Ancient Echoes (42 page)

Later, Charlotte offered to take the first watch. Sleep
wouldn't come easily to her. It never did, and would be especially difficult
after Quade’s words about Dennis. Her life with Dennis, and his death, would
replay over and over again in her mind.

As others fell asleep around the fire, she moved a short
distance away from its light to stare with vigilance into the darkness. Despite
her heavy heart, she remained alert to any strange noise or movement.

Her mind replayed the horrors of the day, and she shuddered
at the memories, at how close to death she and her friends had been.

Facing death, she realized how much she wanted to live.
Truly to live.
Not here in this never-never land. Not the
stern half-life that had made up her days since Dennis died, avoiding all
emotion. She wanted to feel whole again.

Even her work gave testament to complacency. She had left
her doctorate program and returned to the U.S., expecting her time as a Customs
agent to be temporary, something to do until she got her life together again
and saved enough money to finish her Ph.D. But somehow, one year drifted into
the next. For a while, she continued to study on her own, but soon stopped even
that. She drifted. Sitting in this strange, surreal world, she realized that
simply wasn’t enough.

She heard a rustle and tightly gripped the rifle Michael had
lent her, ready to use it.

“It's only me. Thought I'd help keep watch for a while,”
Jake whispered as he sat down close beside her. “I couldn't sleep. I kept
remembering how I just stood there and let them kill that boy.” He frowned, his
eyes troubled, questioning.

“We all did,” Charlotte said. “No one expected such cruelty.
It tells us we were right to run, and we’ve got to keep going. Somehow, we must
get the others home.”

“You're right. I'll do my best,” he promised, not speaking
the rest of his thought, ‘or
die
trying.’ He surprised
himself by admitting aloud, “This place has me spooked.”

“You and me both,” she said, giving a tentative but
understanding smile.

“But I’m the cop. I’m supposed to be able to handle these
things.”

“You’re a man, too,” she said. “A very caring man, I think.”

The gentleness of her words touched him. But then he pulled
back, his mouth a thin line, downturned at the corners. “I never should have
gotten you into this, Charlotte.” He cast his gaze forward toward the darkness
of the brush, toward potential danger. “I never should have allowed you to come
on this search. I'd ask if you could ever forgive me, but ‘ever’ sounds pretty
trite right about now. I’m sorry.”

His concern surprised her, and even worse, it sounded so
heartfelt sudden tears threatened. She hated such weakness and forced her face,
her whole body, back to its usual reticence. “I would have found a way out
here, whether you agreed or not, Sheriff.
Even if I had to
follow you.
You heard Quade. My husband died because of this. I had to
find out why, and exactly who was behind it.”

“It must be hard, bringing it all back. I’m sorry you had to
learn this way about your husband’s death.”

“I've done my grieving.” She kept her voice hard, firm.
“Thirteen years’ worth.
In an odd sense, I’m relieved to finally
learn the truth. I often blamed myself for what happened.”

He looked at her quizzically.

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “That afternoon,” she said
softly, “Dennis asked me if I wanted to go out with him. I was working on some
research of my own and turned him down. I thought that if I'd gone, he wouldn't
have been at that café. He would have been safe. He would have lived.” She fell
silent.

“They might have waited for another time, another place,” he
said.
“Or killed you, too.”

“I know that now.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Still…”

“Don't do that to
yourself
,
Charlotte,” he cautioned. “It's easy to blame yourself even when you really
couldn't have prevented it. Or to feel guilt that you weren't also a victim. It
paralyzes you. Believe me, I'm a master at that. It's no way to live.”

Her pale face masklike, her gaze riveted in the direction of
the mountains.

He knew how deeply she hurt. If he was a softer man, a more
caring sort, he would have put his arms around her and offered comfort. But he
wasn’t. He didn’t know how. Instead, he faced the mountains as she did. He
couldn't see them in the blackness of night, but they were etched in his mind.
“The land out there,” he said, “It’s majestic.” He wasn't good with words, but
that one seemed right to him. “The vistas go on forever. High
mountain
ranges, one after the other, interwoven by blue
rivers and clear streams. I found peace and beauty in the land around the
Salmon River. It was exactly what I needed at a time when I couldn’t see beyond
the chaos and ugliness all around me.”

She nodded. He stopped then, embarrassed. Who was he to
offer advice? Not when, at one point in his life when his marriage had gone
down the tubes and his job turned beyond ugly, he almost gave up. He remembered
studying his own gun, feeling the cruel temptation of the finality it offered,
and wondering why he bothered to struggle, day in and day out. He scared
himself with such thoughts and left Los Angeles where he’d been so mixed up
that trivial things—like cars and promotions and possessions—had seemed
important,
and important things—like marriage and lasting
love—trivial.

Back home in Salmon City, he somehow managed to gain
perspective once again. Maybe because it was simply more natural, more real,
than the concrete and crime that had made up his days, he felt alive again,
even more so near Charlotte. She was troubled, unnervingly wary, meticulous to
a fault, overly critical, and with more brains, beauty, and refinement than any
one person should possess. And she knew her way around weapons. He'd never met
anyone like her before, and felt like a teenager with his first crush. No fool
like an old fool, he thought.

He wanted to take her mind off the past. She was only in her
30’s with a bright future, if and when they got out of this place. “It's good
to see you and Michael together,” he said abruptly, trying to sound as if he
were doing nothing but making small talk.

She faced him. “What do you mean?”

“Two scholars and all.”
He cleared
his throat. “You two seem right together. Might even last after we get away
from here.”

“Michael...and me?”
She regarded
him with confusion. “Are you also a part-time match-maker, Sheriff?”

“I’ve seen the two of you together, how well you get along.
I even, uh, spotted him leaving your tent early one morning,” he confessed.
“I'm not surprised. He's well-educated. Smart. Good looking.”

“Interesting,” she murmured.

“Interesting?”

“Because while I think the world of him, it’s not the way
you imagine at all. He came to my tent for conversation and companionship,
nothing more.” She studied him, this great, loud, bull-in-a-china-shop sheriff,
who for some odd reason, she liked being around. Her face grew warm as
something made her say, “Besides, he's not my type.”

That took him aback, along with a twinge of something that
felt a lot like elation—except that it'd been so long since he'd felt anything
like that, he scarcely recognized it. Then, fool that he was, the wrong words
spilled from his lips. “What is your type?”

She tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her chin,
realizing to her astonishment, that she enjoyed this conversation. “I'm not
sure I remember.”

He smirked. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Her brow wrinkled, but she couldn’t hide a small smile or
quiet the drum beat coursing through her as she said, “I do believe I've always
had a weakness for law and order types.”

He gawked as his mind considered how to interpret that.

At his unnerving silence, she quickly added, “My husband was
one.”

Ah.
“I see.”

She struggled for what to say next. “Are you married,
Sheriff?” she blurted.

He was surprised she’d asked. “I was.
Divorced
now.
No kids. I spent too much time on the job. My wife got lonely and
met someone who was ‘there for her,’ as she put it. She got what she had always
wanted. Two kids, a nice home in Ventura, and a husband who isn't me.”

Although he kept his tone light, she heard the pain in his
voice at what he clearly regarded as his failure, his blame, and instinctively
knew there was a lot more to the story. She wondered why she cared. He had been
right about one thing—Michael, not him, was her type. She had always gone for
academic types, scholars. Dennis’ involvement with the CIA was a bizarre
aberration to her way of thinking. The sheriff was completely different.

And yet, she couldn’t help but admire in both men their
bravery, sense of duty, and selfless commitment to all they believed was right.
“And so you're now living alone in the mountains of Idaho?”

“Yes, but it could be worse
,“
he
replied. “I could still be in L.A.”

She nodded.
“Can't say I disagree.”

“Then you're a little cracked yourself. Most people thought
I was flat-out looney-tunes to leave all that glamour and sunshine for this
cold nothingness.”

She watched him “Why did you leave?”

He took in a deep breath before saying, “I quit the force.”

“Why?”

He dropped his gaze. “I don't think...”

“Try me,” she said.

A long moment passed before he spoke. “It was a hostage
situation.
Kids at a small private school in Bel Air.
Three gunmen entered a classroom of first graders and threatened to shoot them
one at a time unless they were given ten million dollars. For some of the
parents, that was pocket change. Higher ups decided to go along with the demand
and grab the gunmen as they left. I headed the team tasked with making the
capture. But something went wrong with the money drop. All hell broke loose and
when it ended, two kids and the gunmen were dead. I still have nightmares about
it. Guess I always will. Just like the parents of those little kids who died.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She sensed the agony, anger,
and guilt he felt as he recalled what had happened. His character caused him to
take responsibility for the tragedy, but she suspected the blame wasn't his. No
more than Dennis' death had been hers. Her heart opened to him. “Violent men
and innocent kids,” she murmured.

“Ironic, isn't it? I came all the way to Idaho to get away
from those memories, and now this.” His agony seared through her before he
turned his head away.

She ached to comfort him, even as she realized she scarcely
knew how to anymore. Awkwardly, she placed her hand on his shoulder. “You don't
always have to act tough, Sheriff.”

He stiffened at her touch. “I don't,” he said with a forced
chuckle.

She felt his tension and quickly withdrew her hand. “But you
do, until you allow someone close enough to see beneath that gruff exterior.”

Surprise, then caution, then a bittersweet sadness flickered
across his face. “It requires trust,” he said, “something I seem to have grown
out of.”

The heartache in his voice rocked her. “You can trust me,”
she whispered.

He didn’t move, but listened to the sound of their
breathing. “I know.”

Then, inwardly cursing himself as a fool, he forced his gaze
to the rifle and picked it up. Looking only at the weapon he said, “It’s your
turn to get some sleep. I’ll take over the watch now.”

She nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” She waited, and then rose
to her feet. “Good night, Sheriff.”

He watched her move nearer the campfire and settle down to rest.
She told him he could trust her, and in thanks he sent her away. That just
might have been the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his life.

“Good night, Charlotte,” he whispered so only he could hear.

“SHOULD I GIVE HIM more propofol?”
Bob asked Phaylor.

“No. I want him lucid when we reach Idaho.” Phaylor gazed,
bored, out the window of the Cessna Citation X. They neared the Montana-Idaho
border, but he only saw a cloud bank below. They would be landing soon. He
squeezed the bridge of his nose wearily.

The nurse nodded,
then
leaned back
in his seat.

Phaylor had decided to go to the twin spires himself. The
two teams of mercenaries he sent out there, plus the university group
Vandenburg sent had been able to find them, so he should be able to as well.
Once found, however, why did no one leave them? Was the world they offered so
wonderful men chose to stay? Or did they die? He needed to see it for
himself
, to learn the answer. He was close to death, so he
didn’t fear going there the way a young man like Bob might. But he needed Bob’s
help. Promises of unimagined wealth bought Bob’s loyalty.

When he finished this, if he survived, Phaylor would take
back his company. With his newly created gold, he’d buy back the stock and make
the company private once more. He couldn’t wait to get rid of Milt Zonovich and
fire that entire stupid board of directors.

With his plans in place, Phaylor-Laine Pharmaceuticals would
become so wealthy it truly could have world domination. And he would be at its
helm forever.

He would create his own empire, and soon, his own world.
One world order.
And all his.

Chinese alchemists used a term,
lien tan
, or “pill of
transformation.” His pharmaceutical soul liked that. Whatever means delivered
immortality, he would market it as a pill. Also, he would make it clear that
one pill alone would not help, but a pill needed to be taken every year—a
placebo, of course, but who would know that? And who would risk challenging it?
Yes, that way, money would continuously flow into PLP's coffers. He already
planned his contracts with American billionaires and oil rich Arab sheiks.
Immortality wouldn’t come cheap.