The Warrior

by Sharon Sala

  The sun was as hot on his face as the blood that pulsed through his body. Running was going to make him hotter, but it might also save his sanity. He took a slow, deep breath, stretched a couple of times, then jogged off the terrace, aiming for a giant saguaro about a half mile away—the first marker for his run.

  Each stride of foot to earth was a body-jolting collision with the unyielding land of the desert. But as time passed, he moved deeper and deeper into the runner’s zone. At his passing, tiny sand lizards went scurrying into their burrows. A huge tarantula on the hunt felt the unfamiliar quake of John’s footsteps and dropped its prey before scuttling away on thick, hairy legs. The buzzard that had been high overhead dipped lower, checking out the arrival of new meat on the hoof before opting out. It flew away, for the time being leaving the visible sky bare of life.

  By the time John passed the giant saguaro and then the rusted-out chassis of a 1957 Ford that was a half mile farther on, his body was beaded in sweat. But his mind was clear. He was no longer running away from desire, he was running for the joy of it. By the time he reached his turning point, which was a pair of large, pillow-shaped rocks lying side by side that he thought of as the breasts of Mother Earth, he was ready to head home.

  Even though he was almost two miles away, the land was so flat that he could still make out the roofline of his home. Beneath it, an innocent woman had given herself into his care. For now, he’d outrun the urge to betray that trust. He began the run home with a lighter heart, enjoying the workout his body was getting.

  When he was about a quarter of a mile away, he saw a flash of red on the terrace, remembered seeing a shirt of that color on the chair in Alicia’s room and knew she was awake.

  Even though they were together by necessity, it had been a long, long time since he’d had anybody to come home to. Instinctively, he lengthened his stride.

  Alicia had gone to sleep without remembering ever getting into bed. Sometime during her sleep, she’d begun to dream.

  In the dream she was running, screaming out Nightwalker’s name. The air was filled with smoke, and even though she couldn’t see it, she knew her home was burning and people were after her. The thunder of their footsteps was so close behind her that she could hear the sounds of their breathing, heavy from the exertion. The flesh on her face was stinging, as if she’d gotten too close to a flame, and her clothing felt wet. She knew it was blood—her blood—although she was too afraid to look.

  Suddenly someone grabbed her by the hair. She threw up her arms and shrieked in desperation as she was yanked backward and thrown to the ground. Her attacker was on her now, riding her waist as he pinned her arms to the dirt. In her dream, she knew she was screaming and pleading for her life when suddenly a gust of wind blew away the smoke and she saw him. His features immediately blurred, but her gaze locked onto his eyes—green and bulging, with short, stubby lashes.

  It was then that her subconscious could no longer protect her from the identity of the man who’d been chasing her, who’d thrown her to the ground and who now held her pinned with his fingers around her neck.

  It was her father.

  The man who’d given her life was now about to take it. Richard Ponte was like a madman. He kept pushing at her, pummeling her with his fists and trying to throttle the life from her body. The next thing she knew, he was coming at her with a knife.

  She screamed one last time—calling Nightwalker’s name.

  Then everything began moving in slow motion. Her focus shifted from her father’s face to the thin stiletto blade coming toward her. Sound faded until there was nothing but the thunder of her own heartbeat and the whoosh of her blood as it pulsed through her body. The knife was at her throat now, burning her flesh as he sliced the blade across her neck. Her body arced, as if a jolt of lightning had gone through it, riding the pain and ebbing life force in desperate denial. She didn’t want to die.

  Suddenly a man with dark skin and black hair was pulling the stranger from her body, breaking him like a bundle of sticks and tossing him aside like dross on the crest of a tidal wave.

  She knew him. Nightwalker. The man who’d promised to keep her safe.

  Then he was on his knees beside her, his face taut with agony. He was pleading with her, begging her not to die. She kept hearing him say he was sorry, over and over and over, and then everything stopped.

  One second she was with him, and then she was watching the scene from afar. John Nightwalker was clutching her lifeless body to his chest as he rocked in mute despair, and she knew that she was dead.

  She woke abruptly, her heart thundering in a panic she wouldn’t soon forget. She crawled out of bed on her hands and knees, and then staggered until she was standing, clutching the bedpost at the foot of the bed to keep from falling. Her body was bathed in sweat, and she kept running her fingers all along her throat, unable to believe it had just been a dream. It had seemed so real. She could have sworn she’d felt the pain of the knife slicing through her flesh, smelled the coppery scent of her blood spilling out onto the ground and known with a certainty that she was dead.

  “God in heaven,” Alicia whispered, and then swiped the hair from her face. She stared about the room, re-orienting herself, remembering where she was and how she’d gotten there, then sighed.

  Sedona.

  She and John had flown to Sedona last night.

  She glanced toward the windows. Sunlight was pouring through the cracks around the shades. She moved toward them on shaky legs and then pulled a cord, letting in the light to chase away the remnants of the dream.

  She didn’t know what time it was and didn’t care. For now, time had no meaning in her life other than that it had to pass. She thought of Corbin Woodliff and wondered if he was making good on his promise. She hoped so. If not, she’d put her life on the line for nothing.

  Her belly growled, reminding her that she’d had little to nothing to eat yesterday. Suddenly nervous about facing John Nightwalker, she headed for the shower. A short while later, she left her room in search of her host and some breakfast, wearing a red cotton shirt and a pair of white shorts. Her face was devoid of makeup, and her legs and feet were bare. Her freshly shampooed hair was dry and shiny and hanging loose against her neck. The heavy weight of it matched the weight in her heart.

  Her life was in tatters, and the man who’d promised to help her was a jumble of contradictions. What more could go wrong?

  She found his note in the kitchen, as well as the freshly brewed coffee, and gratefully poured herself a cup, adding sugar and cream before taking her first sip. The caffeine was a welcome jolt to her jangled nerves, and by the time she’d downed half a cup, she was feeling almost human.

  She dug through the refrigerator, chose a small cup of yogurt to go with her coffee, then took her food outside to eat on the terrace. Seen in the bright light of day, this house was just as impressive as the one on the coast of Georgia had been. It was a hacienda of elegant proportions, sprawling across what would have been four or five city lots. The walls were adobe, the color of the desert in which it had been built. The roof was covered in Spanish tiles the color of ochre, while the brown shutters that could be closed over the windows were open and lying flat against the outer walls.

  It took her a moment to realize the chopper was now engulfed in some kind of camouflage netting. She sat down in a chair beside a black wrought-iron table, put her coffee down, then propped her feet up on another chair and began to eat her yogurt. She was licking the spoon and thinking about finishing her coffee when she saw movement in the distance and realized it was John.

  It reminded her of the morning back at his home in Georgia—how she’d watched him come out of the surf stark naked, then how he’d walked past her without explanation or apology. She couldn’t help but wonder if this morning would be a repeat.

  When he was less than a hundred yards from the house, she stood, unable to sit and wait. She walked to the edge of the terrace, marveling at the long, easy stri
de with which he ran. Thinking to herself that his body, except for the multitude of scars, was about as perfect as any she’d ever seen. There wasn’t an extra ounce of fat on him, yet he gave the appearance of great strength.

  To her surprise, he lifted a hand in greeting.

  She waved back, then put her hands on her hips and waited for his arrival. He didn’t slow down until he reached the terrace, and even then, he didn’t stop. He went from his running stride to a jog, and then to a walk, allowing his muscles to cool down before going inside.

  “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” she said, smiling as she pointing to the sweat running down his body.

  “It feels good,” he countered. “Don’t you like to feel good?”

  She blinked, the smile suddenly frozen on her face. Was that a double entendre or an innocent question?

  “Not unless I’m flat on my back when it happens,” she fired back.

  John threw back his head and laughed—long and loud. “Point taken,” he said, still smiling as he paced the terrace. “Have you eaten?”

  She pointed to the empty yogurt cup. “That and coffee, which I should thank you for. I’m not human until I’ve had a cup of coffee. How about you?”

  “I like it, but I don’t need it like you do, to wake up.”

  Alicia shook her head. “Yikes! A morning person.”

  “Guilty,” John said. “I’m also a very sweaty person. If you will excuse me, I’d better shower off before we continue this conversation. Oh…and when I come back, be ready to eat breakfast. I’m starved.”

  “But I just had breakfast,” she said, pointing to the yogurt cup. “Remember?”

  “That’s sissy food,” John said. “You need to eat. I’ll be right back.”

  “But what if I’m not hungry for anything more?”

  He pointed toward the desert. “Then I suggest you work up an appetite.”

  “I’m not running, but I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “Like what?”

  She pointed to his scars. “You tell me how come you’re still alive after all that, and then I’ll eat.”

  He stared at her for a moment, trying to imagine what she would do if he told her the truth, then shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’ll be back in a few. Oh…if you see or hear a plane of any kind, get back inside the house.”

  Alicia followed him in, closing the door behind them. “After the dream I had, I don’t think I want to stay out here without you anymore, now that you tell me that.”

  John paused, then turned and looked at her. “You had a bad dream?”

  “The worst,” she said, and shuddered in spite of herself.

  “Tell me.”

  She sighed. “Well, considering all that’s been happening, it’s no wonder. But it was like all dreams. Part of it made sense. Part of it didn’t. But the gist of it was, I was running through smoke, and I was bleeding. People were chasing me, and I was looking for you but I couldn’t find you. Then suddenly someone grabbed me by the hair and yanked me down. I was on my back and fighting someone on top of me. I could see his face, but not clearly at first. When I realized it was my father, he was trying to strangle me with his bare hands.”

  John watched her, studying the trembling in her voice and the tension in her body, knowing she was reliving the nightmare during the telling. But he was an old friend of bad dreams. He knew that the more you kept them inside, the worse they got. Letting her spit it all out was the best thing he could do.

  “Is that when you woke up?” John asked.

  She shook her head. “No…it just kept getting worse. I think he knocked me out. When I came to, he cut my throat. I screamed your name, but knew I was dying.” Alicia subconsciously rubbed her fingers along her throat, reassuring herself that she was still in one piece. “Anyway, in the dream I think I died. I was standing back, watching everything from a distance as you came running. You pulled my father off my body and killed him with your bare hands, but it was too late. You were holding me and crying and telling me that you were sorry.”

  She shuddered, then looked up at John and tried to grin. “Then I woke up. How’s that for dreaming? I go all out, right down to weather, geography and dialogue—a beginning, a middle and an end. Maybe I missed my calling. Maybe I should have been a writer.”

  Bile rose at the back of John’s throat, but he swallowed it down. He couldn’t look at her—wouldn’t look at her. He didn’t know what this dream meant, but he knew dreams had their own meanings. Right now he was too shaken to delve into that nest of snakes.

  He waved a hand, then walked out of the room without saying a word.

  Alicia eyed his sexy backside, then shrugged and went to refill her coffee.

  John’s legs were shaking by the time he got in the shower, but he knew it had nothing to do with his morning run. Except for a few minor details, one of which being that he’d killed the person who attacked her, she could have been telling him about White Fawn’s death.

  He stood beneath the water, letting it beat down on his face until the worst of the memory was gone; then he grabbed a bar of soap and got down to business. A short while later he was back in the kitchen and digging through the refrigerator. He heard Alicia moving about within the house and knew she was probably exploring.

  It didn’t matter. There was nothing more here that would give him away than there had been at the house in Georgia. Still, it felt a little odd to know that he was sharing anything with a woman—even if it was nothing but breathing the same air.

  Corbin Woodliff was on a mission. He’d made more than a dozen phone calls since his meeting with John and Alicia, and the more he’d delved into Richard Ponte’s life, the more convinced he’d become that Alicia was telling the truth. The man had homes in half a dozen countries. He had connections in governments around the world and, as best as Corbin could tell, had more money than Croesus. Which begged the question, if he was so wealthy, why risk it all for more? But that was often the way of men like Ponte. It wasn’t about the money. It was about the power.

  After some fast talking, he was now en route to Boston with two federal agents riding in the seat behind him. He’d made enough phone calls to learn that Jacob Carruthers was reported to be at home and hadn’t been seen at his art gallery in more than two days. Called in sick, they said. Corbin’s read on that was that, if Alicia Ponte’s story was on the up-and-up, he was worse than sick.

  He turned and glanced over the seat back at the agents behind him. One was asleep. The other was reading. He arched an eyebrow when he saw the title, then wisely turned back around and returned to minding his own business. Still, he couldn’t get past the notion that a big nothing-but-the-facts guy like Morris Joshua was reading one of those books about psychics.

  A couple of hours later, they were pulling up to the security gates leading to the Carruthers estate. Corbin leaned out the window and pressed the call button. A disembodied voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Corbin Woodliff to see Mr. Carruthers.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Carruthers isn’t taking visitors today.”

  Corbin rolled his eyes and then pressed the button again.

  “Yes?”

  “The Federal Bureau of Investigation wishes a few moments of Mr. Carruthers’ time.”

  There was a long pause, then a question. “The FBI?”

  “Yes, the FBI,” Corbin said.

  The gates opened.

  Corbin took his foot off the brake. “I knew I brought you two along for a reason,” he said.

  “This better not be a wild-goose chase,” Agent Joshua said. “This is my day off.”

  “I know,” Corbin said as he drove toward the house. “And I do appreciate the company. If I’m right, you’ll be glad you came along.”

  A few minutes later, they were in the foyer of the Carruthers mansion. There were footste
ps on the grand staircase behind them. They turned as one. Jacob Carruthers was coming down the staircase with a look on his face that Corbin could only describe as looking like he’d seen a ghost.

  The moment the butler told him the FBI was at the gate, Jacob’s first instinct had been to throw up. When that didn’t pan out, he tried to call Richard’s cell, but to no avail. He didn’t know what was happening, but it couldn’t be good. Richard’s secretary told him she hadn’t heard from him but expected him in at any minute. None of that made sense. Richard’s secretary always knew where he was. That was when he panicked. His first thought was that Richard hadn’t been able to stop Alicia from talking and had taken himself off to God knows where, leaving Jacob to face the questions. It wasn’t like Richard not to let him know what was going down, but it was the first thing that popped into his head. Still, he didn’t believe they could prove anything. All he had to do was stay calm and deny everything. He pasted a smile on his face and held out his hand in greeting as soon as his feet touched the floor.

  “Why…Corbin Woodliff, I do believe. My man told me it was the FBI. How silly.”

  Corbin smiled. “Yes, Carruthers, it’s me. Haven’t seen you since the President’s Christmas Ball a couple of years back.” Then he moved aside and pointed to the men beside him. “I’d like to introduce my friends. Special Agent Joshua and Special Agent Morrow from the FBI.”

  Jacob’s belly rolled. Shit. It was the FBI after all.

  “So what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “We’re going to be needing some privacy,” Corbin said. “Where do you suggest?”

  Jacob felt the urge to pee. “How about the library?”

  Corbin remembered Alicia Ponte telling him that her father’s opinion of Carruthers was that the man had a tendency to panic. He decided to give him a push in that direction.

  “Do the doors close?” Corbin asked.

  Jacob froze momentarily, too shocked by the question to answer. Then he gathered himself and nodded.

  “After you,” Corbin said.