Dangerous Melody (10 page)

“Where?” Stephanie asked. “We have no leads.”

“Speak for yourself. While
you were sitting around, I did some research of my own.”

Luca’s eyes narrowed. “Really.”

“Yes, really. Rocky, the janitor at this place, has worked here for fifteen years, and he knows everybody.”

Stephanie’s lips parted. “Everybody?”

“Yeah, including a man who goes by the name Eugene. Big guy, wiry beard, loves to hike up to the ruins and paint pictures. Even has a little
place way outside of town.”

Luca shook his head, but Tate thought he caught the slightest hint of admiration. “Good work, Fuego.”

Tate couldn’t resist. “Real good. I guess you’ll have to put me on the Treasure Seekers’ payroll pretty soon.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Luca said, as he packed up his gear.

ELEVEN

S
tephanie had no luck finding the location Tate had been given for Eugene’s home on her GPS. As near as they could glean from the elderly gas station attendant, there was a small stone structure about fifteen miles out of town that had been vacant for periods of time, but for the past few years was inhabited by a man matching Eugene’s description.

“Have you spoken to
him before?” Stephanie asked, pushing her wind-whipped bangs out of her face.

The attendant shrugged, arching a grizzled eyebrow. “Not much of a talker, except to himself. Carries around a sketch pad and scribbles all the time. Don’t like people much. That’s about all I know.”

Stephanie thanked him and turned to go.

“Plays real nice, though,” the attendant added.

Luca’s eyebrows
shot up. “Plays?”

The man nodded. “Yeah. I heard him one time when I was taking my grandkids out for a dune buggy ride around the stone house. We were resting in the shade near his place. Heard some sort of fiddle or something. Sounded real nice, but he stopped quick like when he heard us, I guess. As I said, he don’t like people much.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“One more word,” he said, stabbing a callused thumb at the sky. “Better not go out there today.”

“Why not?” Tate asked.

“Windy. Real windy. Not a good time to be out there near the dunes.”

Stephanie nodded, and they returned to their cars. “Well, we’re not calling off the search on account of a little wind.”

Tate frowned, looking at the trees, their needles undulating like
bristly fingers. “Sandstorms can kill you.”

Luca shifted. “I don’t know anything about them. I’m not a desert guy.”

“Maria and I used to go with Dad and do some four-wheeling.”

Stephanie saw the flash of pain ripple across his face and felt the urge to reach out to him, but she knew the gesture wouldn’t be welcome.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, we don’t have a choice, do
we? Clock’s ticking down for your father and my sister.”

Stephanie’s stomach clenched. “And it’s a matter of time before Sartori comes back with another set of questions we don’t want to answer.”

Silently they loaded up, she and Luca in the rental and Tate following in the truck. Luca headed in the direction the attendant had given them, down a dirt road that rose steadily in elevation
against a brilliant sky, dotted with gossamer clouds. It was an arid, hostile environment, like an alien planet resistant to human life.

She closed her eyes for a moment, exhausted in body and spirit.
Daddy, where are you?
She prayed for the hundredth time that he was safe, that Victor would recover. That she could snatch her life back from Bittman’s grasp. With her big brother beside her
and Tate following behind, had she sucked them all into a goose chase that might come to a disastrous end?

When the panic began to threaten, she said another quick prayer and tried again to examine the photo Devlin had given her, but the bouncing of the car made it hard to focus.

“Who could have killed Devlin?” she mused aloud. “He was just a music store owner, not a threat to anyone.”

“Ricardo might have killed him to keep him quiet, I suppose.” Luca paused, then shot her a look. “There’s another possibility, too.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Maria is not a killer. She’s impulsive and hot tempered, but she wouldn’t do that.”

Luca didn’t look convinced. “When I politely declined a date, she told Tate that I came onto her. That doesn’t say much for her character.”

“She’s desperate to have someone love her, Luca, and rejection freaks her out. I think that’s why she fell in with Bittman. He was probably charming, gave her presents, a job, anything she wanted to string her along until he grew bored of her.”

“So if she was in love with the guy, why go after his violin? What changed?”

Stephanie shaded her eyes against the sun-washed rock that rose
on either side of the path. “That’s what we’d better find out fast.”

They drove for miles, climbing to the top of breathtaking vistas and back down to the endless acres of sand dunes, pushed along by the wind. Stephanie was beginning to worry that they’d made a wrong turn when they spotted a flat-topped stone structure, tucked into a dusty hollow below the road. Stephanie’s heart sped up
as she got out and they joined Tate, who was peering through a pair of binoculars.

“Doesn’t look like anyone is home,” he said, handing them to her.

She took a close look at the house, perched in the shade of a scraggly mesquite. There were only a few scrubby
junipers growing close by, nothing to provide good cover. Wind tossed grit into her face, and she lowered the binoculars. “Any
ideas?”

“Only one way to find out who’s home,” Tate said, starting down a gravel trail that led from the road to the house.

Stephanie didn’t waste any time in following him. When they reached the house, they stopped to listen. Luca slipped around the back, returning after a few moments with a report. “All closed up tight. Shutters are drawn, but someone’s been here recently.”

Stephanie
gasped. “How do you know?”

“There’s a half-burned newspaper out back. Looks like someone had a campfire going. Date on the newspaper is three days ago.”

Tate held up a hand. “Did you hear that?”

Luca and Stephanie froze.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Luca said. “What?”

Tate listened for another long moment before shaking his head. “Nothing I guess. Just my imagination.”

Stephanie approached the door. “Enough wasting time.”

Both men protested, but she shrugged them off. “A woman at the door is less intimidating,” she said.

“Depends on the woman,” Tate murmured, his mouth quirked in a half grin. Luca and Tate took up positions on either side of the door as Stephanie knocked.

“Eugene? My name is Stephanie. I wanted to talk to you.”

No sound
came from inside the stone house.

“I’m not here to bother you. I just have a quick question.”

No response.

She put her hand on the door and turned the handle. It gave slightly. “It’s unlocked,” she mouthed.

Luca shook his head and put out an arm to stop her from entering.

“We’ve got to,” she whispered.

This time both Tate and Luca moved to stop her as she pushed open
the door. They stood frozen as it swung wide with a low groan. The interior was dark and cool. Stephanie could make out a tiny living room with a rocking chair and a rickety shelf overflowing with books of every shape and size.

“Eugene?” she called again. “My name is Stephanie. I need your help. My father’s in trouble. I’m going to come in so we can talk, okay?”

This time both Tate and
Luca pushed in front of her and entered first. Biting back both fear and irritation, she followed them in. The house was perfectly quiet. A shadowed hallway led to the kitchen, and she followed Tate into the cramped space.

* * *

Tate tried his best to keep Stephanie behind him. At least he was able to ascertain that no one was in the kitchen before she pushed in. The yellowed tile counter
was immaculate, in complete juxtaposition to the round table, which was covered with feathers, each fixed to an index card with a pencil sketch of a bird.

He picked up one and looked close. “Guy’s a good artist,” he whispered.

Stephanie tried a light switch with no result before she opened the refrigerator. “It’s empty. No electricity.”

Tate pointed to a cooler under the table.
“Low-tech fridge.”

She pulled open the lid of the cooler and perused the supplies floating in half-melted ice. “Water, and jars of peanut butter and jelly. Eugene lives simply.”

Luca called them back out to the living room. “No one here. Bedroom’s got nothing in it but a sleeping bag tossed over the box spring. No sign of a car, so I wonder how he’s getting around.”

“Even my trailer
looks cushy compared to this,” Tate said. “Hard to believe this guy’s been in possession of a priceless violin all these years. Why hasn’t he sold it? Maybe we got the wrong info.”

“I don’t think so,” Stephanie said, picking up what looked like a small bar of soap. It was scored and scratched across the surface. “Violin rosin.”

Tate held up a hand. “Quiet. Hear that?”

They froze,
and a faint creaking sounded faintly.

“He’s here somewhere,” Tate mouthed.

“There’s a closet in the bedroom, but I checked,” Luca said, voice low. “It was empty.”

“Eugene is probably better at hide-and-seek than you are,” Stephanie whispered to her brother.

Tate headed for the bedroom, which was, as Luca described, bare of personal effects, save for the worn sleeping bag. Luca
caught his arm.

“I didn’t shut the door.”

Now the door was firmly closed. Tate wrapped his fingers around the handle and counted to three before he wrenched it open. Eugene was not there, only a set of three empty hangers and a knitted cap tossed onto a wooden peg. One of the hangers moved ever so slightly. A waft of cool air hit Tate’s face. Looking in the back, he saw the source—a
small door hidden in the back wall, which had not been fully closed. It opened with a creak of old wood, exposing a tunnel.

Tate took a penlight from his pocket and immediately plunged into the gloom, followed by Luca and Stephanie. The old tunnel had a cement floor and walls covered in broken brick. Thick wooden beams were lined up every four feet along the ceiling, hanging with cobwebs
that trailed into the gloom. Tate had to stand bent over to avoid bashing his head on the low beams.

Their eyes adjusting to the darkness, they moved forward, Stephanie stumbling and falling to her knees. Tate helped her up, momentarily pulling her body against his, feeling her warm breath on his neck, the silken caress of her hair. Her hands squeezed his biceps for a dizzying second while
she regained her balance.

“Thanks,” she said.

My pleasure,
he thought, remembering how he’d used to hold her in his arms every day, then how he’d thrown her away along with his own happiness. Shaking the feel of her out of his head, he moved along, wishing they’d thought to bring a flashlight. The space grew narrower as the tunnel pinched in, the air stuffy and dank. He jerked in surprise
as a drop of cold water landed on his neck from one of the rafters overhead.

“Must be an underground spring close,” Luca said, swatting at a cobweb that clung to his face.

“This is old. The original home owner must have wanted his own private exit.”

“Or he was storing something down here that he didn’t want the world to see,” Luca added.

Tate wondered if the walls were still
sound, with the deteriorating powers of water and age working away at them. He inhaled the aroma of dead air. It was the same smell he’d experienced hundreds of times, working shoulder to shoulder with his father. It never ceased to amaze him how solid brick and steel could be reduced to rubble in a matter of moments. A wrecking ball or a series of precisely placed holes filled with TNT or C-4,
and a perfectly constructed building could be obliterated. There one minute, gone the next.

A moan echoed through the tunnel, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” the thin voice wailed.

A swaying light blinded Tate until his vision recovered and he could make out the shivering form of the man he guessed to be Eugene, thrown into strange
illumination by a lantern he held in one hand. He was slight but tall, his hair long and unkempt, the beard bristling from his chin. His eyes shifted uneasily from Luca to Tate and on to Stephanie.

“Hey there,” Tate said, voice low. “I’m sorry if we scared you.”

Eugene shook his head so violently that the lantern light bounced crazily around the tunnel. “You’re not sorry. You’re here
to take it.”

Stephanie moved closer. “Eugene, we’re not going to hurt you.”

“Those are lies,” Eugene whispered, his voice pained. “You all tell lies, every one of you.”

“No, it’s not a lie,” Stephanie said. “We’re here to try to help my father. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“Father?” he cried. “Poor father.”

“Yes. I’ll bet you love your father, too.”

Anguish
seeped into Eugene’s words. “They’re gone, everyone’s gone and I’m alone. I want to be alone. Go away and don’t come back here.”

“Why don’t you tell us who is bothering you?” Luca said. “Maybe we can help you.”

“Get away!” Eugene shouted, the cry bouncing off the walls and ringing through the space.

“Please...” Stephanie started, but Eugene was edging back into the darkness. He
must have hung the lantern on a nail because the light was suddenly pinned in place, bringing Eugene into dim focus.

“Is that...?” Stephanie started.

Tate’s stomach dropped as he saw what Eugene clutched in his other hand. He knew the power of dynamite. Fuego Demolitions had used a range of explosives over the years, but the kind Eugene gripped was an altogether different beast. It was
old, the type of dynamite made with a mixture of nitroglycerin and sawdust. Relatively harmless—if the blasting cap was absent.

Heart thumping, he looked closer. The cap was still affixed to the eight-inch stick, clutched in the man’s trembling fingers.

“Does he know what he’s doing with that?” Luca whispered.

“If it’s unstable, it may not matter,” Tate murmured back. Old dynamite
stored improperly would sweat out the nitro, forming crystals on the outside of the sticks, causing them to become highly sensitive to the slightest shock or friction. Dynamite of any kind was dangerous. Old dynamite was deadly and unpredictable. “Eugene, put that down. It’s not safe.”

“You’re not safe. You’re here to take it. I have to do it.” Tears streamed down his hairy cheeks. In spite
of the potentially lethal situation, Tate felt a stab of pity for the man who he realized was mentally challenged and obviously terrified. He had the feeling Eugene had been through his own kind of nightmare. A match flared.

“No, Eugene,” Tate said, stepping forward. “Put down the dynamite before you hurt yourself. You can go. We won’t stop you. I give you my word.” Tate figured they had
maybe ten seconds before the match died out.