On the blanket, Mara sat up on her elbows to watch the chase. Aidan’s gait had improved somewhat thanks to a good physical therapist and a lot of determination on his part. His leg looked stronger and stronger all the time. Not strong enough to allow him to pass the exam to go back on full, regular duty, but enough to get by. Besides, Mancini had called on Friday and asked him to report in on Monday morning. He had another special assignment.
Good for Aidan, Mara thought as she watched him play with the dog. He needs to work again, needs to know he’s still what he always was: a damn good special agent. God knows he’s the most special person I’ve ever met. . . .
He headed back to where she sat, his feet kicking up little clouds of sand. Spike, sensing the game had run its course, followed, then ran ahead to lie at Mara’s side.
“I almost forgot. I have something for you,” Aidan told her when he reached the blanket. “I found it before we went to Ohio and forgot to give it to you.”
He took something from his pocket as he sat down, and she leaned over to look. A smooth piece of green sea glass lay in his open palm.
“Beautiful,” she sighed, touching it tentatively. “For me?”
“It matches your eyes.”
“This is perfect.” She picked it up and held it up to the sun. “Just perfect. Thank you.”
She leaned over to kiss his mouth. “I’ll take it to the jeweler back in Lyndon and see if he can drill a hole in it so that I can wear it on a cord. I love it. Thank you. It’s the loveliest present I ever received.”
She leaned against him. “I am so happy here,” she sighed.
“Well, it is great here in May, but the crowds build up as the summer progresses. You might not enjoy the beach as much then.”
“It isn’t the beach that makes me happy.” She nuzzled the side of his face. “Being with you makes me happy.”
“Then you should spend more time here. Come more often, stay longer.” He put an arm around her and snuggled her close to his body.
“I fully intend to take you up on that. Whenever you have time for me . . .”
“I will always make time for you.”
“May not be so easy. It sounds as if John plans on keeping you busy.”
“He knows I have to have a certain amount of time each week with the therapist. I suspect that, whatever this special assignment is, there’s going to be some leeway.” He rubbed the side of her face with his own. “I can’t imagine going back to a life with no you. I feel like I’ve come back from the dead. I never thought I’d ever feel this way again, that life held . . . promise.”
“I know that exact feeling.” She looped her arm around his. “Isn’t it amazing? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Wonderful, yes.” He pulled her closer. “Where do we go from here?”
“We go weekend to weekend”—she grinned up at him—“and we see where it leads.”
“That sounds good.” He nodded. “That sounds just right.”
They sat close together, watching clouds gather and scatter across the afternoon sky.
“There’s one thing you need to understand,” Mara said solemnly. “I’ll never stop looking for her. No matter what, I will search for her until I find her. No matter how long it takes.”
“Then I will search with you, every step of the way, until we find her,” he promised. “No matter how long it takes . . .”
The road leading out of town was a long one, but Vince Giordano was whistling all the way. Fifteen more miles to go . . .
He lowered the driver’s side window of the car he’d borrowed from his attorney—promising its return by evening—on the pretext of visiting his mother. Right. He snorted. Like my mother has had one word for me in the past three years.
It doesn’t matter, he told himself. None of it matters now. He was out, and out for good, thanks to the stupid goddamn policeman who couldn’t resist shooting off his stupid mouth. And Vince Giordano did thank him most sincerely.
Five more miles, according to the odometer, and he’d be at his destination. Jeez, he hoped that no one had found it while he was gone. His biggest fear was that some kids playing around would have discovered what he’d buried three years ago, on the afternoon he’d gone to the house he’d once shared with his family and . . . well, done what he’d done.
He turned off the main road and onto a country lane that was wide enough to allow one car in each direction. He was close now, and he slowed down, searching for his landmarks. At the stop sign that marked the T-intersection, he looked both ways before pulling straight across and into a clearing. A barely visible drive, once dirt, now overgrown with weeds, lay ahead, and he followed it until he came to a barn that was one bad windstorm away from oblivion. Giordano pulled around the barn to park behind it. He got out of the car and, leaving the door open, stood in the knee-high weeds, his hands on his hips, and studied the back of the barn.
He counted twenty-two boards over from the corner, then knelt at the foundation, where he worked with his bare hands at a large loose rock until he could move it from side to side. He tugged at it, then pried at it with a stick he found a few feet away, waiting for the rock to dislodge and pull away from the foundation to leave a gaping hole. He thrust his hands inside, his fingers searching for cold metal.
Relieved to find the box right where he’d left it, he held his breath while he opened it and found the contents intact. Inside was the large stash of cash that he’d embezzled from his own construction company over the years after his marriage and before his arrest. He liked to think of it as his nest egg, a source of cash that Diane had never known about. After all, hadn’t he earned it all with his sweat and blood? A wife didn’t need to know everything.
Testing, just to make certain, he reached deeper into the hole and felt around into the farthest crevice. Yes, it was still there. He smiled to himself. The gun he’d used to kill his family, the weapon that had never been found.
And never would be, as long as this old barn stood.
He looked up at the old structure. Might be time for a new hiding place.
For now, this one would have to do. He counted out a large amount of the cash, stuffed the bills into his pockets, and returned the rest to the steel box, which he then shoved into the hole. He slid the rock back into place and stood, dusting off his hands. He looked up into the clear blue sky, watched a few birds settle into a tree off to his right. He took a deep, deep breath, feeling good about the day, about his circumstances, about his life.
He got back into the car and drove out the way he came in, grateful that there’d been no other traffic to see him come and go. He wanted to lie low for a while, enjoy his newfound freedom.
On his way back to town, he made a mental list of things to do. Find a place to live, someplace cheap and out of the way. And a car—he’d need wheels. A job was out of the question—everyone around here knew him. Some other place, though, he could start up another carpentry business. He had plenty of cash to bankroll himself. He could change his name, start life over again.
And of course, he had a job to do.
After all, if Curtis—that crazy son of a bitch—could do for him, he was sure enough going to do for Archer. After all, Vince was as much a man as Channing had been.
And then when Archer got out, he’d do for Curtis. Whether he wanted to or not. One way or another, Vince would see to it that Archer played out his part, did the deeds for Channing. After all, Channing had given his life doing for Giordano. The least he could do was to make certain that Archer repaid the debt.
Giordano thought about the kid as he negotiated the narrow bends in the road. The kid had been green as new grass and dumb as mud.
He’d never killed anyone, he’d said.
Well, he’d probably never made a deal with the devil before, either, but he was still going have to ante up. And if Giordano did for Archer as Channing had done for him, well, you can bet your ass that Archer was going to do for Channing. Even if Giordano had to stand be
hind him every step of the way and tell him what to do.
It was only supposed to be a game, Giordano mused. Just a game . . .
Then, unexpectedly, Curtis Channing had decided to play it out for real. He’d dropped the gauntlet, and now Vince Giordano was about to pick it up.
In his mind, he ticked off the names that Archer Lowell had whispered as they’d huddled together in the courthouse that icy day in February, names he’d repeated to himself every day, lest he forget.
Amanda Crosby.
Derek England.
Marion O’Connor.
He came to a full stop at the stop sign, and leaned over to raise the volume on the radio. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he headed back to town to return the borrowed car. He had plans to make. Places to go.
People to see . . .
BY MARIAH STEWART
Until Dark
The President’s Daughter
A shadow fell across her.
Mara looked up to find Aidan looking down at her. He wore a pale yellow shirt and his hands were stuck in the pockets of his worn jeans. Dark glasses shielded his eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking up on you.” He took the can from her hands and popped off the tab.
“Have you been doing this every day?”
“Nope.” He passed the can back to her. . . .
“I really don’t think I needed to check in with you to take a fifty-yard walk from the courthouse steps to the hot dog stand. . . . You really take this watchdog thing seriously, don’t you?”
“Serious as life and death.”
She glanced around, her eyes darting from the small groups that gathered on the lawn to the solitary figures scattered here and there.
“You think he’s here? Someone out there?” She gestured with the hand that held the soda can. “Just waiting for me to come out?”
“I would be, if I were him.”
Read on for a sneak peek
at the next two books
in this supenseful new series
by Mariah Stewart
DEAD CERTAIN
Coming in July 2004
and
DEAD EVEN
Coming in August 2004
DEAD
CERTAIN
“I’M GOING TO KILL HIM. I SWEAR, THE MINUTE HIS plane lands, I will kill him.”
Amanda Crosby glared at the screen of the laptop that sat open on the cluttered counter near the door of Crosby & England, the antique shop she co-owned with Derek England, the subject of her wrath.
“Is she sure? Is your sister positive it’s the same piece?” Amanda closed her eyes and silently begged, Please, please, let it not be the same piece. . . .
“Isn’t there any chance she’s mistaken?”
“Daria is positive the goblet in the photos we e-mailed her yesterday is the same one that’s on the list of items stolen from an Iranian museum some years ago. You read her reply yourself.” Iona McGowan, Amanda’s longtime friend and onetime college roommate, hit the print command and watched as the color image emerged through the printer, accompanied by the e-mail from Iona’s sister.
“The goblet is in the stylized design of the fine painted pottery found at the Tall-e Bakun site in southwestern Iran. Probably dates from 5 b.c. The mouflon horns are pretty typical of the time period and the culture. This piece would be especially prized and noteworthy because of its near-pristine condition, the vividness of the colors, and the quality of the painted design work. I’m sorry, but there is absolutely no question that this piece could only have been bought on the black market.” Amanda glumly read the e-mail aloud. “And I guess your sister would know.”
“Daria is an internationally recognized expert in the field. Which is why you wanted to consult with her in the first place,” Iona reminded her. She started to close out the window on the screen, paused to ask, “Are we finished here?”
Amanda nodded in disgust and turned away from the counter.
“Damn Derek anyway. Damn him. I told him not to buy anything on this trip, and to cover his eyes and ears if anyone offered to show him anything that couldn’t be completely and thoroughly documented. I told him to run like hell the minute someone whispered, ‘American, I have something special for you.’ ” Amanda continued to steam. “The business just can’t afford to absorb this hit. I don’t know how we’re going to make up this loss.”
“Look, Daria said there’s a reward . . .”
“Which would just barely pay to send the damned thing to her, by the time we had it securely packed and insured and hire a courier to hand-deliver it so that Derek doesn’t get arrested for dealing in stolen antiquities.” She blew out a hot, angry breath. “He has no idea how lucky he is that she’s willing to help him out on this. I’m sorely tempted to let Interpol arrest him and be done with it.”
“You know as well as I do that Interpol is hardly likely to waste its time and limited resources on pursuing this one item. Especially since it’s being returned to its rightful owner through a reputable archaeologist, which never would happen if it had fallen into someone else’s hands. Besides, you’d never do anything like that—turn your own partner in—no matter how angry you are, and we both know it.”
“I don’t think we’d want to test that right now.”
“Manda, I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Not as sorry as Derek England is going to be when I get my hands on him.”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. What exactly did he tell you when he called, anyway?”
“Just that he bought what he believed was an important piece, that he already had a buyer for it, and that he was having it shipped home—and to watch for it because it was going to knock my socks off. Well, it did that, all right.” Amanda slapped a hand on the top of a nearby farm table. “God, I could just kill him.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news.”
“I appreciate your help. I wouldn’t have known what to do with this”—she waved her hand in the vague direction of the goblet—“without Daria’s guidance.”
“Glad I could assist.” Iona patted Amanda on the back. “But right now, I’ve got to get back to my shop. I told Carly she could leave early today. Give me a call over the weekend. There’s going to be an auction up near Pipersville on Monday—maybe we can go together, pick up some goodies for our shops.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Amanda walked Iona to the door and stepped outside onto the narrow cobbled walk that snaked around the well-manicured greens to tie together the tidy shops, the restaurants, and the parking lots.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” Iona called over her shoulder before she disappeared around the corner.
Amanda nodded and waved.
Still sick to her stomach after having had her worst fears confirmed, she stood for a few minutes in the doorway, barely noticing the shoppers who walked by. Even on this dull August afternoon, St. Mark’s Village had attracted a lively crowd. Springing from a cornfield via the imagination of its founder, Mark Hollander, St. Mark’s Village was a popular and pricey assemblage of antique and specialty shops in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. On weekends such as this, it wasn’t unusual to see busloads from New York, Washington, or Boston already lined up in the parking lot by 9 a.m. for an all-day shopping experience. Not for the faint-of-heart shopper nor those with low balances in their checking accounts—or on their plastic—the Shoppes at St. Mark’s Village were a tourist attraction for the discriminating.
Amanda Crosby had been one of the original dealers to sign on seven years ago when Mark Hollander had first proposed the idea of a cluster of high-end shops. She’d immediately recognized the advantage of being associated with a group that would be collectively marketed as upscale and high profile. And since—for the most part—each dealer specialized in a particular type of merchandise, there was little competition among the ever-growing number of merchants in the ever-expanding complex. In addition
to private shoppers drawn to the village, there was the profitable secondary market of selling to dealers from other parts of the country who often came east seeking items for their own shops or for special customers. The shop owners at St. Mark’s had solid reputations and had networked nicely with their counterparts in other states.
Sighing heavily, Amanda walked back into her shop, pausing to wipe a speck of dust from a piece of Art Deco pottery on a stand to the left of the door.
“Oh, the hell with it,” she muttered, tears stinging her eyes.
All of her hard work down the drain with one stupid purchase on Derek’s part.
“Correction,” she said as she began to repack the pottery goblet as Daria McGowan had instructed. “One more stupid purchase on Derek’s part.”
Over the years, Derek’s get-rich-quick schemes had cost him and the shop a tidy penny. This, however, was the worst. The $65,000 Derek had paid for the goblet—the now-known-to-be-hot goblet—had wiped them out. And if not for Daria’s assistance, Derek could very well be a candidate for a nice long chat with Interpol or UNESCO.
Amanda gritted her teeth.
But Manda, I have a buyer, he’d assured her. Don’t worry about it, okay? He’ll pay many times what I paid to get his hands on this piece, trust me. I know what I’m doing here.
No, Derek, you do not know what you’re doing. Whatever it is, just let it go. Don’t make any deals, don’t buy . . . Derek?
The line had gone dead, and he’d not called back.
The goblet arrived several days later, and as soon as she unwrapped it, Amanda suspected they were in deep trouble. She’d immediately called Iona, whose father and sister were well-connected archaeologists and who would know how best to deal with an item one suspected might be stolen without getting arrested in the process.
In spite of everything, Amanda dearly loved Derek England. They’d been the best of friends since that day, junior year in college, they had discovered that they shared a passion for American primitive furniture, Art Deco pottery, and a desire to own a high-end antique shop someday.
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