Lost Legacy (21 page)

She looked at the lines of pain around his mouth that even unconsciousness could not erase, and thought about his strange confession.

Oh, Stryker. What have you done?

NINETEEN

V
ictor and Tuney identified the direction that might be most likely to provide a way out near the Professor House. Tuney gave them a sloppy salute and said in his best John Wayne voice, “Until we meet again, partner.”

Then he was gone. Victor began to pace, following the periphery of the room, which was mercifully dry and warm but not dangerously so. There were broken bricks on the floor, the only objects in the bare chamber with its cold stone floor and low ceiling. Six-inch holes were set ink-dark into the walls. The only light came from his failing flashlight and Brooke’s penlight.

“We should conserve the batteries,” he said, flicking his off and activating a light stick that Tuney had given him before he left. Brooke silently switched off her penlight and they sat next to Stryker, bathed in the otherworldly glow of the light stick.

The silence grew between them. That was fine with Victor. His mouth would not cooperate when Brooke was around, insisting on saying things without the consent of his brain. Why did he forget all thoughts of treasure and vengeance now that she was sitting next to him? What happened to his orderly, meticulously reasoned arguments when her hair brushed his cheek with a satin tickle? He checked his watch, willing Tuney to hurry, or his brother and sister to make it through the grate.

When the feel of her next to him made his senses too jumbled, he busied himself tending to Stryker, checking his pulse and wishing again they had at least a blanket to wrap around him.

“I wonder what he meant,” Brooke said softly.

“I wish I knew.” Victor yearned to pace, but it was too dark now to move anywhere safely.

She startled him with the next question. “Who are Pearson, Jackney and Rivera? The names you mentioned when we were trapped in that hot room.”

“Patients,” he growled, looking away.

“What happened to them?”

“They died.”

She didn’t answer, just looked at him, and before he realized it the words were tumbling from his mouth.

“They died, but they shouldn’t have. I’d lost patients before over the course of my career and after them, of course, but I knew why. Sometimes they were too weak to survive the surgery or infection set in, et cetera. But those three…” He pulled out his wallet and took out a small piece of paper, worn and creased from use, with the three names written on it. “I could not understand why they died. Every day I searched for the answer, researched and went through their medical histories, the moment by moment of the surgery, but I never could figure it out.”

Brooke reached for his hand. “Some things you don’t get to know.”

He felt a surge of anger as he pulled out of reach. “That’s it? That’s the answer? Some things just happen and I don’t get to know or understand why? I just have to accept it, to know that I’m not good enough or smart enough or—” he searched for the word “—or worthy enough to know why?”

She nodded.

“And you accept that? After your father destroyed you and you lost the dream of becoming a dancer. You just accept that it’s not for you to understand why.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t be complacent like that. I’m not that kind of person.”

“Not complacent. Angry, hurt, disappointed, enraged, sorrowful, Victor. All those things, but hopeful, too, because I know there’s something better the Lord has in mind.” She smiled. “He’s smarter than me.” Stryker stirred and she moved to him and took his hand.

“Why do you pray for him?” Victor snapped. “He’s no innocent.”

“Neither am I,” Brooke said.

“He’s probably a criminal.”

“Like Stephanie?”

He stiffened. “My sister made some mistakes, huge mistakes, but she’s past that.”

“Huge mistakes, but you love her anyway.”

“Of course. She’s my sister.”

“So you care for her even though she disappointed you and let you down?”

He waved the question away. “Of course.”

She turned to him. “And that is exactly the way I feel about my father, and I’m going to continue to pray for him, and for Stryker.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “And for you, Victor, because you might never know why those men died.” She added softly, “Or Jennifer.”

He stared at her, breath held until his body forced his lungs to start up again. “I can’t accept that.”

“It helps when you know that there’s a God up there who loves you. He’s in charge and you’re not. It’s a comfort, actually.”

A rat skittered across the pipe over their heads.

A comfort. To believe. How could she embrace something that ridiculously simple?

He got to his feet, shoved the paper back into his pocket and checked on Stryker again.

Stryker moaned and Victor tried to pour a little water from their scant supply into his mouth. He coughed and his eyes flicked open.

“Is she dead?” Stryker croaked. “I didn’t mean to kill them.”

“Who?” Victor said, his ear close to Stryker’s mouth.

“Shot was supposed to scare her. I’m a bad shot. I hate guns.” His breathing grew shallow. “Bad driver, too. Bad everything. Couldn’t even tail you on my motorcycle.”

“Did you shoot the woman at my office building?” Victor pressed. “Why would you do that?”

Stryker closed his eyes and fell back into a semiconscious state. Victor stood, frustration and a growing sense of anxiety prickling his body. “He must have killed Fran.”

Brooke’s hands were oddly luminous as she wiped Stryker’s tearstained cheeks. “He said
them
. More than one.”

Shock crashed through him.
I’m a bad driver.
“He apologized to me specifically.”

Her eyes met his and he looked away from the horror he saw there.

“Stryker was the one who crashed into our car.” Victor looked down at the prostrate figure. “Stryker is the man who killed my wife.”

Brooke’s head spun. “At the museum all those years ago, Stryker was driving the getaway car? Why did he come to San Francisco?”

Victor’s voice was hard. “I don’t know.” He bumped against a protruding piece of cement.

“Sit down, Victor,” she pleaded. “Let’s try to figure it out.”

Victor shook his head, head tilted to the ceiling, eyes closed. “As soon as you walked into Treasure Seekers I had the feeling these cases were connected.”

She was unsure what to say. Though she knew deep down her father was not involved with Stryker, any mention of his name would just inflame Victor. She saw the anguish on his face and it bit at her heart.

“What really kills me,” he said, voice tight, “is that I don’t feel any relief. I thought once I knew, once I could look into the face of the person that ran into us and took off…” His voice trailed away.

She stood, ignoring all common sense, and put her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

He clung to her, brushing his lips to her neck, his embrace pulling her tight to his chest. She might have imagined it but she thought she felt the anger ease, a gentleness stealing into his touch as he stroked her hair.

“Brooke, you should be someone I hate. I’m black or white. You’re an enemy or a friend, and I thought you were in the other camp.”

“But you don’t? Hate me, I mean?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled her tighter to him and sighed deeply, a sound that shivered through the deepest parts of her.

She wanted to show him with her embrace that he didn’t have to live in such an unforgiving world. There were so many shades of color, so many glorious tints to experience besides his harsh black-and-white reality.

Though she longed to stay there, tucked into his embrace, he pulled away.

Only a few feet separated them, but the distance felt like miles. His expression was suddenly distant, shuttered.

She lowered herself to the floor, thoughts spinning through her mind so quickly she could hardly catch hold of them. She guessed Colda had shot Stryker, and if they didn’t find her aunt soon, the same thing would happen to her.

Her stomach writhed. How long would it be before Tuney returned with help or Stephanie and Luca forced their way in? She leaned her head back against the wall and squeezed her arms around herself, feeling a draft on her neck coming from the holes bored into the concrete.

She heard a groan, which she took to be Victor until she saw him staring at her.

Had it been Stryker?

She started to go to him, when a hand came from one of the holes and seized her hair.

“Go away,” a voice hissed. “Leave me be, do you hear me? Leave me be.”

Victor ran to her as she tried to yank away, the viselike grip on her hair unrelenting, long fingernails digging into her scalp.

“Stop,” Victor yelled. “Colda, let go.” He tried to pry at the fingers wound tightly in her hair.

The hand continued to pull so hard tears sprang up in Brooke’s eyes until she cried out. Victor scanned frantically. “There’s got to be a passage just on the other side. Hang on.” He ran from the room.

Brooke kept trying to twist away. “Please, Professor Colda, you’re hurting me. I’m Donald Ramsey’s daughter. You are my father’s friend.”

The grip loosened slightly. “They’re going to kill me,” the voice wailed.

“No. No, I’ll help you. We can get you out of here safely.” The tears made it nearly impossible to see, but she heard the voice soften.

“Tell them to stay away. If they come near me, I’ll kill them. I have to.” There was a half sob and suddenly she was freed so quickly she fell to her knees.

If they come near me, I’ll kill them.

Colda was insane. She heard it in the panted words hissing through the hole. Anyone who approached him would be in danger. Colda had a gun.

Terror ran rampant through her veins. She raced out of the passageway. “Victor,” she yelled. “Come back.” The hallway was black but she didn’t dare turn around. Pressing her hands to the wall, she moved in the direction she decided he must have taken. Palms scraping the roughened rock, she pushed along, stumbling and banging her shins on protruding rock. Ahead she could see nothing. Eyes searching the darkness, she tried to discover some hidden passage that she’d missed. After several more minutes, she retraced her steps. This time, she found it. A hole about four feet square cut into the rock. Warm air emanated from the hole. Victor must have crawled into it. There was no other possibility.

The idea of entering that hole made her skin clammy, but she had to warn him. Lowering herself gingerly to her hands and knees, she started in, ignoring the rock scraping through her jeans.

She had to get to Victor.

Her ankle was seized by a rough hand.

She screamed, pulling and kicking.

A deep voice yelled something which she could not understand in her fear.

Kicking desperately, she tried to push herself away, scrabbling and clawing at the rock.

She felt herself being pulled away. “Victor,” she screamed. Clawing her fingers, she held tight to a jutting rock until she could hold on no longer.

The grip tightened around her ankles and she was pulled back into the tunnel.

Brooke felt a scream building inside but the shock of landing on the tunnel floor took her breath away. A big, familiar-looking man knelt next to her.

“Sorry for the rough landing. You okay?” the man said.

He had Victor’s green eyes but a broader frame and fair hair. She nodded, trying to get her breath. “Luca?”

He nodded. “Stephanie is waiting for the paramedics. We broke through the grate to get down here and found the gunshot victim. Where’s Victor?”

Brooke forced a calm tone she did not feel. “He’s gone after Colda.”

Luca’s fair eyebrows zinged upward. “Crazy professor Colda? He’s really alive?”

“Yes, and I think he shot Stryker, the man you found. Victor’s gone after him.”

Luca didn’t waste a minute. He pushed by Brooke and worked his head and shoulders into the tunnel, grunting as he did so. After a moment he groaned. “I’m too big. I can’t fit.” He pulled back out with a look of exasperation. Brooke got the feeling if there was a crowbar handy he would try to knock down the stone.

“I’m going to help him,” she said, but Luca caught her arm.

“Not safe.”

“Now you sound just like your brother. I’m going.”

Luca looked helplessly around for another solution. Brooke didn’t give him the chance to delay her any longer. She darted past him and scooted into the tunnel, hearing his exclamation of disapproval. It didn’t matter. She had to get to Victor. Colda used to be her father’s friend, and she knew she could talk him out of hurting Victor if she got the chance.

She crawled over the uneven rock, wondering how Victor had managed to scrunch his tall frame in the confined space. Damp soaked into the knees of her pants, blood oozed from scrapes on her fingers and wrists.

Ahead she thought she heard someone cry out. She hurried as fast as she could until she almost fell through a gap in the tunnel floor. Looking down she could see only a faint glow, but there was no sound.

Her breath was loud and harsh in her own ears. The heat wafted up from the space below, bringing with it the smell of mold.
Victor, where are you?

Perhaps there was another way, another passage. She climbed carefully over the gap and continued on a few yards until she came to a bricked-off wall. Dead end. Victor must be back there, back in the lower chamber. She returned to the edge of the gap, listening intently once again.

Silence.

She found a pebble and dropped it down into the opening. It plinked against the floor quickly, telling her the floor wasn’t more than six feet below.

She listened again.

More silence, then a slight scraping noise, like the sound of a heavy bundle being pulled across the floor.

A heavy bundle.

Heavy, like a dead weight.

Her insides were screaming at her to leave, go back and wait for help.

But her heart was telling her something entirely different.