First You Run (11 page)

“There still has to be a reason he’s following you from book signing to book signing,” Fletch said, grabbing another illegal parking spot directly in front of the store. “Even if he’s just here to heckle, I want to know why. And who sent him.” He threw the car into Park, ignoring a mental warning not to leave his principal, not to seek out trouble, and not to act on impulse.

Miranda closed her hand over his arm and leaned closer. “I really appreciate this.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “And that other woman? She’s damn lucky to have you.”

He shut his eyes. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered.

“I think I should wait here.”

“I agree. If he sees you, he might bolt. He might remember me from Berkeley, but he’ll be looking for you, and I’ll have the element of surprise on my side.” He grazed his knuckle over her chin. “Keep the door locked, and do
not
, no matter what, leave this car. You understand?”

She nodded. “I promise.”

“Here.” He opened his door and stepped out, reaching across for her. “Get into my seat, in case you have to take off fast. The keys are in the ignition. If someone approaches this vehicle, drive away.”

“Okay.” She climbed into the driver’s seat. “But if I do, how will I find you?”

“If we get separated, I’ll find you at the hotel. Otherwise”—he kissed her mouth quickly—“I’ll see you in a few.”

She pulled him to her again, kissing him long and open-mouthed. “Thank you, Adrien.”

He closed the door, waited to hear the click of the lock, and headed to the door of Bruin Books. Which was locked tight.

Bloody hell. The sign said it was open until eleven, and a customer had just walked in. He tried the door again and glanced toward the car where Miranda waited.

He could turn back and give up. He could talk Miranda out of following this guy. He could…head down that alley and see if there was a back entrance.

One hand on his Glock, he jogged into a narrow passageway toward the back window, which he guessed was the office where the clerk had been when they’d entered.

When he reached it, he cupped his hands and squinted. The pane was white with dust and grime, almost impossible to see through. With his cuff, he brushed a spot clear. Cardboard boxes blocked the lower half of the view. He grabbed a crate from a pile of trash and climbed onto it to get a better look inside.

The room was dark and deserted. He rubbed the glass some more and blinked at the familiar red words on a white background. The boxes were full of Miranda’s book.

The clerk had lied.

A door slammed around the back, and footsteps hit the pavement. Fletch leaped from the crate and vaulted toward the back of the building, inching out just enough to see who was running in the parking alley behind the building.

Even with a phone to her ear and her face distorted, he recognized the young sales girl from the bookstore. Ophelia. Fletch flattened himself against the building and hid in the shadows as she darted past, her voice bouncing off the bricks.

“He’s fucking crazy, man. He’s going to kill himself this time, and I don’t care. Really. I just want out.”

Out…from a bad relationship or the building?

Kill himself?

Ice ripped through Fletch’s veins as realization and horror exploded in his head.

The backpack. The unmarked boxes. The conviction in that young man’s voice when he stood on a chair and proclaimed,
This is the only truth!

Miranda was right. Religion was a motivator for murder. To a zealot.

Fletch sprinted down the alley, back to Miranda. He dodged an oncoming car and threw himself in front of the SUV, diving for the passenger door, which she unlocked before he got there.

“Drive!” he ordered. “Fast! Now!”

Stunned but unquestioning, she turned the ignition.

“Hurry!” He reached across, whipped the wheel left, and smashed his foot on top of hers, gunning them out of the space.

“What’s going on?”

They screeched down the street at full speed, turning the corner just as the bookstore detonated in a massive, deafening explosion that rained brick and fire and burned books down on Westwood Village.

T
ALIÑA STARED INTO
the dancing, hypnotizing flames, mesmerized by what she’d done.

Twenty-seven tallow candles surrounded her, the light ricocheting off the five quartz crystals that formed a perfect cross on the altar of stone.

Carved cement and sharp pebbles dug into her knees. The cool air around the circular ritual slab chilled her bare skin. Electricity crackled in her hair, snapping sparks against her naked flesh.

It was time.

Bitter incense burned her nose as it mixed with the cloying smell of gardenia petals she’d broken and dispersed. Soon that smell would be replaced by the acrid odor of her séance, the pungent smell of sexual arousal that calling the
ajnawal mesa
always pulled from her sweat glands, and maybe the wet, delicious aroma of rain in her jungle.

She needed answers to her questions about Miranda, and there was only one way to get them: with the powerful shamanic witchcraft she’d learned as a child. A craft that could heal, save, and stimulate.

And kill.

But she’d take that risk, for Miranda.

She lay on her back, spread her legs wider than her hips, and positioned her palms flat on either side of her ears, jutting her elbows in the air. Then she whispered the age-old chant that soothed her soul and reached far beyond this world to another. She hummed in a low, monotonous minor key, the words so ancient they were meaningless but so familiar they comforted.

She imagined the voice of her mother, and her mother before. She imagined the voices of the midwives and apprentices, of the women warriors and prophets, diviners, dreamers,
dukuns
, spirits, and shamans. From womb to womb, the women connected and saved, they healed and gave birth, they screamed and painted and sang and performed rituals that protected souls and warned children and won wars and ruined men.

Women who ruled.
Women
.

Her love for the gender of her soul ran deep, allowing her to concentrate on one woman, and only one woman.

She understood why some would think Miranda was a threat, but Taliña didn’t. Still, she wanted to know why Miranda had debilitating, hollow places in her heart.

The tallow grew low, the night cold. And her torso began to rise. First her bottom, then her back, higher until she bent like a human bridge, rose to her toes, and formed a perfect arch, offering her nakedness, inside out, to the gods.

As her muscles tensed and pulled and strained, she began to sing, simple syllables floating on air. The pleasant, electric jolt started deep in the middle of her gut, the position forcing blood to slide to her head and to her feet, away from her midsection, away from her womanly core.

Her blood was shifting from her womb to fill her brain, to fill her feet, giving her the power to think and to run. A woman’s best defenses: her brain and her feet.

Her arms shook with the effort, her legs wobbled. The smell intensified, so potent that she knew what she would see when she opened her eyes. She didn’t know what color to expect, but the energy would be there. Her husband could strip her of many things but not this power.

Wasn’t that why he married her?

She relaxed, opened her eyes, and saw it floating above the candles behind her. The energy was green, the color of fear, with a tinge of orange.

The pulsating ball, no bigger than a man’s fist, floated over her, above her head, circling her, moving counterclockwise above the melting candles around the slab.

Satisfaction rolled through her. She’d succeeded! She’d called the energy, drawn it from the earth, the sky, the air, and the water. The ball of light paused over the altar, where Taliña’s five questions were laid out.

She eased herself to the ground and rose to her knees, bowing in homage as she stared at the light in front of her.

What is Miranda’s secret?

For a time, there was only silence in her head. Then, finally, the voice in her brain spoke.

Birth.

Birth? Miranda was pregnant? No, no, it was impossible. They’d exchanged energy; Taliña had felt her
kyopa
. If there was a child, the power of that spirit would be overwhelming.

It made no sense to her.

What is going to happen to Miranda
?

The green light rose above the altar, flashed yellow, then red, then faded to black and disappeared.

Green for fear. Yellow for danger. Red for love. Black for death. A fast, unstoppable, and brutal ending for a beautiful, intelligent, sensual woman. Taliña lifted her head and stared at the blackness. There was no arguing with the energy of the séance.

A chill danced over her skin as the atmosphere changed. In the distance, thunder rumbled, almost drowning out the sound of a footstep. But she heard and braced herself for what was about to happen.

No, it wasn’t thunder. That was his low, vicious, arrogant laughter.

“You fell for it, Doña Taliña.”

Taliña closed her eyes, as trapped as Miranda had been in the underground tomb. She said nothing. There were no words that could stop what was about to happen.

“I am working,” she said quietly.

He laughed, blowing out candles as he circled her séance. “
I
did it, Taliña. Not you. Don’t believe me? Watch.”

She followed his gaze, and there was the energy ball.

“Want to see the red again?”

It changed colors.

Damn him. Damn, damn, damn him.
She hadn’t made that energy after all.

He held up his hand, and she saw what he held.

“You are very clever.”

“We have a deal,” he said, his voice gruff.

She bit her lip and cursed him, turning to take the position of a helpless female animal. That way, she didn’t have to face him.

He was without mercy, more brutal than most nights, anger and jealousy and fear driving him as he stabbed into her body over and over and over.

Gritting her teeth and praying for the end, Taliña looked up and gasped when the ball of energy mysteriously reappeared. How could he do that? He was inside her, grunting like a pig.

This time, it was real, not one of his tricks.

The energy was bright, blinding crimson. The color of love. And blood. And…birth. Maybe she was doing that. Maybe this was really a message about Miranda’s birth.

Everything went back to…the mother. Miranda’s mother.

When he finished, Taliña crawled to the irrigation pond, washing off the filth of a man who took her almost every night—but certainly wasn’t her husband.

CNN had aleady given it a logo and theme music.
The Westwood Bombing.
Hitting the mute button, Fletch glanced at the closed bathroom door where Miranda had disappeared for a shower as soon as they’d reached the hotel, whizzing up Wilshire Boulevard before police barricades were set up in a useless attempt to keep the bomber from escaping.

The news this hour: There were no apparent casualties except for a landmark bookstore in a bustling Los Angeles neighborhood.

But there was a casualty: the bomber. The need to identify Wild Eyes started to burn in Fletch’s belly, along with the need to know why and who was behind it, calling the shots.

Since the shower was still running, he had time to make a phone call. He flipped his phone open to see four missed calls from Jack. His mate would have to wait, Fletch thought as he speed-dialed Lucy Sharpe.

“It’s one-thirty a.m. in New York,” she said before the first ring ended. “Do you know where your boss is?”

Fletch smiled. “In bed?”

“You know I never sleep. What’s the matter?”

“Are you watching the news?”

She gave a soft groan of disgust, giving him the distinct impression that she did not appreciate this interruption. “No, I’m not watching the news.”

“I’m really sorry, Luce, but you’d better put on the telly. I’m in the thick of it.”

After a second, she asked, “Are you in LA?”

“Right-o. And that was a bookstore where, not moments before the blast, my principal was supposed to sign books.”

“Your
principal?
”

“I know, I know. I’m not on the clock, and Jack’s not our client, but she’s—”

“Not your principal or my problem.”

“Luce, please. Even if you can’t consider helping Jack, I believe the woman I’m with was the target of that bombing.”

“What happened?”

He kept his eye on the bathroom door. “That was a suicide bombing. I saw the bloke go into the place with a backpack. Miranda—that’s the woman I’m with—was watching the front door, and I took the back. He didn’t come out.”

“What were you doing, exactly?”

Irritation skittered all over him. “My fucking job, Lucy. I was trying to figure out who is after this woman and why. I’d followed the man, and he blew up the building. I have a description of him, and his last known whereabouts was another bookstore in Berkeley. I saw him there. Don’t we have someone up in the Bay Area who can get an ID on this guy? I don’t know for certain if he was trying to kill Miranda or not, but thank God, he failed. If he works for someone who wants her dead, then whoever that is will surely—”

The water had stopped sometime during his impassioned plea. He heard nothing from the bathroom and reviewed what he’d said. Nothing that would have revealed the real reason he was there.

Before Lucy responded, he continued, “And could you run an ID on a clerk at the bookstore, too? She left just seconds before the bomb went off. An Asian girl wearing a name tag that read Ophelia.”

“Tell me, is this woman the daughter of the woman in South Carolina?”

“No. Can you do the ID work for me?”

“So why are you still with her?”

Sometimes he wanted to kill the woman. “Because she’s in danger.”

“And this is your problem?”

“I’m making it my problem.”

He heard Lucy let out a breath, her displeasure as clear as if she sat across from him, tapping her ruby red nails.
You’re too impulsive, Fletch. That’s going to cost you a life someday
.

His, probably.

He waited, watching the muted TV reporter, the bombed-out building in the background, and fire-fighters and police racing around like ants. Still no sound from the bathroom.

“Wade Cordell is just finishing a job in Silicon Valley,” Lucy finally said. “He might be able to help with an investigation and get an ID.”

He pictured the former Marine sniper who’d been working for Lucy as a consultant on special projects. So special that no one knew what the hell they were, but Fletch was pretty sure his expertise wasn’t investigation. Unless that required shooting someone in the head from three kilometers away, which rumor had it was exactly what Cordell did as a consultant for some black ops deal before Lucy lured him into her company. “Is he qualified as an investigator?”

“I’ll ignore the implication that I don’t know how to choose the right man for the job, Fletch, just as I’ll ignore your outburst and chalk it up to stress. Call Wade, give him the descriptions and details, and get some sleep, okay?”

“Right.” Thats was why he liked this tough but fair sheila. “Thanks, Luce.”

“I’m only doing this because innocent people could have been killed tonight.”

In other words, it had nothing to do with the wild-goose chase he was on for Jack Culver. “Got it.”

The bathroom door opened and Miranda stepped out, wearing a tank top and her sleep pants. Her hair was wet, combed over one shoulder, and her eyes looked weary.

“Talk to you tomorrow.” He flipped the phone and reached for the remote, but Miranda grabbed it first.

“I want to watch.”

“It’s only going to upset you more,” he warned her.

“Any casualties?” She switched to another channel.

“One person still in the hospital, several more released. It could have been much, much worse.”

“No kidding. We could have been in the middle of my book signing.” She pushed a strand of wet hair back. “Who were you talking to?”

“My boss.” He reached for her hand. “C’mere, luv. Lie down and relax.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “So why’d you call your boss at this hour?”

“Because my company does investigations, and I want to find out who Wild Eyes is. And check out Ophelia, the clerk, to make sure she’s legit.”

“Good.” Her back was straight, her shoulders square. “I assume the police will want to talk to me, as soon as they figure out that I was scheduled to speak that night.”

“Maybe, but it could be a while before they make that connection. Maybe we’ll be able to figure out why he did this, or who he worked for.”

Considering that, she repositioned herself, propping the pillow behind her. “As much as I don’t want to, I’m going to watch the news.”

“Then I’ll shower,” he said. “But don’t wallow in misery while you watch.” He pushed himself off the bed and fought the urge to bend over and kiss her gently, to comfort her.

“I’m not wallowing in anything. I’m mad. Go take your shower.”

He did, with no Aussie drinking songs echoing around the bathroom. He was about to turn the water off when she rapped at the door and called, “Your cell phone is ringing. Do you want it?”

He reached his arm out of the shower. “Can you hand it to me?”

When she did, he read Jack Culver’s number on the ID. At this hour? He shut off the water and opened the shower curtain to be sure she’d left. She had, but the bathroom door was open. “’Sup, Jack?”

“Where the hell have you been all day?”

“Santa Barbara. Los Angeles.” He grabbed a towel to dry off with his free hand and checked the door. Was she listening? “Why?”

“Are you still with Miranda Lang? Did you find the tattoo? Is she our girl?”

Fletch snorted. “Yes. No. No.”

Jack took a minute to process that. “She’s not?” He sounded incredulous.

“Not according to my observations,” Fletch said. “And they were careful.”

“Are you sure the tattoo hasn’t been lasered off?”

That left a scar, but he didn’t want to say that out loud. “Relatively. More than ninety-nine percent. Is that enough?”

“I don’t know. We have to find her, fast.
Really
fast.”