First You Run (6 page)

Despite the heat, a chill lifted every hair on Miranda’s body.

Taliña studied the mirror intently. For a moment, her eyes fluttered and rolled back, then she reached forward and embraced Miranda, lifting her from the chair. “There is a plan to inflict great pain on you.” Slowly, mesmerized and still staring at the
toli,
Taliña stood, taking Miranda’s hand. “Come with me,” she urged, using her eyes to send a warning over her shoulder to Adrien. “You stay there.”

His golden eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move.

Deep in the cool shadow of the portico, Taliña placed her mouth so close to Miranda’s ear that her hair moved. “Who is this man?” She tipped her head imperceptibly toward Adrien. “How well do you know him?”

‘I don’t…we’ve just…recently met.”

Taliña’s black eyes widened, and she shook her head, then looked at her mirror. “Be careful, my dear.”

The warning chilled. “Of what?”

“Of those who say they want to protect you but have much different plans.” She looked pointedly at Adrien, lowered the mirror, and took a step back. “Josefina will show you to your rooms, and I will see you in the courtyard for cocktails at seven. We’re expecting more than four hundred people, so I’m sure you understand that I must leave you now.” She nodded toward Adrien and the table. “Please feel free to make yourselves comfortable.”

She disappeared under yet another archway, leaving Miranda worlds away from anything that resembled
comfortable
.

Could the shaman see something in Adrien Fletcher that Miranda hadn’t?

She turned from the shadows to confront him, but he was gone.

J
ACK
C
ULVER SQUINTED
into the thick foliage that rolled over the hills of the Dutch Fork area of Richland County, South Carolina, and pressed the cell phone tighter to his ear. “Canopy? What the hell is that?” he asked.

“Some bizarre California compound,” Fletch replied. “Named for the trees.”

“I’m in a pretty bizarre compound, too.” Jack glanced at the fifteen-foot wall, the barbed wire that ran along it, and the huge iron gate that let women in but not out. “It’s the Camille Griffin Graham Correctional Institute, and I’m on my way to see a killer of a woman.”

“You said she’s innocent.”

Jack pulled off the road to finish this conversation with Fletch before he started the clearing process. Even when all a visitor wanted to do was stop in the infirmary and see a nearly dead woman, it could take the better part of an hour, a strip search, a discussion with some hard-edged correctional officers, a bit of banter with Warden McNally’s just-past-her-prime assistant, and an endless wait to see Eileen Stafford.

And chances were she’d be asleep.

“My gut says she’s innocent,” Jack said.

“Your gut’s been a bit natty lately.”

“It probably wouldn’t hold up in court,” Jack agreed. “And still, I’ve been in Charleston digging into history, and my gut, natty as it is, says there’s more to this than meets the eye.” Much more. More than he could even tell Fletch.

“What did you find?”

“Mostly a big fat rug with a shitload of secrets swept under it. And no one willing to talk.” The last ten days had been a series of blank faces and shrugged shoulders. Whatever went down behind the scenes in the Charleston PD and the ensuing murder trial thirty years ago, someone wanted it to go to Eileen Stafford’s grave. “And why are you at a compound in…where is it again?”

“Santa Barbara. I’m here because I’ve got a live one.”

“Reel her in, man. Eileen needs good news today. Which one is she?”

“Miranda Lang.”

“Has she agreed to the bone-marrow transplant?”

Fletch snorted. “She doesn’t even have a clue she was adopted. I’m trying to find the tattoo, but it isn’t visible with clothes on.”

“Get them off. You’re good at that.”

“Working on it, mate. Right now, she needs some protection services on a weekend of book promotion. I took that job, hoping it includes a tattoo hunt, but…”

Fletch’s voice trailed off, and Jack frowned. “What is she? Blind? Gay? Married?”

“None of the above. In fact, she’s gorgeous, smart, and quite available.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is we just met up with a very astute and uncannily perceptive woman who might be on to me. She’s already planting seeds in Miranda’s head that I have ulterior motives.”

“All men have ulterior motives. Strip her down and search, for God’s sake, and in the meantime, I’ll tell Eileen we’re getting closer. Maybe she can give me something. Whoever she’s covering for still has her believing he or she has the power to hurt her daughter. She wants me to help her, but she doesn’t fully trust that I can.”

“Listen, mate,” Fletch said. “I like this woman, and I don’t want to crap all over her life for no good reason. If she’s not Stafford’s daughter, then I’m not telling her she’s adopted. But if she really can save her birth mother, I’ll do it. Anything your friend can tell me—a name of who adopted her daughter, a location of the mark—is going to make things easier and faster.”

“I’ll get what I can.”

“Good onya, then, Jack. Gotta run.”

Fletch clicked off, and Jack headed into Camp Camille with resolve to get more out of Eileen Stafford, no matter what. That resolve evaporated an hour later, when he entered the infirmary to find the sick, bald, thin-skinned woman sleeping like the dead. For a second, he thought she
was
dead.

Then he saw the hole for the chemo port in her chest rise and fall in slow, steady rhythm.

Jack sat on the other bed and studied the face of a woman long ago lost in the system, seemingly a victim of a sloppy and impatient prosecutor, a lazy defense attorney, and a city so deep in poverty that no one cared about one legal secretary shooting another. And a victim, his instinct told him, of something even more nefarious than all that.

Of course, anything that came from his instinct was subject to doubt and scrutiny.

“Did you find her?” The voice, so tiny it could have been a child’s, startled Jack.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“The nice guard told me you were coming. The one who feeds me my yogurt.”

Jack glanced at the open door, where a guard occasionally wandered by. Even though Camp Camille was high-security, no one expected a weak fifty-five-year-old cancer patient to try to escape.

“They told you I was coming?” he asked.

“They just said I had a visitor coming. I figured it was you.” She opened her eyes and turned her head slowly to look at him. “Nobody else comes anymore.”

“Did anyone used to visit?”

“Once in a while.” She closed her eyes. He knew from the brief conversations they’d had, from the first time he’d come looking for a link to an entirely different case, that he couldn’t push Eileen when she didn’t want to be pushed. She’d just feign sleep.

“Let me ask you something, Eileen. Does the name Miranda Lang mean anything to you?”

She opened her eyes instantly, a little pulse throbbing under the fuzz of her nearly bald scalp. “Is that her? Miranda Lang?”

“Might be. This young lady doesn’t seem to know she’s adopted. Is that possible?”

“Of course. The mother might not have told her.”

“But she’d have the mark you had put on her?”

“She would.”

“Where?”

“I told you, I wasn’t in the room. I just know that Rebecca did it. She was the nurse at Sapphire Trail.”

Jack leaned his elbows on his knees at this new lead. “Rebecca who?”

“There were no last names at Sapphire Trail.”

Of course not. That would be too easy.

“It doesn’t make any difference now. What matters is finding…her…before I die. Then you’ll know the truth. And the truth…” She shuddered.

“The truth is what, Eileen?”

“Just find her. Bring her to me. Then you’ll understand.”

Yeah, he’d understand that he’d been had by an old woman who would do and say anything to find the daughter who could save her life.

They’d been through this before, when she was stronger, more determined. But she was fading fast. “I need more to go on, Eileen. I’ve got friends working, and we’re running out of time.”

Lifting one hand, she touched the chemo port on her chest. “Don’t I know it.”

“Should I try to find Rebecca?”

She opened her eyes. “Be careful. He can do anything. You’ll see.”

“Who is he?” Jack asked softly. “You have to tell me.”

“I can’t. He’ll kill you, too.”

Jesus.
He stabbed his hands through his hair and propped his elbows on his knees, leaning close to the metal rails of her hospital bed. “Give me something, Eileen.
Something
.”

“Talk to Willie Gilbert.”

“Who’s that?”

“He arrested me. He knows the truth.”

“Where is he?”

“You’re a former cop, right? You should be able to find each other.”

The guard rapped hard on the doorjamb. “Time’s up, Mr. Culver.”

Eileen’s blue-gray eyes widened slightly. “You told them your real name?”

“It’s the only way into a maximum-security prison, Eileen.”

“Be careful, Jack.” She reached out a papery dry hand and whispered, “He can do anything. And it matters to a lot of people. A lot.”

From a long balcony that connected his second-floor room with Miranda’s, Fletch studied the impressive patio below, surrounded by a faux jungle, lit by rows of tiki torches, and peppered with well-dressed guests.

“I’m ready.”

He turned to another vision, every bit as impressive.

Miranda stepped into the evening light, shimmering in silver metallic silk that draped over her slender body like liquid mercury. The dress stopped mid-thigh to reveal long, shapely legs in a pair of high heels designed with nothing but procreation of the species in mind.

He made no effort to hide his head-to-toe inspection. “Isn’t going out in public looking that good illegal?”

She smiled at the compliment and nodded to the greenery behind him. “I know that using that much water
is
illegal,” she said. “I wonder how Victor Blake gets away with it.”

“I get the impression Doña Taliña calls the shots around here.”

“She calls something,” Miranda said. “I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

“Is that what you’ve done all afternoon?” he asked. “Tried to figure her out?”

She shrugged. “I rested in my room.” He knew that, having kept a close watch on that door while he did a cursory security check of the home. “What about you?”

“I worked.” In addition to the look-see of the house, he’d talked to Lucy. “I’ve asked for background checks on Victor and Taliña Blake, and my home office is trying to unearth some new data about the crazies for you.”

“Why?” She looked hard at him, the same distrust in her eyes that he’d seen when she’d found him on the cell phone with Jack on the veranda. Seeds of distrust planted by their hostess.

“Information is power. If you know who these people are, they have less chance of terrorizing you.”

“The crazies, yes. But why would you do a background check on Taliña and Victor Blake?”

“Because anyone who doesn’t want you to be protected is a security red flag to me.”

Miranda scowled at him. “She’s merely…possessive. And I guess she questioned our friendship.”

He lifted a brow. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”

“Nothing?”

He raked her with a slow appraisal as he slipped into a sports jacket that hid his holstered weapon. “I admit I want to get naked with you, luv, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

For a moment, they eyed each other in a silent truce. Then she reached out to touch his tie. “You clean up pretty well, too.”

He grinned, snagging her hand as she drew away and tucking her closer to him. “Let’s go greet your adoring fans.”

“That’s a slight overstatement.”

“Taliña adores you,” he said. “She touches you a lot.”

“That’s her style,” Miranda said. “She’s very physical.”

He slid an arm around her and dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. “So am I.”

She stiffened, then inclined her head, allowing him access to more skin. “What happened to ‘this isn’t about sex’?”

“This dress happened,” he said, lowering his gaze to the material that dipped low enough to reveal the rise of her breasts. “And you knew it when you put it on to torture me.”

“That wasn’t my…” Her voice caught as he kissed her on the lips, so lightly it tickled them both.

“Yes, it was.” He grazed a knuckle along the side of her breast.

A sharp rap on the balcony door surprised them apart. “Miranda, what’s taking you so long?” Taliña Blake stepped out, obviously having come through Miranda’s room. She wore all black, her hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders as she crossed the balcony. “I’m so anxious for you to come down.” She slipped her arm around Miranda without so much as a glance at Fletch. “And Victor is dying to meet you.”

“We were just on our way,” Miranda said.

Fletch followed them down to the patio, where a short, barrel-chested older man with thinning hair and crystal-blue eyes waited at the bottom of the steps. The man’s gaze flickered between Miranda and Taliña. He took Miranda’s hand, offering a Euro bow and a handshake. “I’m delighted to meet you, Dr. Lang. I’m Victor Blake.”

Miranda introduced Fletch as her companion, and Blake gave him a swift appraisal. “Mr. Fletcher. Welcome.”

“Come and see the pyramid I’ve made from your books.” Taliña said. “You will love this. So inventive!” Instantly, she spirited Miranda away from the men.

Fletch started after them, but Victor Blake blocked him. “Come to the bar with me. You’ll never get five minutes of her time with Taliña around. I’m afraid the lady of the house is a bit starstruck.”

“Starstruck? Miranda is a college professor who wrote a book.” He allowed Blake to guide him to the bar, making sure he could see the two women from there.

Blake’s odd laugh pulled his attention. “Who knows why that woman does anything?” he said, shaking his head like a doting husband. “I just do whatever I can to keep her happy.”

“How long has she been a fan of Miranda’s work?” Fletch asked. “The book hasn’t been out that long.”

He put a glass of red wine in Fletch’s hand. “I have no idea. I really don’t pay attention to that sort of thing. But I wouldn’t question it, if I were you. Taliña is quite a handy benefactor for your girlfriend to have. She’ll introduce hundreds of new readers to her work this evening alone.” Blake held up his glass in a toast.

Fletch tapped the crystal and pretended to sip, then put the glass on the bar, scanning the crowd. Miranda stood in front of a flickering torch that offered a dead-on silhouette of her body through thin fabric.

“Nothing quite as intoxicating as watching a woman shine in her element, is there, Mr. Fletcher?”

Fletch slid him a sideways look but didn’t respond.

“Taliña tells me you’re a Taswegian.”

He managed not to roll his eyes at the term. “True enough.” As much as he’d like the little man to disappear, he was curious about to how the bloke made all this cash. “Have you been Down Under?”

“Many times on business.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“I owned a distribution company that serviced Hobart. It’s a beautiful place. What brings you to the States?”

“The same,” Fletch replied. “Business.” He took another fake sip of wine. “What did you distribute?”

“Oh, I sold that business years ago. What line of work are you in, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Security.” He glanced toward Miranda, but she must have stepped behind one of the massive sculptures that decorated the patio. “Executive protection, primarily. When were you in Hobart?”

“A while ago. So, that’s why you’re with Miranda? As her bodyguard?”