Breaking Point (11 page)

What are we doing here, Max?
Gina didn’t ask him that. Instead, she said, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. And then he surprised her. He actually sang to her. It was soft and a little off-key, but it was definitely meant to be an Elvis imitation. “Lord Almighty, I feel my temperature rising . . .”

Gina laughed.

Max reached for her, the heat in his eyes telling her she wasn’t going anywhere.

Not for a while, at least.

H
OTEL
E
LBE
H
OF
, H
AMBURG
, G
ERMANY
J
UNE
21, 2005
P
RESENT
D
AY

Gina wasn’t waiting for him in her room at the Elbe Hof hotel.

Max hadn’t really expected her to be.

But, Christ, how he’d hoped.

There was an envelope on the floor just inside the room, no doubt a hotel bill that had been pushed through the crack under the door. Max scooped it up on his way in.

He didn’t bother to turn on the light as he shut the door behind him—the curtains were open, bathing the two neatly made beds in late-afternoon sunlight. The room had a typical hotel setup—beds, dresser, desk with a telephone, TV. Overstuffed chair and a standing lamp. Breakfast table and chairs next to the window.

The decor was blandly generic—he could have been anywhere in the world that catered to American travelers.

Except it smelled like Gina in here. She didn’t wear perfume, at least not the kind that came in a bottle, but her shampoo, soap, and lotions were sweetly scented.

The smell was stronger in the bathroom. As if she were in there. Just invisible.

Makeup was out on the counter as if she’d just used it. As if she’d left this room with every intention of coming right back.

In the bedroom, paperback books were stacked on the dresser, on the desk, even on the floor. Gina used to joke that her segment in a “Girls Gone Wild” video would take place in a bookstore. The only thing that could get her to lift her shirt in public would be the promise of an advance copy of the latest Dean Koontz or J.D. Robb.

There were no bookstores in the remote part of Kenya where she was working, and Max felt a stab of remorse. He should have thought of that and bought her the latest releases. He could have had Jules send them to her—it would have taken both of them so little time and effort.

Max tossed the envelope onto the bed nearest the bathroom to free up his hands so he could open all the drawers.

Gina was an unpacker. Instead of keeping her things in her bag when she traveled, the way normal people did, she actually used the hotel dresser.

Sure enough, she’d done the same here.

There were clothes hanging in the closet, too, and Max moved closer to look.

Gina’s clothes and someone else’s.

But there were no shirts or suits hanging, no man-sized sneakers on the closet floor. That someone else was female.

Max stood there looking at a dress that was neither Gina’s style nor size, feeling . . . What? Relief?

Not really.

Although, yeah, okay. Maybe a little. The hotel registration had been for Gina Vitagliano and guest. Up to this moment, Max had been going on the assumption that the guest in question was a man.

Leslie Pollard, who’d arrived at Gina’s camp in Kenya around four months ago. British. Mid-thirties. Scholarly.

Fascinating.

Or so Gina had described the son of a bitch in a brief letter to Jules.
I have met the most fascinating man!

But unless part of what made Pollard so fascinating was his tendency to wear dresses in bold floral prints, he wasn’t her current traveling companion.

Jules had showed Gina’s note to Max only after he’d done some digging and found out that, according to AAI records, Pollard had signed on as a volunteer after his wife of more than ten years had passed away.

The man had worked for awhile for other volunteer organizations—in China, in Southeast Asia, and in India. He hailed from a little town in England, where he’d taught in a private school for wealthy girls. The school’s scrutiny, done before they even considered hiring him, was more in-depth than most government security clearances.

Leslie Pollard was—the AAI office had informed Jules, who in turn relayed the information to Max—a quiet, spiritual man who mourned the loss of a wife whom he still loved quite deeply.

But Gina, with her love of life, her forthright attitude, her sense of humor, and that movie-star body, had what it took to teach any man to embrace life—and to love again.

Christ, it was like something out of a novel. Gina flees to Kenya, running from a broken heart caused by a bad relationship with Max, who was happy to sleep with her whenever she asked, but who was too much of a coldhearted prick to be able to open up and share his true feelings.

Pollard, meanwhile, dedicates himself to serving his fellow man after his wife dies—probably from something painful and lingering, like cancer. He’s gentle, sensitive, and wounded—yet unafraid to speak his heart. She’s frank and funny and so goddamn beautiful and vibrant, she takes his breath away.

While helping to search for a missing goat—no, make it a lost child—they get stranded together in the wilderness, far from the camp. Forced to huddle together to stay warm, their passion ignites and . . .

Yeah.
This
was really helping. Imagining what it was like the first time Gina and that goddamn Englishman made love was really going to help Max find her.

He went through Gina’s clothes more thoroughly, searching her pockets for a restaurant matchbook or some other clue that might help them retrace her steps. He tried to keep himself focused by thinking about how devastatingly difficult it would have been to do this if that body in the morgue really had been hers.

It kept him from thinking about her having sex with Mr. Fascinating, but he goddamn made himself tear up again in the process.

Yeah, that, too, wasn’t helping.
Crybaby-man.
Shit. What was wrong with him?

Gina had mostly sturdy camping attire in her drawer. Cargo shorts. Jeans. T-shirts. Lightweight overshirts. Thick socks. Underwear—not quite of the sturdy variety. She had a generous supply of her usual lacy, frilly fare.

Ah, God.

But there were no business cards from Osama bin Laden or any of his associates tucked in among her clothes.

Out on the desk was a pile of papers. Brochures advertising local museums. A ragged map of the city. A short list of items to pick up from a drugstore, in Gina’s familiar messy handwriting. “Soap, sunblock, Q-tips & cotton balls, bottled water, crackers . . .”

But there were no credit card receipts—no receipts of any kind.

Max scanned for her luggage, and found a pair of empty duffle bags tucked onto the shelf in the closet.

He reached to take them down and . . . What the hell was in here?

The bag on the bottom was much heavier than an empty bag should have been. It was also locked and attached to the wire shelf with one of those cheap bicycle locks, the kind that had its own little combination clasp. It was looped around the duffel’s handle.

As if any of that would keep a burglar from absconding with the contents.

Max got out his penknife and cut the handle.

The bag was Gina’s. Her last name was clearly on it, written in indelible marker. He took it over to the bed, pushing aside the envelope he’d tossed there . . .

Okay. Whoa. He was either exhausted or slipping, because that envelope wasn’t from the hotel as he’d assumed. It had come through the mail—there was a cancelled stamp on it. It was addressed to Gina, care of the hotel, room 817. The sender was something called A.M.C., located here in Hamburg.

Since he already had his knife out and open, he took care of the bag first, slicing through the canvas alongside the zipper.

Inside was . . .

Gina’s digital camera, and, yes, as he’d hoped—a pile of receipts.

Max sat down on the bed, leafing through the scraps of paper. She’d written directly on them, when it wasn’t obvious what they were for. Dinner, dinner, dinner, lunch, breakfast, lunch. Books, books, books, books.

There were about two dozen receipts of various sizes and shapes, with varying legibility. He’d go through them in detail after he found out what A.M.C. was—

Hold on.

At the bottom of the pile was a larger piece of paper that had been folded into thirds to better fit with the others. It was that really thin kind of paper, almost translucent, and Max could read through it, backwards and upside down, the bold letters proclaiming American Medical Clinic.

A.M.C.

He unfolded it and . . .

It was a receipt for medical services.

Gina’s full name was printed at the top, with her address care of this hotel, room 817. Apparently, she’d seen a doctor and . . .

Jesus.

She’d had a pregnancy test.

Max tore open the sealed envelope. It contained a letter. He pulled it out, shook it open and . . .

A.M.C. was indeed the American Medical Clinic.

Again, Gina’s name and temporary address was in print at the top. “Dear Patient,” it started.

There were several brief paragraphs in English. The first informed her that her test results were in, but didn’t say what those results were.

Of course not.

The second chided her for missing a scheduled appointment and told her payment was due anyway since she hadn’t cancelled twenty-four hours in advance.

And the third was the kicker. It reminded her of the importance of good prenatal care.

He read it again, and that word was still there.
Prenatal.

Was Gina actually
pregnant
?

Except, okay. This was clearly a form letter. Her missed appointment date—yesterday—had been written in by hand.

This type of women’s health clinic probably pushed the importance of prenatal care whenever possible.

This didn’t mean anything.

And even if she was pregnant, so what? He’d take her alive and pregnant any day, over not pregnant but dead.

Still, how could he have been such a total, flipping fool? Max had to put his head between his knees—he was suddenly feeling so short of air, so damn dizzy. She would have stayed if he’d asked her to. She’d’ve been safe and . . .

If she’d stayed, her baby could’ve been his.

And wasn’t
that
a terrifying thought? What the hell would
he
do with a baby?

The question was moot. She hadn’t stayed.

And apparently, Max had done what he’d set out to do—pushed her from his life for good. Lost her to another man, who’d either been too stupid, selfish, or careless to properly protect her.

Unless she loved this son of a bitch and her pregnancy was intentional.

But if that was the case, why hadn’t he come along on this trip with her? And who the hell was this woman she
was
traveling with?

Aside from her clothes, there was nothing in this room that would identify her.

Max had found Gina’s receipts—where were hers?

He got off the bed to finish his search—starting with the wastebaskets.

K
ENYA
, A
FRICA
F
EBRUARY
23, 2005
F
OUR
M
ONTHS
A
GO

David Jones was dead.

Gina helped Molly cope with the devastating news by taking over her shifts in the hospital.

She’d also suggested that they hold a wake tonight. Just the two of them, a bottle of wine that Sister Helen had donated to the cause, and all the stories that Molly could share—without blushing—about her too-short time with this man that she’d loved.

Molly had agreed—it was a good idea, but she’d surprised Gina. Twice.

First, with the news that she was a recovering alcoholic, so she’d just as soon skip the wine, but thanks anyway.

This information, had Gina stopped to consider, wasn’t all that much of a surprise. Molly had told her she’d started her relief work career as a bonafide Type B volunteer. A teenage pregnancy with the baby given up for adoption, a dead boyfriend . . . Molly had struggled for years before finding her way.

The second surprise was that Molly planned to invite Leslie Pollard to their wake.

As weird as that seemed at first, Gina quickly realized that Molly didn’t just want to
tell
stories about Jones. She wanted to
hear
stories, too. And the stammering and lank-haired Brit had known the man. Or at least he’d met him a few times.

It was going to make for one odd vibe in the tent tonight.

Assuming, of course, ol’ Humor-Les accepted the invitation.

Gina finished sterilizing the hospital’s bedpans and headed to the mess tent to get Winnie and the other girls their lunch.

The camp slowed down considerably in the midday heat.

And wasn’t that an understatement.

This camp, which tended to groove along at an eat-the-dust-of-a-passing-tortoise pace, went into a coma every day, just around noon.

As a born-and-bred New Yorker, the lazy pace had frustrated Gina at first. She’d had to take deep breaths to keep herself from clapping her hands and shouting, “Faster! Walk faster!” And since she wasn’t into napping, the midday breaks seemed a waste of time.

But now she liked it. The entire camp fell asleep, and she had the place to herself. It was like stepping into that episode of
Star Trek
where Captain Kirk found himself alone on the
Enterprise.
Turned out he’d been accelerated to a point where he was moving so fast, his crewmembers couldn’t see him and . . . No, she was getting that episode confused with the one where the aliens created a mock-up of the starship and . . .

Crap. Eighteen months without sex, and she was turning into her cousin, Karol-with-a-K, who spent way too much time wondering if Mr. Spock would’ve fallen in love with Winifred, had he been able to warp into the Buffyverse.

Karol-with-a-K was a freak, and not just because it was so obvious that opposites attracted and that Spock would’ve been crushing on Buffy, big time.