by Sandra Brown
He waved one final time and turned to go inside.
Benevolence personified. The words popped into his head again. The slogan would look good on a billboard written in gold script beneath a picture of him with his arms extended in a gesture of encompassing love.
Mr. Hancock was waiting for him with a pre-dinner drink made just the way he liked it. Exchanging the prayer cushion for the drink, Hancock said, "You have a call from Dallas."
Brother Gabriel gave his assistant a meaningful look, and Mr. Hancock nodded subtly. "Brother Gabriel took a sip of his drink, then lifted the receiver. "Yes, Joshua?"
"Your problem has been taken care of."
"I'm listening."
Because of the sensitive nature of this call, he had not engaged the speaker phone. Nor would he ask any questions or make any statements that could later be incriminating. He had every confidence in his various security measures and their backups. But there was always an outside chance that they weren't as foolproof as they should be. Technology wasn't entirely trustworthy. People certainly weren't.
Joshua said, "He thought we were taking orders from him. Never occurred to him that as of this afternoon we started getting our orders directly from you. Cocky little prick."
Brother Gabriel knew from experience that people yearned to please him. The less he commended them, the harder they tried to curry his favor. For example, if he wanted optimum performance from a woman in bed, he acted bored and distracted. She would then go to all lengths to inflame his passions. The same could be said for men. If he appeared unimpressed, they would boast about their feats, and he would learn what he needed to know without having to draw it out a bit at a time.
Sure enough, after a short silence, Joshua continued. "It was a slam dunk. No chance of resuscitation."
Brother Gabriel regretted losing Jem Hennings. For the past few years, Hennings had been a valuable commodity. But he had suddenly turned into a liability. He was dangerously close to the Gillian Lloyd murder investigation. Dale Gordon had been easy to pass off as a psychotic. But the authorities would have looked more thoroughly into Hennings's involvement, which might have led them to the gates of the Temple.
Moreover, Hennings had taken the matter of Linda Croft into his own hands, issuing orders without receiving approval. Of course, he agreed with Hennings's course of action. He would have issued the same order. But how dare a mere follower be so presumptuous as to make a decision of that magnitude on his own?
Hennings had performed his job well, but he wasn't irreplaceable. There were others who'd been trained to do his type of work and were anxiously awaiting a commission. Jem Hennings deserved no further contemplation. Brother Gabriel dismissed him from his mind.
"What about the other matter?"
Joshua's reluctance to answer spoke volumes. Brother Gabriel sipped his drink in an attempt to curb his temper.
Finally Joshua grumbled, "I guess you could say we're batting five hundred."
So Christopher Hart was still alive, and Melina Lloyd hadn't been taken. A tide of fury washed through him. "Why is that?"
"We're not dealing with dummies, you know"
"I am," Brother Gabriel snapped. "How difficult can it be?" His grip on the highball glass threatened to shatter the crystal. "You do not want to disappoint me," he said, enunciating each sinister word. "The gentleman tonight ... ?"
"Yes, sir."
"He had disappointed me. You do not want to do that."
Joshua wasn't exceptionally bright, but he picked up on the reference to Jem Hennings. "No, sir."
"Then I suggest you bring me good news by morning." He ended the call abruptly and angrily quaffed the remainder of his drink.
"Another?" Hancock asked.
"Yes. Then I want Mary sent to me."
"The—"
"Mary, Mary," he repeated impatiently. "You know the one."
"But Brother Gabriel, she's eight and a half months into her pregnancy."
"I know how far along she is!" he shouted. "Why is everyone arguing with me tonight?"
He could feel the blood vessels in his head and neck straining against his skin. He rarely lost his temper. Even rarer did he lose it in Mr. Hancock's presence. He turned away so he wouldn't have to see the man's wounded expression. Nor did he want Mr. Hancock to witness his loss of self-control. Losing one's temper was a human weakness. But for Brother Gabriel any form of weakness was an anathema.
It's that woman, he thought bitterly. Gillian Lloyd was to blame. His temper tantrum, every mishap that had occurred over the past several days, could be attributed to her and her night with the astronaut. Now her twin sister was proving to be equally as vexing.
"Mr. Hancock," he said abruptly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Have you completed your background check of Melina Lloyd?"
"I'm still researching her, sir. I didn't want to bring the report to your attention until I was satisfied that it was complete."
"I appreciate your thoroughness," he said, throwing Hancock a bone to make amends. "But as soon as you're satisfied that you have everything, I want to see it immediately. I want to know everything there is to know about this woman, beginning on the day she was born."
"Absolutely, sir. I understand. I'll get back on it immediately after summoning Mary. Would you like your dinner now or later?"
"I'll ring when I'm hungry." "Yes, sir."
He went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. As he waited for the girl, he paced, his mind not on her but on Melina. She was probably every bit the whore Gillian had been, he thought contemptuously.
No woman, no matter how desirable, was worth all the trouble she had caused. In the grand scheme of things, she was a blip. No more significant than a gnat is to a summer evening. It was laughable to think that the Program would suffer if Melina Lloyd didn't participate. It was bigger than she. It was bigger than all of womankind. One woman couldn't stop its progress or even impede it.
But his pride wouldn't let him simply write her off and forget about her. It had become a contest of wills, an undeclared war between them. If he gave in, what message would that send? What kind of example would that set for the soldiers in the field who were confronted by obstacles every day as they carried out their missions? They would lose faith in him if word got out that he'd been bested by a mere female. Heads of state all over the world called him for advice and encouragement. A man with the power he wielded couldn't have it said that he'd been stymied by a woman. The negative impact of such a surrender would be monstrous. It simply couldn't happen.
Melina Lloyd had refused to accept her sister's self-imposed fate and had allied herself with the FBI. She had cost him Jem Hennings, who had been a valuable asset to the ministry. She'd formed an attachment to the same man who had contaminated Gillian. For these transgressions, she must be brought before him to receive her punishment.
Only then, when she was humbled and repentant, would he consider forgiving her, blessing her, embracing her, and making her a member of his family. Ultimately she would accept the gift of his benevolence. Of course she would. Who wouldn't want to be among his chosen?
He was going to rule the world.
"What is this place?"
Chief had paid the taxi driver, who'd dropped them seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The skyline of Dallas was nothing more than a glow against the northern horizon far off in the distance.
The area was so remote it had made the taxi driver skittish. He'd been in such a hurry to leave, his tires had spun in the gravel as he had executed a sharp U-turn and sped off in the direction from which they'd come. The road they'd taken off the interstate highway had come to a dead end at the spot in which she and Chief now stood.
He took her hand and half dragged her toward a corrugated tin building. "Leave all the talking to me."
"Fine. I'm at a loss for words anyway."
The building was like a tin can that had been halved lengthwise and then laid flat side down. One indu
strial-strength floodlight shone down from the midway point of the arc. It lighted the concrete apron that extended for several yards in front of the building.
To their left, she noticed, was a landing strip.
Behind them, total darkness.
In front of them was a German shepherd with its teeth bared.
"Chief!" She jerked hard on his hand, pulling him to a stop.
Just then a man came out of the narrow door cut into the tin. Wiping his hands on a faded red shop cloth, he squinted against the glare of the floodlight overhead. Apparently they didn't look very threatening because he commanded the dog to "cool it." Then, "Can I help you folks?"
"It's Christopher Hart."
The greasy hands holding the rag became still. The man's bristled jaw went slack. Chief stepped into the fan of light so the man could see them better. "Well, I'll be damned."
"I didn't know if you were still here and open for business."
"Open. Not much business. What happened to your face?"
Chief provided no explanation. Not even a lie. The two men stared at one another for several moments, then Chief introduced her. "Melina, this is Pax Royston. Pax, Melina."
The man gave her a cursory nod. "Ma'am."
"How do you do?" Under the circumstances, the civility sounded ridiculous. This was hardly a tea party, and between the two men was an underlying tension of unknown origin.
As Pax studied them, she studied Pax. He was dressed in grease-stained overalls that zipped up the front. His face had the deep etchings of a longtime smoker, making him look older than he probably was.
He glanced beyond them, apparently looking for the means of transportation that had brought them there. "Y'all parachute in?"
"Taxi."
"Taxi," he repeated, as though the concept were alien. "From Dallas?"
"Are you here alone?"
"Just me and Bandit." He divided a curious look between them. "You want to come in?"
The interior was dim in contrast to the floodlight. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A hockey game was being telecast on a black and white TV sitting atop a fifty-gallon oil drum. Pax turned down the sound but left the snowy picture on. Bandit sniffed her hand curiously, then, obviously approving of her, trotted over to a water bowl and began slurping noisily.
Pax said, "He scares the shit out of people, but the truth of it is that he's a sorry excuse for a guard dog."
"Lucky for us." She smiled at Pax, and he smiled back. "Y'all want some coffee?"
"A plane," said Chief, bringing the small talk to an abrupt close. "I need an airplane."
The only airplanes parked inside the hangar were in various stages of disembowelment. It was obvious that Pax had been working on one when they arrived. A lightbulb encased in a metal basket was hanging directly above a disassembled engine. Parts were scattered over a piece of salvaged carpet that was unraveling around the edges.
"Single-engine," Chief continued. "Nothing fancy." "Where're you going?"
"Do you have one or don't you?" he asked, ignoring Pax’s curiosity.
"Yeah, I got one. Out back."
"Flyable?"
"You a flyer?"
Chief shot him a retiring look.
Pax shrugged. "Then it's flyable."
She still couldn't account for the unspoken animosity between the two, but it was palpable and thick. Chief asked Pax for the keys to the airplane. "I want to check it out." Pax ambled off in the direction of a glass-enclosed office. Chief turned to her. "Maybe he has a few snacks around he'll sell you. Canned drinks, anything you think you might need. Last thing you do, use the rest room. We'll have to stop to refuel, but there'll be long stretches in between."
"We're going to New Mexico, aren't we?"
Pax returned with the key and a slip of paper with the airplane's tail number printed on it. "Just outside the back door to your right. It's a nice little craft. Recently overhauled."
"Thanks."
She and Pax watched Chief wend his way through the hangar, past the airplanes and the puddles of oil and grease.
The back door banged shut behind him. Pax then turned to her. "How about that coffee?"
"No, thank you. But I could use some things for the trip. Snacks and drinks, if you have them."
He led her to a pair of vintage vending machines. "The drinks are cold, but I can't vouch for how fresh that stuff is," he said, pointing to the cellophane packages suspended on hooks inside the machine. "Can't remember when the vendor was last here to restock."
She began digging in her handbag for coins.
"Don't bother." Using a key, Pax opened the two machines. "Help yourself."
As she was making her choices, she said, "I've never flown with Chief."
"You don't have anything to worry about. He's an excellent pilot. Best instincts I ever saw."
"Were you in the military together?" "You might say."
"Before going into business for yourself, did you also work for NASA?"
He snorted at that notion. "No, ma'am. Not me." "But you two go way back?"
"Until we had our falling out." He pointed into the vending machine. "Those little pecan pies are pretty good."
"This is plenty," she told him, disappointed that he hadn't expanded on his "falling out" with Chief. What had been the cause of it? A woman? An airplane? Had there been a competition between them over who was the better pilot? Maybe Pax had been turned down for the astronaut program and was jealous that Chief had been accepted.
Considerately, Pax rummaged around for a sack and finally located one in the trash can. "Bought groceries yesterday," he explained as he loaded her selected snacks and soft drinks
into the plastic bag. "Mostly dog food. Damn dog eats like a horse."
They heard the back door open and Chief's boot heels striking the concrete as he made his way back through the cavernous hangar. "It looks okay," he said to Pax.
"Told you."
Turning to her, Chief asked if she'd been to the rest room yet. She shook her head. "Go. I've got some calls to make, then we're outta here."
"Through there." Pax pointed her toward a door. "But I gotta warn you, it's not exactly a powder room."
It wasn't. Not by a long shot. The sink and commode were water-stained. The floor was covered with greasy grime. The poster thumbtacked to the wall featured not just one naked woman, but a chorus line of them striking the same crude pose. Even cruder was the saying on the bumper sticker struck to the paper towel dispenser.
She used the toilet, then washed her face and hands with the discolored sliver of bar soap. When she took a disinterested glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror above the sink, she gasped. Dark spots dotted her face and neck. She leaned in for a closer look. Blood. Jem's blood. There were also traces of it in her hair.
Tamping down a rising panic, she took a deep breath and plunged her head beneath the faucet. The water was icy, but she held her head beneath the sputtering stream until the water ran clear, with no trace of pink.
Using paper towels, she squeezed the water from her hair, then combed it as best she could with her fingers. She didn't linger to primp. Any attempt to improve her looks would be futile. She needed to start from scratch. It seemed ages since she had showered and shampooed in the truck stop motel that morning. Besides, she had none of her things. Their bags had been left behind in the clunker in the parking garage of Jem's building.
Chief was still talking on his cell phone when she came out.
He noted her wet hair but probably knew why she'd rinsed it. She ventured into the cluttered office where Pax was seated in a rolling desk chair. Bandit was standing beside it, his head on Pax's thigh. Pax was stroking the dog's head.
"I guess this is why he's no man-killer," he remarked with a fond smile for the German shepherd. "I've spoiled him rotten. Made a wuss out of him."
"You seem to have formed a partnership that works for both of you."
He motioned toward her wet hair. "I could pro
bably rustle up a towel from somewhere around here."
"It'll dry before too long."
Her eyes roved the office, coming to rest on a photograph of Pax and a woman with the neon sign of the Golden Nugget Casino rising up behind them. "Is that Mrs. Royston?" "Girlfriend."
"Do you go to Vegas often?"
"Louisiana's closer," he said, referring to the casinos in Bossier City. "We go over there every chance we get. I shoot craps. She likes the slots." All the while he was talking, he was watching Chief through the cloudy glass that enclosed the office. "Are y'all...?"
Following his thought, she shook her head. "He was involved with my sister."
He cocked his head in surprise. "Is that right?"
"I would've thought—" "No."
Pax grunted a noncomment. His skeptical regard was hard to stare down, so, at the risk of giving herself away, she turned aside. His question had evoked memories of the near kiss in
the back seat of the taxi. A very dangerous, very wrong, very foolish near kiss that she had very much wanted.
Their small talk ended with that discomfiting exchange.
She pretended to study a Texas state map tacked to the wall, while Pax continued to pet Bandit.
Several minutes later, Chief concluded his calls and came into the office but only as far as the threshold. He fished into his jeans pocket and came up with three one-hundred-dollar bills, which he tossed onto Pax's desk. "That's all the cash I can spare, and I don't want to put these charges on a credit card."
Finding that surprising, Pax sliced a glance at her, but she offered no explanation. Heeding Chief's request, she was leaving the talking to him. Something was out of joint here. She didn't know what, but for fear of saying the wrong thing and upsetting a delicate balance, she thought it best to say nothing.
"You know I'm good for the rest of the charges," Chief told the mechanic. "I'll pay you when I bring the plane back." "I trust you."
"I hope so, because what I'm about to say is important." He paused to make certain he had Pax's full attention. "Take your dog and your girlfriend and leave town tonight. Go to Bossier City. Vegas. Go somewhere. Just get away."