Moonrise (3 page)

“Good man,” said the General, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s drink to that.”

Annie lay in the narrow bed, sleepless, restless, listening for sounds of movement beneath her second-floor bedroom. She’d been a fool to come, she knew that. But then, she’d been telling herself that, nonstop, for the past three days, since she’d made up her mind to ask James McKinley for help.

It wasn’t going to bring her father back. Nothing would, and this stupid quest was probably nothing more than an extreme case of denial. So what if the accident seemed uncharacteristically stupid and unlikely? Most accidents were.

She’d gone through the first stages of
mourning. The anger, the blind denial, the numb grief. It had been more than six months, just about time for her to pull up her socks and get on with her life.

It was a good, rewarding life. She was healthy, young, and reasonably attractive. Even if her short-term marriage hadn’t worked out, the divorce had been amicable and civilized, and she and Martin were still friends. Even if her subsequent relationships had never given her exactly what she wanted, they’d been pleasant, mutually satisfying, casual.

She had friends, good friends. She had a job she adored—school psychologist at the same exclusive Quaker school where she’d spent her childhood. She’d moved back to the house in Georgetown, full of memories, of course, but most of them happy ones. And she had enough money for the occasional luxury. More, in fact. She’d never quite realized how much money her father had actually had until she inherited it.

The only thing missing in her comfortable life was love. There was no bringing her father back—maybe she ought to go out and buy a puppy, for God’s sake, instead of going on some brainless crusade. Maybe she ought to get married again.

For the past three days coming here had seemed like the logical thing to do. The only
thing to do. Go find McKinley. The man who knew the answers.

She’d always thought that absurdly melodramatic of her father. Winston Sutherland hadn’t been above a streak of theatrics, of romanticizing things a bit, but that had only made Annie love him more.

Now she wasn’t so certain her father had been exaggerating at all. The James McKinley she remembered was a sober businessman, whose only answers would have something to do with government contracts or the like.

But the man she’d seen tonight was a different matter entirely.

She’d half hoped she’d find him sitting in one of his charcoal gray suits, sipping coffee and looking avuncular, and she’d realize how foolish she’d been, to start imagining conspiracies and murder and cover-ups.

But the dangerous creature she’d left in the kitchen of the tiny cottage had set all her alarm bells ringing. She’d meant to broach the subject of Win’s death gradually, casually. Instead she’d blurted it out, confronted by a stranger she’d known all her life.

She shouldn’t have come, she knew it. As she lay in the bed, sweltering, she knew she had to apologize, and leave, first thing in the morning.

If she had any sense at all.

*       *       *

She didn’t know he was watching her. James wasn’t the kind of man who made mistakes, and tonight was no exception, despite the amount of tequila he had drunk, despite the shock her appearance had given him.

She lay in the narrow iron bed, her tawny hair spread out around her shoulders. She was wearing some sort of tank top, exposing her long, tanned arms, and the sheet lay tangled around her legs. It had taken her quite awhile to fall asleep, and he’d sat downstairs in absolute silence, drinking his tequila and listening to the sound of her breathing. The very sound of her heartbeat.

And then, he’d come up the narrow stairs to stare at her while she slept. If he hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t have touched her hair, moving it away from her tanned neck. The feel it was silky, sliding through his fingers as he exposed her throat. He stared down at her, knowing how very easy it would be to exert just the right amount of pressure. She would die very quickly.

He stepped back, shaken. Damn, he was getting too old for this. He’d had too much to drink, too much to think about. Killing someone wasn’t an issue to be debated. It was either orders followed, or instinct.

But he was through listening to orders, and
his instincts, at least as far as Annie Sutherland was concerned, were haywire. He needed to remind himself of the drill. Fall back upon habit if his brain wasn’t working right.

He searched her bag soundlessly, methodically. She went in for silk and cotton underwear. Not too plain, not too saucy. Middle of the road, conservative. As Win had molded her.

Her clothes were the same. Classic, conservative, and politically correct. He wondered what politics Win had imbued in her.

There was no sign of a weapon, which didn’t surprise him. He’d already come to the conclusion that Annie Sutherland was exactly who and what she appeared to be.

She’d brought her vitamins, enough to stock a health food store. She’d brought tranquilizers and sleeping pills, both prescription. She’d brought a box of condoms. He wondered idly who she was planning to fuck.

He doubted if it was going to be him.

He took her purse and carried it downstairs with him, emptying it out on the cluttered kitchen table. He poured himself another glass of tequila as he sat down to look through it.

Traveler’s checks. Ten thousand dollars worth—quite a piece of change for a spur of the moment trip. But then, Win had left her an obscene amount of money. Obscene considering
where it had come from. Credit cards, makeup, cash. And a couple of letters.

He recognized the handwriting on both of them. He opened the one from Martin first. Martin Paulsen was the closest thing he had to a friend right now. Which wasn’t saying very much. He scanned the letter to Annie, taking in the details with lightning speed, unaffected by the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. She’d slept with Martin, her ex-husband, sometime in the not too distant past. It was over, though perhaps it could be rekindled. And Martin didn’t think there was anything suspicious about her father’s death. Most of all, he didn’t think McKinley would have anything to offer.

Smart man, James thought with a stirring of gratitude. Unfortunately, Annie Sutherland hadn’t listened to his good advice. She was here. And they were both going to live to regret it. Though probably not for long, in either of their cases.

He was avoiding the second letter. He knew Win’s handwriting as well as he knew his own, and he didn’t want to read it. He picked it up, despising his sudden sentimental weakness, and glanced at the date. March 28. Five days before he’d died.

He would have known he was a dead man by then. Exactly what had he told Annie, to
make her come after him? Had he guessed the truth, even in advance? Winston Sutherland had been almost supernaturally canny about such things. He probably would have known when and why. Chances were, he would have known who as well.

He smoothed the crumpled letter for a moment. Then he pulled it open and read it.

There was nothing the slightest bit suspicious at first glance. Just fatherly admonitions couched in Win’s slightly mocking graciousness. It didn’t necessarily sound like a man saying good-bye.

But it was. Win had known he had been found out. His lucrative sideline exposed and his sentence passed down. He’d probably known who would come for him.

James’s eyes narrowed.
I’m looking forward to the Irish blessing you’re embroidering for me, darling Annie
, the letter said.
When I see it I’ll think of you, and I’ll think of Jamey. He’s a good man. Go to him if you ever need help and I’m not around.

It was all he could do not to crumple the paper. He folded it carefully, slipping it back into the envelope.

And then he reached for the bottle of tequila.

When Annie woke up, she was disoriented. The bed sagged beneath her, the sheets were
tangled around her legs, and the smell of frying bacon mixed with the rich scent of coffee. In the distance she could hear someone humming under his breath.

She felt exhausted, confused, hungover. She crawled out of bed, rummaged carelessly through her suitcase, and pulled out some clothes. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in disbelief.

The tiny downstairs of the cottage was spotless. Gone were the dirty dishes she’d seen littering every available surface; gone were the stacks of newspapers and books, the clutter.

Gone was the stranger as well. McKinley stood in the kitchen by the stove, poking the bacon, sipping a mug of coffee.

He was showered, shaved, familiar again. He wasn’t wearing a gray suit this time, and his hair was still long, but it was wet from his shower and combed back, and his clothes were neatly pressed khaki.

“There you are, sleepyhead,” he greeted her, his voice an affable rumble, laced with his hint of Texas accent. “I thought you were going to sleep all day.”

For a moment she didn’t move, staring at him. In a way, this familiar James McKinley was even more startling.

“You want some coffee?” he continued, smiling an easy smile.

“Sure,” she said after a moment.

“Take a seat. Breakfast is coming right up. Can’t start the day without a decent breakfast,” he said, turning away from her and whistling under his breath once more.

She waited until she gulped down a half cup of strong black coffee. She waited until he sat down opposite her, with plates of cholesterol between them. “What’s going on, James?”

He didn’t meet her eyes, simply busied himself with his breakfast. “I’m afraid you caught me at a bad time last night, Annie. You’re probably not aware of this, but I have a drinking problem. I’m pretty damned good at covering it up, but there are times it gets the better of me. You happened to show up just as I was coming off a binge.”

She stared at him. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“No, I’m pretty good at compensating,” he said easily. “I’ve tried everything in the last twenty years, and I thought I’d gotten it pretty much under control, but Win’s death hit me pretty hard.”

“You’ve been an alcoholic for twenty years?” she asked, suddenly wary.

“For want of a better term,” he said. “Your father tried to help me. He was a good man, Annie. One of the best. But there’s nothing we can do to bring him back.”

She stared at him, blinking for a moment, wondering what it was she was seeing. His skin was tanned, taut across the sharp bones of his face. There was no pouchiness, no sign of dissipation. “You don’t think he was murdered?” she said carefully.

“No, I don’t. Why would anyone want to kill Win? Everyone loved him. It was a freak accident, Annie. You know it as well as I do.”

He made the mistake of meeting her gaze then. His eyes were clear. And they were the eyes of the dangerous stranger she had met last night.

What little appetite Annie possessed vanished. She’d wanted to believe last night had been an aberration, a combination of her exhausted paranoia and his unexpected drunkenness. She’d wanted him to tell her everything was all right, she’d imagined everything.

Doubtless that was exactly what he would tell her. The only problem was, she wouldn’t believe him. Not after looking into his hollow eyes.

“Why aren’t you working, James?” she asked quietly.

“I took a leave of absence. Mid-life crisis and all that,” he said, his eyes not matching his self-deprecating voice.

“Then why couldn’t I find any trace of you
when I tried to get your phone number? What happened to Win’s tiny little sub-section of the State Department? Why was it disbanded when he died? Why isn’t your name anywhere in the personnel records of the federal government when you’ve been working for them for as long as I’ve known you? What’s going on, James? Why are you lying to me?”

He sat back, one large hand cradling his mug of coffee, his movements relaxed, measured. “You sure ask a lot of questions, Annie,” he said finally. “I would have thought your daddy taught you the benefits of not being too damned curious.”

“My father is dead,” she shot back. “And I’m going to keep on asking questions, of anybody and everybody, until I find out some answers.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” he said gently. And from beneath the table he pulled out a gun.

She stared at it. It was large, blue-black, long-barreled, and fit comfortably in his hand. She looked at him, at the implacable expression on his face. The dangerous creature from the night before had vanished, but so had the gray-flannel bureaucrat she’d thought was James McKinley. This was someone else again. Someone who could kill her.

And then she laughed, a nervous reaction.
“God, James, what are you trying to do, scare me? I almost believed you for a moment. Why do you have a gun?”

He set the gun down on the table between them, carefully. “This is a dangerous part of the world, Annie.”

“You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”

“Don’t count on it.”

She bit her lip, frustrated. “You aren’t going to answer my questions, are you?”

“I don’t think you’d like the answers,” he said.

“I’ll get them from someone, sooner or later.”

“Are you threatening me, Annie?” There was an undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

She lifted her head, meeting those strange eyes. “Maybe.”

He sighed. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, ask me what you want,” he said.

“Why couldn’t I find any trace of you through the State Department? Why don’t they have any record of your employment?”

“Maybe because I didn’t work for the State Department.”

“You worked with my father.”

“Yes.”

“Are you telling me my father didn’t work for the State Department?”

“I’m not telling you anything. I’m just answering your questions.”

“Who did you work for?”

“Ah, now that gets a little tricky. You’re an intelligent woman, why don’t you figure it out?” he suggested affably.

“CIA,” she said, voicing her worst fear.

“Got it the first try.”

“And my father?”

“He’s the one who recruited me.”