Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (12 page)

Slowly, the dancing led to one
soulful lasting kiss, and then another, the second deeper, stronger than the
first.

Before they knew it, they were
upstairs undressing by the light of a street lamp invading through the bedroom
window.

Mark stopped her, taking her by
the
shoulders
as she was about to unhook her bra.

'I want you to know this means
something,' he said, needing to have her hear it.

'I know it does,' she said
softly, dropping her chin so he couldn’t see her eyes. 'I just wish it meant
more.'

He couldn’t answer, so instead
pulled her to him where he sat half-undressed on the bed.

I wish
I
could be here for you always
,
he wanted to say
.
I wish I could be that man you’re looking for. If he closed his eyes, maybe he
could be that man – if only for tonight.

He reached for her yellow-gold
hair and pulled her on top of him, struggling against the single tear that gave
him away.

'Anita, get up and get your
grandfather some salt.'
Ana looked down at the table. Something was wrong
.

'Anita!' Her mother’s voice came clearer now. Harder
.

'Yes,
Ma
–' She stopped herself. She’d
been working against it for weeks. 'Mother.' She stood with an awkward jolt
that sent knees knocking into wood, linen cloth flooding her legs.

Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
She looked up with a start
.

Her
grandfather was seated before her.
A handsome Spaniard with
an impressive gray moustache.
An admiral’s uniform,
gold braid decorating his shoulders.
No, it was a photograph.

He raised his glass of Rioja in
her direction. A half-empty bottle with a Spanish label nested on the table
between them.

'
Papacito
,'
her grandmother said, lightly nudging his arm. 'I have told you and told you
the salt is no good.'

No, impossible.

'Anita!' her mother demanded.

'Sorry,
Mama
,' she found
herself giving in. The kids had teased her in grammar school. By the time she’d
entered the eighth grade, she’d decided to rid herself – of all of it.

Mama
had been among the
first to go.

She pushed out from the table,
still feeling the fear there at her feet.

'Anita had a suitor today,' Emi
taunted, as she walked toward the kitchen.

Emi sat, a tall waif, beside
her grandfather. She had the innocent eyes of a doe, with a plump round mouth
and breasts that had developed to match.

Ana’s thirteen-year-old body
was still a pancake in comparison. She cut her sister an angry glance.

'A suitor?' her father bellowed
from the corner. She couldn’t see him clearly above the candelabra’s glare. His
voice was a deep baritone. 'What’s this about a suitor, Ana?'

She easily found the salt on
the kitchen counter. The back door was open, a gentle breeze filtering in
through the screen with the evening light. She gripped the
salt
shaker
more tightly, wanting to flee.

'Ana, your father’s talking to
you!' Her mother called. Honor thy father and moth
er
.
It was the first rule in this house.

She obediently came back into
the dining room, unable to take her eyes from her grandfather. She set the salt
down beside his glass,
then
tentatively took her seat
at the table.

Her mother’s face seemed
fresher, less burdened than she remembered. 'Who was the young man?'

Ana turned a scornful eye
toward her sister. 'David. David Browne.'

'Browne?' her mother asked with
expectation. 'He’s the lawyer’s son. Is he not?'

'Lawyer,
shmawyer
,'
Emi said. 'His dad sells cars.'


'New or used?'
Papacito
groused. It was the first time she’d heard his
voice and it came as a

shock
.
It was low and gravely from too much American whisky and probably one too many
cigars.

'New,' Ana
said, not wanting to speak.
If only they would leave her alone.
All alone.

'Honorable enough profession,'
her father grumbled from behind the candles.

'Anita!' her mother shouted.
'The salt!'

'But I – ' She started to
shift her legs when she felt her toe collide with something under the table.

'Anita!' her mother called.
This time more forcefully
.

Emi swiveled her
coquettish head around the room.
'Oh, Ana –'

Papacito
was frowning into his wine, her grandmother
leaning into him with a worried look.
She moved her other foot and found
it met with resistance as well. The frozen terror raced up her legs to where
she sat immobilized.

Her father was calling, his
voice loud and threatening. 'Anita!' he boomed. 'Ana Margarita Kane, come out
from under there!' He gave a short sharp yank on the edge of the tablecloth and
dishes flew, wine cascading into walls, china grappling with glass goblets, as
heaven and earth crashed to the floor.

Then she saw it.

Under the sleek flat plank of
the table lay a long luminous box. It was lined in white satin and open to the
air. There was a girl in its hollow, a girl more than thirteen. Older. Perhaps
in her twenties...

Ana woke with a start, her cry
baiting her madness. Just above her head, the miniature blades of the fan spun
in isolated harmony.

And suddenly her nightmare
seemed the lesser of evils.

The Americans sandwiched
themselves into the back of the small black cab. As the red-striped taxi made
its way along the broad and barren road from the airport, Joe noted the
sporadic appearance of stark apartment houses erupting from the Mesa's perfectly
even terrain. Half-opened windows spewed
forth wild
strings of colored laundry that danced like tattered threads in the hollow
April wind.

Eventually they reached Madrid,
its normally busy avenues a quiet rumble, the dense morning air trapped in the
cauldron of the city.

'Still in bed,' Denton
announced to no one in particular.

Joe nodded his head. It was the
first time he’d agreed with Denton about anything. There was so much about him
he didn’t like. Little things, like his ungainly gait and that almost feminine
swing to his hips. The way Denton widened his eyes when he spoke and narrowed
them when he listened. He was so damned superior for someone who was going
absolutely nowhere. Here was a kid who’d once had everything but thrown it all
away.

He really was one major screw
up.

Then again, Joe had the benefit
of having access to his file. The added perk of having been able to sort
through his dirty laundry.

And Denton had amassed a whole
stinking pile.

Somewhere up ahead of them a
car’s engine backfired. Scott still hated that sound or anything that vaguely
mimicked the sickening blast of a gun. He remembered the shotgun, the way its
long butt pushed into his spindly shoulder, the unwieldy feel of the barrel in
his twelve-year-old hands.

His father appeared from the
duck blinds, his face distorted with terror. Pauli lay on the ground, a pool of
crimson exploding from the hole in his cushiony chest.

Scott’s finger stayed frozen in
its position of guilt. The trigger held him there, taunting. This is just what
you wanted, what you’ve always wanted.
Pauli, dead.
Mama and Daddy all to yourself.
No more doctors’ visits, no
more month-long trips to clinics in Atlanta, no more late -night
rockings
with Mama for a boy whose years have far surpassed
the privilege.

Scott straightened his arms
against the seat in front of him, as the cabby slammed on his brakes and began
cursing the driver ahead of them in angry Castilian.

It was an accident, Scott had
told himself, again and again. It was time to let it go. Let it go, as he had
been unable to do in high school. His parents blamed him. Not so much for the
shooting as for being alive. How many times he’d wished he wasn’t. If he could
have thought of a way, he would have ended it. But he was afraid. Afraid he’d
screw that up too.

It was easier just to deaden
the pain.

He’d started with a joint or
two before school,
then
went on to other things. It
didn’t matter what, as long as it got him high. Yeah, he’d heard stories about
people jumping out of windows. But then, at least, it’d be over. He wouldn’t
have to face another day of watching Mama cook his eggs, pretending nothing was
wrong, or another night of catching disapproving glances from his father from
across the top of the newspaper.

The drugs helped him get away.
And the farther he went, the better he felt. Mama turned a blind eye. It was
her way, the Southern way, not to get involved. His dad suspected, but didn’t
want to know.
Bad for business – having a son in rehab.
The town was growing but still small enough tongues wagged. Fact was
,
no one really got over the accident. It was a shadow that
hung over the family. All the
Dentons
needed was
another scandal.

His folks had been relieved to
ship him off to college without a record. Good college at that.
State school with a national reputation.
He had the grades.
Academics came easy. It was the only thing in his whole damn life.

Except for that stint with the
DEA. Fucking load had landed right in his lap.

A real break, and right here in
Spain.

McFadden’s girth was pressing
Mark against the door of the cab. Maybe Mooney had been right about him. Sure,
Mark had his reservations at first, but he was also a fairly decent judge of
character. Perhaps McFadden was a little hotheaded at times but he was okay.
Steadfastly on target.
Someone you could count on.

Denton, on the other hand, had
already proven his primary loyalty was to himself. That in
itself
spelled trouble.

Mark took in the wide
tree-lined walkways dividing the boulevards. Green promenades teeming with
benches, brimming fountains and the occasional outdoor cafe.

They rounded a traffic circle
and swept by the ornate structure of the Ritz hotel. Their driver hung a quick
left, skirting the imposing, block-long facade of the Prado. Aisles of buses
dislodged flocking Japanese tourists. The cabby pounded his wheel, cursing
vividly, as their car became embroiled in the stampede.

Directly behind the museum and
its impressive grounds lay the starkly unimpressive street of
Calle
Cervantes. The network of streets adjoining it was known
for its exclusive shops and society cafes. But forgiving a small grocery and
one humble bar, Cervantes was unencumbered by commercial entities. Above the
appropriately named Bar Modesto hid a complete array of neatly furnished
apartments collectively known as Los
Jeronimos
.

It was an unobtrusive locale, a
haunt little known by outsiders.
The perfect place for
visiting Americans to fade into the woodwork.

Mark stepped from the cramped
quarters of the cab, his legs aching at the joints. As soon as he settled in,
he’d go for a run.

Mark circled the block and
crossed the loud boulevard to the lush velvet of
Retiro
Park. He jogged through the wrought iron gate and headed for the sculptured
gardens at the park’s rear, thinking of Camille. The trellised vines overhead
reminded him of the restaurant where they’d shared
their
parting meal. He hadn’t known going into it that it would be their last. If he
had, maybe he would have approached it differently, been prepared. There was
nothing he hated more than being unprepared.

But she had gotten him at a
weak moment. Closed in when his mind was occupied with other things like an old
soul held hostage by a passport photo. It didn’t take much to imagine her face.
It followed him everywhere, daunted him with intrepid eyes.

The ivy climbed its canopy
beneath the
blue sky
overhead. He ran through its
final portal and emerged beside the park’s large lake. As he rounded the corner
near the pedal boats, he heard a second set of footsteps pounding the pavement
behind him.

There weren’t many people in
the park at this hour. Early birds.
Anxious lovers dotting
the benches with conspicuous passion.
A man and woman amorously entwined
at the base of a large Cypress tree, his hands in her thick, black hair, their
kisses fast and deliberate. Mark noted the display, at once put off and
envious.

There was something almost
furious in their desire.

He turned down an adjacent
path, increasingly aware of the footfalls behind him. They’d been keeping pace,
but now were closing in.

He altered his course and swung
around
Retiro’s
large Crystal Palace. The footsteps
followed, picking up speed.

He needed a plan. His piece was
in the hotel safe.

To his right, the Palace
reflecting pool cupped swans like lilies in a translucent palm. Through the glare
of the water, he saw the man at his back draw a pistol.

He hit the ground, diving onto
the pavement.

His assailant spilled over him,
tumbling into the water. Mark pushed himself off the concrete and lunged for
the back of the man’s neck. He was young, maybe twenty, with oily
shoulder-length hair sticking out from beneath the bandanna that capped his
skull.

He struggled with Mark, groping
for his drowning pistol at the muddy edge of the water.