hit,” I said, “then it seems they didn’t survive. They sent in the dog again after you were brought out and she didn’t indicate anyone else. I’m sorry.”
“But if they were dead, perhaps, and hidden from - ”
“Lemon can tell the difference,” I said. “Trust me. I’ve watched her work. She found you even though there was a couple who were buried very close by who did not survive.”
He frowned. “A couple …?” he repeated slowly. “A couple. Yes! I remember a couple. They came in to buy an engagement ring. A beautiful three-carat marquise-cut ruby. It had, I think, pave set diamonds in a rose and white gold setting. She was so happy - ”
He cut off abruptly and blinked at me. “How is it that I can remember some things so clearly and not others?”
Rojas shifted his position again, lips thinned against the pain. They had realigned and plastered the compound fractures of his arm so that only the tips of his fingers protruded from the cast, yellow with iodine. He was still getting used to the weight of it and he moved awkward and slow.
“You’ve suffered a serious head injury,” I said. “It’s bound to have affected you more than you realise.”
“You mentioned the couple who were found nearby. Did she …?” He looked on the verge of weeping. “Was the lady wearing a ring as I describe? If so, I may be able to help you identify her.”
I had a brief recall of the way the body bag behaved when we had loaded it into the Bell. I had no idea what state the woman’s face might have been in.
“It’s possible you may not be able to visually identify her,” I warned.
“Ah. Then I could at least identify the ring perhaps?” he said. “If I can help, I want to do so.”
“I’ll ask,” I said.
He met my gaze with very dark liquid eyes and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “It feels important that I do this. I need to know.”
A harried nurse appeared in the doorway and told me my time was up.
“If you have more questions, you will have to come back tomorrow,” she said, “when he has rested.”
I rose, pushed my chair to the side of the room.
“Is there anyone you would like me to contact for you, Mr Rojas?” I asked, looking back as I reached the doorway. “Your wife or family?”
“I am not married,” he said automatically and then gave a quick smile. “At least, I do not believe so.” His expression became stricken. “Do you think it is possible that I might have forgotten a wife? Children even?”
I thought of Sean, of what he’d remembered - and what he’d forgotten.
&
nbsp; “Yes,” I said gently. “I’m afraid that is possible.”
Eighteen
I calculated the time difference and called Parker Armstrong back in New York.
It was late afternoon there. The weather before I left had been edging into a late autumn, the leaves falling in copper swathes to coat the grassy expanse of Central Park. The weather swung between being not quite cold enough for winter coats, but too chilled for summer wear. The streets and subway trains were filled with people who sweated or shivered accordingly.
Here it was hot with a humid overtone that made the day seem sullen. I stood by an open window while I made my call, but all that seemed to do was blow hot air into my face.
“Charlie!” Parker greeted me, as if hearing from me was the highlight of his day. I sincerely hoped that was not the case. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” I paused. “Any word?”
“From Sean? No, I’m sorry,” he said, at once more subdued. “Is that why you …?”
“No,” I said. “I need you to check something out for me. Or I should say someone.”
“OK. Shoot.”
“There’s a young girl here as part of the R&R team. A Brit - Hope Tyler - she’s a dog handler. Search, rescue and recovery.”
“Rescue and recovery?” Parker queried. “Unusual. In my experience they typically have specialised teams for search and rescue and then bring in the cadaver dogs when they’re pretty sure there’s nobody left to rescue.”
I shrugged. “Well, Lemon seems to do just about everything bar tap dance and make the tea. And come to think of it I wouldn’t put either of those things past her.”
“Lemon?”
“Hope’s dog. A rather beautiful yellow Labrador retriever.”
“I have a great deal of respect for working dogs of any kind,” Parker said with the fervour of an ex-military man himself. “But you think this Hope - and Lemon - may be involved in what happened to Stephens?”
“Possibly not,” I said. “But like I said, she’s young - and she’s scared of something. She went very cagey as soon as I brought up Stephens’ name.”
Zoe Sharp - [Charlie Fox] Page 8