Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (30 page)

     The truth was, his heart was already taken. Not that he had given it willingly. When Zeb left Kenya it was with a promise to himself that he would never love another woman again as he had loved Miriam. And so he would never again fall in love. In the years since, he had come close several times but had quickly moved on, to avoid catastrophic involvement, and thus his heart was the measure of how long he stayed in any one place. But while in the past he had never actually fallen in love, this time he had.

     With her African princess features, the large slanting eyes, high cheek bones, and full, lush lips over big beautiful white teeth that made him want so badly to kiss her that he ached, Vanessa reminded Zeb of Africa.

     A
painful
reminder.

     Zebulon Armstrong, former white hunter now taking care of birds and guests at a resort in the California desert, yearned to go home, to set foot on the red soil of East Africa, to drink in the rarefied air of Mount Kenya, to be among his own people again— yet unable to return, ever.

     He had liked it at first, when he started working at The Grove a year ago and Vanessa reminded him of Africa, triggering fond memories. But now the memories, and her nearness, were becoming too painful. It was time to be moving on.

     "I understand you're investigating a murder, Mr. Burns."

     When Jack gave him a startled look, Zeb explained, "The head of security, Elias Salazar, told me. He and I are both baseball fans. We follow the games and have a friendly rivalry going, although what he sees in the Giants is beyond me. You a fan of the game, Mr. Burns?"

     "I like sports to move a little faster."

     Zeb laughed. "I hear you. A lot of people don't catch the secret charm of baseball."

     "And what is that?"

     "The waiting! Watching for that next big hit. The pleasure, Mr. Burns, is not in the act, but in the anticipation."

     Jack gave him a look. Zeb could be talking about sex.

     "So how goes the investigation, Mr. Burns?"

     Casually asked, but Jack had the feeling that this was not a casual conversation. Recalling the man Abby had introduced him to the day before, the resort's head of security had the look of a tight-tipped secret-keeper. And Abby had assured Jack of Salazar's complete discretion, so he doubted the man had gossiped to Zeb about Jack's business at the resort.

     Was Abby behind Zeb's offhanded inquiries? It wouldn't surprise him. She wanted to know what murder he was investigating, or maybe she was even more interested in what he had
found.

     "It's too early to tell yet," he said as he squinted at vultures circling in the distant sky. Something dead, out there on the desert.

     The engine suddenly made a strange sound, started coughing and slowing down until the Jeep came to a stop. In the middle of nowhere. "What happened?" Jack said.

     Zeb scratched his head. "I'll take a look." He got out and was soon under the hood, making distressed sounds over the hot motor.

     "What is it?" Jack asked, joining Zeb under the hood.

     "Happens all the time in the desert. Sand gets into the works. It'll take me a few minutes. Not to worry."

     Jack surveyed the landscape. Nothing but sand and cacti as far as the eye could see. "What's that sound?" he said, feeling a chill go up his spine.

     Zeb paused to listen—there was yelping among nearby rocks. "Coyotes," he said. "Pups, from the sound of it."

     "Are they dangerous?"

     "They can be if they think their pups are threatened. Just don't go over to those rocks."

     While Jack retreated into thought, Zeb retreated back under the hood. He pulled a small portable radio from his shirt pocket and tuned it to a sports station to catch the Dodgers playing at Chavez Ravine. However, for the first time since he had discovered a passion for American baseball, he could not focus on the game. He could think only of Vanessa. He desired her so much that it kept him awake at night. Not that she returned the sentiment. Always professional toward him. Friendly, yes, but never flirtatious. Polite and businesslike. Besides, Zeb wasn't hoping for a relationship with her. Not with any woman.

     But most especially not with Vanessa Nichols. Realizing he had come to the point, once again, of having to make a life-changing decision, he picked up a wrench and went savagely after the fuel pump.

     While Zeb worked in concentrated silence, Jack felt the desert wind on his face, heard the cry of a hawk, and fought down the anguish that refused to stay buried.

     When his captain and fellow detectives had offered condolences, when neighbors had said how sorry they were to hear of Nina's passing—when anyone under the sun mentioned his sister, Jack had always been able to maintain control.

     But not with Abby Tyler. She had looked at Nina's photo, said, "She's lovely," and Jack had felt his emotional wounds rip wide open.

     "It haunts me, Jack," Nina had said during one of their last dinners together. At Mario's in Santa Monica, over linguini in clam sauce—Nina's favorite. She had been searching for her birth mother for three years and had collected a mountain of data. All pertaining to other people.

     Jack's parents had left him and his sister some money, but Nina also made good money as an advertising executive, and so she had been able to afford to hire more than one private investigator. She and Jack would get together and she would update him on what she had found. "So many names, Jack, so many people who had been torn from one another. I found websites where adoptees and birth mothers can post information. Children searching for their mothers, women searching for their children."

     While a storm had battered the Pacific Ocean beyond the restaurant windows, Nina had let her food go untouched as she had said, "It's tearing me up, to think of the heartache and anguish and fear. What about my own mother, Jack? Was she just a girl and they forced her to give up her baby? Was her back turned for a moment and when she looked into the carriage, the baby was gone? I have to know. I have to find her."

     "You'll find her, little sister," he had said, because even though they now knew Nina wasn't really his sister, she still was, nothing was going to change that. Jack had helped when he could, making use of law enforcement data bases, tracking down leads on his own time. But it wasn't enough.
I should have done more.

     The desert wind kicked up and tears sprang to his eyes. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped them away. "You all right?" Zeb asked.

     "Sand," Jack said.

     "That'll happen. When the wind acts up around here, you have to protect your eyes."

     Jack wondered if he should set up his target right there and get to work wrestling his emotions back into their locked room. And then he thought: No, stay focused. Stay on the job. "How do you like working at The Grove?"

     Zeb straightened and wiped his forehead. "Abby Tyler is the best boss I've ever had. She treats her employees as well as she treats her guests. She's like a mother to everybody. Not that she's old enough mind, it's just the way she is. A nurturer, if you know what I mean. If an employee is sick, Abby sends flowers."

     Jack heard a special tone in Zeb's voice, making him wonder if Zeb had ever been intimate with Abby. And then he wondered: did she have a lover? Did she avail herself of the resort's bedroom services?

     Damn it, he told himself, don't go there. Jack had always been able to compartmentalize his life—romance in one place, police work in another. But Abby Tyler was blurring the boundaries, making it difficult for him to concentrate. He was here to find a killer, not love.

     "The first time I met her," Zeb was saying, "I was taken with her accent. People tell me my accent is exotic, but to my Kenya ear, the way Abby talks is downright out of this world."

     Jack stared at Zeb. Then he thought back. He hadn't noticed an accent. Or had he? Now that he thought about it, a slight accent had slipped out while they had coffee in her bungalow Monday night. And then just that morning, when they released the bowstring together and she fell against him, laughing. Did she work at hiding it, and that when she was tired, or off guard, it slipped out?

     Could this be the break he was hoping for?

     "Where is she from?" he asked without sounding overly interested.

     "Don't know. I'm no expert, but somewhere in the American South, I would guess." Zeb slammed the hood down. "Fixed! We can be on our way now."

     "You know what? I've changed my mind. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to head back to the resort." Get back and engage Abby in a conversation, this time paying attention to the accent. He hadn't wanted to encounter her again, expose his vulnerability to her, but for Nina's sake he would.

     Zeb was only too glad to go back. He had arrived at a decision, and he wanted to set it in motion. It was time to move on. He had made up his mind: he would give Abby Tyler his notice in the morning.

T
HE DAY IT HAPPENED
—O
PHELIA KNEW THE EXACT MOMENT
.

     As a prominent psychiatrist, with a prestigious practice and holding professorships at a major university and teaching hospital, David was often called as an expert witness in high profile murder cases. Six weeks ago, he took the stand in what was to be the pivotal moment of a sensational trial because the defense's position was an insanity plea and everything hinged upon what Dr. David Messer had to say.

     Ophelia was sitting in the back of the packed courtroom, watching her handsome fiancé as he calmly fielded questions first from the prosecution and then from the defense. Listening to his rich voice ring out over the mesmerized spectators, Ophelia observed how the female jurors watched him, and the women spectators. They were entranced by him. Possibly even fantasizing. Ophelia became aroused. David, so attractive, in control, the man with the power at that moment, in his three-piece pinstriped suit, his black hair styled perfectly. Watching him was a turn-on, and knowing that every other woman in the court room desired him.

     As the opposing counsels fought over David, passions rose, the atmosphere became charged. "Dr. Messer, you do admit that the defendant hears voices?"

     "Yes."

     "Voices that sound very real to him?"

     "Yes."

     "And you admit that they
order
him to murder people?"

     "Yes. But he doesn't have to
act
upon those orders."

     "Move to strike!"

     "Your honor, may we approach?"

     A hurried and heated discussion at the bench, all eyes on David who had caused the furor, everyone tuned to him—the judge, the attorneys, the jurors, the court reporter, the bailiffs, and spectators—every single person focused on David the alpha male of the clan, and Ophelia was positively on fire.

     When recess was called, she sought David in the crowded hall, where reporters had immediately surrounded him and women devoured him with hungry eyes. She caught his attention and when he saw her high color, her secret smile, he broke away, grabbed Ophelia's hand and hurried her down the hall and around the corner. The first unlocked door they came to, David pulled it open, drew Ophelia inside and closed the door without bothering to lock it as he swiftly lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties. It was a small conference room, the polished wooden table oval-shaped and large enough for Ophelia to lie back while David thrust into her, both thinking of the unlocked door and the crowd in the outer corridor.

     And that was when it happened. When, for some reason, Ophelia's birth control pills failed and conception took place within her.

     Now, in her impossible French gaudy suite at The Grove, Ophelia opened the second pregnancy test kit and tested herself again. Hoping,
praying
that the first had been a false positive.

     But the second test strip left no mistake. She was pregnant.

     Her world tilted, spun her around and fell away from beneath her feet. This strong woman who led protest marches and spoke before enormous crowds, reached out to steady herself, so great was her sudden fear.

     Her mouth ran dry. Her heart raced.
What am I going to do?

     She went straight to the phone and called her doctor. "I'm pregnant. How can I be pregnant? I'm on the Pill."

     Dr. Cummins did not sound as upset as Ophelia thought she should be. Didn't she know the world had just come to an end? "Ophelia, the Pill is not one hundred percent effective. Still, it
is
rare for it to fail. Are you taking any new medication since your last visit?"

     "No, of course not." Then: "My ophthalmologist put me on tetracycline for conjunctivitis."

     A pause at the other end. "Ophelia, tetracycline can render some birth control pills ineffective. Your eye doctor should have asked if you were using oral contraception."

     "All he told me was that tetracycline made me more susceptible to sunburn. I was using sunscreen when I should have used a condom."