Moonrise (9 page)

“Carew. Why? Do you think he knows who killed my father?”

“Probably. But he’s not likely to volunteer that information.”

Small living room, flowered wallpaper, chintz slipcovers, he noted. Working fireplace that would be perfect for hiding a bug. Alcove dining room and beyond that a small kitchen. He moved toward it, tossing his answer back over his shoulder.

“The man who killed your father doesn’t matter,” he said, pushing the swinging door inward. The kitchen hadn’t been remodeled since the house was built, sometime in the twenties or thirties. He wondered whether Annie could cook.

“That’s a matter of opinion.” She was right behind him, too close, and if he backed up
he’d run into her. He didn’t want that to happen. “You still haven’t told me what you expect to get from Carew.”

He turned, his arm brushing against her breast. “A cease-fire. Maybe some information, though I doubt he’ll be all that helpful. What I need from him is a promise to call off the dogs. To give me a week, two at the most, to find out …”

“To find out what?”

“To find out why your father was marked for death,” he said finally.

“And you think Carew knows why?”

“He might. Since he was the one who gave the orders.”

She stared at him, speechless in shock. “You knew that, and you did nothing about it?” she demanded, suddenly furious. “You heartless bastard, how could you let him get away with it …?”

She made the mistake of touching him, as he knew she would. She caught his arms, trying to shake him in her rage, but he simply twisted his hands around hers, imprisoning her wrists. Making no effort to crush the fragile bones, as he could so easily. Simply holding her there, a prisoner. Enjoying it, damn his soul.

“Why do you think I was in Mexico, Annie?” he asked gently. “Carew wouldn’t tell me a
damned thing. I tried to kill the little prick. Twice. The second time no one really believed it was an accident, and I knew I wouldn’t get a third chance for a while. And that they’d get me first.”

“You said you were a bureaucrat. A pencil pusher. An accountant, for God’s sake. You don’t try to murder someone.”

“I said I was an accountant for the CIA. For a small, obscure branch of it, and you’d better thank God it is obscure. You don’t want to know about it.”

“It was my father’s work, wasn’t it? I want to know.”

“Tough. We’ll wait for Carew.”

“Are you going to try to kill him again?”

He considered the notion and found it, as always, appealing. “Maybe,” he said after a moment. “Or maybe I’ll just settle for a few answers and a short-term truce.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

“You were the one who came looking for answers. Have you changed your mind, Annie?” He almost hoped she’d say yes. It might be worth the risk, to send her off with Clancy and do the deal with Carew by himself. There was still the remote possibility that they didn’t know she’d found him.

Yeah, and there was the remote possibility
that Jimmy Hoffa was alive and well and living in Fresno. He wouldn’t bank on either one.

“No,” she said, suddenly still and quiet. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“You want answers?”

“Yes,” she said. “And I want revenge.”

She was, after all, Win’s daughter. He looked down into her clear blue eyes, so like her father’s. “Against Carew?”

“Against the man who killed him.”

He simply nodded, releasing her, turning to check the contents of the small refrigerator. He already knew there’d be liquor in the cupboard, just as he knew there’d be weapons, Clancy was a thorough man, and he knew his taste in liquor and guns. “What do you intend to do about it? Once we find out for sure who did it, who gave the orders and who set him up. I could be wrong about Carew. I could be wrong about everything. What if it turns out to be someone you care about? A friend. Are you going to bring them to justice?”

“No,” she said. “I’m going to kill them.”

He kept his face in the coolness of the refrigerator, studying the bottles of Dos Equis for a moment. When he pulled back his expression was bland.

“You think you can do it?” he inquired in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice.

“After you failed? Yes. You see, he was my father. I loved him.”

“You’re forgetting something. He was like a father to me.”

The notion clearly startled her. “Look,” he said before she could protest, “why don’t you go check out the bedrooms, maybe take a little nap? I don’t know when Carew is going to show up, but …”

“What makes you think he will?”

He allowed himself a small, dangerous smile. “He’ll be here,” he said. “I can promise you that.”

For a moment she looked uncertain. As if she still didn’t quite know what to think of him. “All right,” she said. “Maybe I will.”

She turned from him, leaving the room, and he wondered briefly whether Clancy would have been careless enough to leave the weapons out. He doubted it. Training like Clancy’s and his didn’t go away no matter how long you were out of the business.

She looked deceptively strong from the back, with her sweep of hair and straight shoulders. He knew the truth, though, and it depressed him.

“Annie,” he called after her.

She paused in the doorway, looking back at him. “Yes?”

“You’re forgetting one thing. The man who killed your father. The man you want to kill.”

“What about him?”

“He’s going to try to kill you first. And he’s a professional—he doesn’t often make mistakes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just trust me. I know.”

She nodded. “All right. I’ll be ready. And you will too, James. Won’t you?”

He nodded, trying to quiet the feeling of dread that lay like a burning stone in the empty center of him. “I’ll be ready, Annie,” he said very gently.

He waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs. And then he turned to the cupboards, to the bottle of Jose Cuervo he knew he’d find there. Clancy always had a gift for details.

He broke the seal, unscrewed the cap, and poured a healthy dose down his throat, waiting for the familiar warmth to flood him.

It took a second swallow. He shuddered, setting the bottle out on the counter. And then he went in search of the weapons.

T
here was only one bed upstairs. Two rooms, but one was used for storage. The other was almost nauseatingly cute—ruffled curtains at the multipaned windows, chintz bedspread, rag rugs on the floor. The bed was big enough for two or three, but Annie had no intention of sharing it with McKinley. No intention of sharing it with anyone.

She moved to the window, looking out over the canyon below. She’d never spent much time in California—it had always seemed too alien to her East Coast sensibilities. Win had always said that grown-ups didn’t live in California, and Annie had agreed.

Now she wasn’t quite sure why. Why she’d disliked California, why she’d blindly agreed with everything her father had decreed. Win had never seemed that overbearing. He’d influenced her through his gentle, mocking charm.

She pushed open the window, letting the soft breeze fill the room. She could smell the distant tang of wood smoke, and she wondered if Los Angeles was burning once more. She found she didn’t really care.

She sat on the bed, kicking off her shoes. She was too tired to stay awake, too weary to sleep. She stretched out, trying to clear her mind of everything but the clear blue sky outside the window. All she could see was blood and death and danger.

If she fell asleep, maybe everything would be back to normal when she woke up. Maybe James would be the elderly cipher she’d conveniently thought him. Maybe her father would rest peacefully in his grave instead of haunting her, demanding revenge. Maybe she could find her safe, comfortable life once more.

She didn’t think so. Life had shifted, changed irrevocably over the past six months, in ways she hadn’t even realized. All culminating in the past forty-eight hours, with McKinley’s paranoid fantasies of death and war.

She wanted it to go away. And it wouldn’t take much to make that happen—she could simply put her shoes back on, go downstairs, and call a taxi. Tell James she’d changed her mind—she didn’t want answers or revenge.

Because already she wasn’t liking the answers
she was getting. And revenge was a two-edged sword.

She lay on the bed, wide-eyed, sleepless. She could hear James moving almost soundlessly through the small house. The snick of metal as he fiddled with some kind of machinery in the adjoining storage room that looked out over the winding drive, the rustle of cloth, the scuff of shoes, a few distant thumps and thuds from the valley below. All familiar, normal sounds of life. All with sinister explanations.

She climbed off the bed, not bothering with her shoes, and crossed the small hallway. The door to the storage room was ajar, and she pushed it open, expecting to see James in there.

The room was empty. Just the boxes and covered furniture she’d discovered on her earlier foray. But now there was something else. A rifle was mounted on a tripod-type device, pointing out toward the road.

She stared at it with sick horror. He couldn’t have brought it with him—customs had been rigorous, and they’d only brought out what they could carry from the seaside cottage. But the gun hadn’t been set up an hour before. What was he planning to do with it? Surely he wasn’t capable of using it?

“In case we get any unwanted visitors.” His
voice came from directly behind her, answering her unvoiced question.

She turned. He was closer than she’d expected, and she controlled her tiny shiver of unease. “Do you know how to use that gun?”

“It’s a sniper rifle,” he said. “I could reel off the statistics, but I don’t think it would mean much to you. And yes, I know how to use it.”

He’d changed. He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, and his hair was wet. He looked lean and fit and dangerous. “I remember,” she said. She saw the glitter in his eyes, and her misgivings grew. “Have you been drinking?”

“Not enough to notice. Don’t worry, Annie, I’ll keep the bogey man away.”

“But what if you’re the bogey man?”

The words surprised her, but even more shocking was their effect on James. He looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

He recovered so quickly she almost thought she’d imagined his reaction. “You’re right, Annie. Don’t trust anyone. Even me,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going to hurt me,” she scoffed, believing it. “You wouldn’t have made sure I got safely out of Mexico. You wouldn’t have brought me here if you were going to hurt me. And why should you?”

“Because you’re asking dangerous questions.
You’re sticking your nose in places better left alone, and sooner or later you’re going to uncover something that could make a very big mess indeed. It would only make sense for me to shut you up before you caused some permanent damage.”

“Shut me up? How? I’m not easy to silence.”

“Certainly you are,” he said, his voice shot with silk. He slid his hand alongside her neck, under her fall of hair, his fingertips stroking the sensitive skin beneath her ear. She could feel her pulse leap beneath his flesh, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. “All it would take would be a measured amount of pressure. Deftly applied, at just the right spot, and presto—no more problems.”

“You think you could knock me out that easily,” she said, swallowing her spurt of fear.

“No, Annie. I could kill you just that easily,” he replied.

She was trembling, and she hoped to God he couldn’t feel it. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Maybe I’m the man who killed your father.”

She couldn’t move. She was mesmerized by him, by the bleak intensity in his eyes, the heat and strength of his body, the sheer force of his presence. He overwhelmed her, frightened her, and it took all her concentration to
laugh, to break the thrall of sex and violence he’d held her in.

“Don’t be ridiculous, James,” she scoffed, moving away from him, from the touch of his hand, from the glitter in his eyes. “You loved Win as much as I did, we both know it. Don’t bother denying it.”

“I wouldn’t. It’s true.”

She shook her head. “You know, I don’t know if I believe anything you tell me. You’re probably no more capable of killing someone than I am. You’re just trying to convince me we have a chance in hell against … against the people who killed Win.”

“And are you convinced, Annie?”

She looked up at him, at the dark, soulless eyes that had once seemed so cool and unthreatening. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I am.”

“Good.” He moved past her to stare out at the winding road, resting one hand on the rifle. It was a possessive hand, almost like a lover’s caress, and she felt a stray shiver dance across her backbone. “You want something to eat?” he asked casually.

“I’m not hungry.”

“If I were you I’d eat,” he said. “You might need every advantage you can get.”

He had long fingers, narrow, deft-looking. Neatly trimmed nails, strong, elegant wrists. They were beautiful hands, and he stroked the
cold metal of the gun absently, with an erotic grace that left her feeling sick. And oddly disturbed in ways she refused to define.

She wanted to slap his hand away from the gun. She wanted to leave the room, run away. Instead she was mesmerized, staring, unable to help herself. “How long will we stay here?” she asked, striving for normalcy.

“As long as we need to. Until Carew comes and we figure out where to go from here.” He turned to look at her, and with a mere blink he took in her fascinated gaze.

He dropped his hand from the gun, not self-consciously, and tucked it in his pocket. “If you’re not hungry, I am, Annie,” he said gently. “It probably wasn’t wise for me to drink on an empty stomach and no sleep.”

It galvanized her as nothing else would. “I’ll make us something,” she said grudgingly. “But I know you’re trying to manipulate me. Don’t think you can get away with it.”

“Why not? Win always did.”

She slammed the door on him. The loud crash was mildly satisfying, though she couldn’t stomp down the narrow stairs effectively in bare feet. The bottle of tequila stood out on the counter, and at least a third of it was gone.