The Sea of Aaron (3 page)

She sped up, passed two more cars and a tractor-trailer, and moved back into the right lane, aiming for the next exit.

“You're being a wacko, Val,” Jasmine said. “This isn't our exit. That truck is…”

“Don't believe me, do you? Look behind us.”

The box truck had slammed on its brakes, nearly rear-ending a Fiat, and jumped into their exit lane. Jasmine gave a gasp of alarm as she saw the truck roaring up behind them like a raging demon.

With her heart pounding and her brain calculating rapidly, Valerie prayed for clearance and plummeted the car down the ramp toward the merge, but what she saw was a huge tractor-trailer approaching. At that moment the box truck slammed into their bumper, forcing them into the path of disaster. Valerie clenched her teeth and refused to brake or relent.

“Hang on!” she shouted to Jasmine, who had covered her eyes. Jamming the accelerator to the floor and steering hard right, she rocketed the SUV forward, scraping a guardrail and causing the vehicle to shoot barely a yard ahead of the alarmed tractor-trailer driver whose horn blasts and screaming brakes filled the air. She waited for a sickening crash; there was a faint one, but it didn't involve them. Luckily, the tractor-trailer had not jack-knifed but had sideswiped the box truck, pinning it against the shoulder.

Valerie kept driving, her hands clenched to the wheel. “JZL555. JZL555,” she recited. “Write that license down.”

“Umm…” Jasmine stared at her, eyes glazed in shock. “Shouldn't we stop…call the police?”

“Are you kidding? This car's still drivable, and the only time I'm stopping is when we're back home. Now write that number down.”

***

“Someone is trying to kill me,” Valerie stated emphatically.

“What happened was an incident involving a maniac with a truck,” Jasmine said. “We were just random targets. No point in trying to rationalize why we were, either.”

Valerie took a long, slow, deliberate pause. “I suppose it was also just random…a coincidence that someone tried to push me in front of a train?”

Jasmine blanched. “Push you? You never said anything about being pushed.”

“I wasn't sure then. Now I am, and I'm almost certain it's got something to do with Mr. Allard's will. I mean, really. This weirdness started happening right after I saw the lawyer.”

Well into evening, they were sitting in the sumptuous living room of Jasmine's spacious home in the secluded Ramapo Hills, flanked by the cartons of Bibles they'd taken from Mr. Allard's house. A muscular teenage neighbor of Jasmine's had helped them bring the cartons inside.

Valerie slid one of the books out and inspected its well-preserved, gold-lettered spine. The Bible was written in a foreign text, possibly Italian. The copyright was 1935.

“I don't want to believe that,” Jasmine said. “But suppose…just suppose it's true. Do you think we were followed here?”

Valerie shook her head. “No way. That fool in the box truck was thrown off when he sideswiped the tractor-trailer. And if I really were still being trailed, he would expect me to go to my place, not yours. Plus, I deliberately made all those zigzags to throw off any tail. Make sense?”

“Of course it doesn't make sense. None of this does.” Jasmine looked flustered. “I also must say you never cease to amaze me. Where did you learn those evasive driving maneuvers?”

“They're a combination of paranoia and defensive driving. A retired FBI agent gave a night course at the community college.”

Jasmine shook her head incredulously. “You said the driver was a he…did you actually get a good look at him?”

“No. Just in the rearview mirror I couldn't make out much, only that it was a man—a white or Hispanic man. I was kind of hoping that you might have gotten a better look.”

“Oh, please. At that moment all I saw was a truck bearing down on us. We did get the license plate, though…for all the good it'll do. The truck could have been stolen.” Jasmine stood up and paced around. “And you're absolutely positive that those Bibles are not overly valuable?”

“Absolutely. The oldest one was printed in the early 1800s. Mr. Allard told me that Bibles printed in that time period were plentiful. Generally, the ones that would be worth a lot would be Gutenberg's or ones from the fourteenth century, and most of those are in museums or private collections.”

Jasmine looked at her directly. “Maybe someone
thinks
they're valuable.”

“That could be true,” Valerie admitted. The thought had already occurred to her. She randomly flipped a page of the Italian Bible and a dollar bill fluttered out, landing on the floor. Distracted, she picked it up and realized it was not a dollar but a hundred-dollar bill.

Jasmine was still pacing and muttering to herself while Valerie, overcome by an eerie realization, placed the bill on the coffee table and flipped some more pages. Sure enough, there were more hundred-dollar bills. Lots of them.

By the time they had gone through each and every Bible in the cartons, the money that was stacked on the table amounted to nearly a million dollars. The modern Bibles in the attaché case contained no money, but they had been placed on the surface to conceal additional stacks of hundred dollar bills, along with an envelope addressed to Valerie in Mr. Allard's spidery handwriting. Her hands shook as she opened it. The note read:

My dearest Valerie,

The treasures of the heavens and of the earth have opened up to you. Thank you so much for being there when I needed you. My deepest apologies for blending the monetary with the spiritual, but I assure you there were reasons for this blasphemy and I'm positive it will all work out. Please accept my gifts, as they can only go to one who is worthy. I have implicit trust that you will use the mammon wisely and, more importantly, that you will always treasure and preserve the spiritual
.

***

“Two million dollars! I can't keep this. No way can I keep this,” Valerie repeated in dazed delirium. “This money belongs to the Allard family. It's got to be a mistake.”

“Don't be absurd,” Jasmine said. “Sounds to me like he definitely wanted you to have it. And you did say that his family was cruel and never visited him.”

“His granddaughter did visit…once that I knew of.”

“You told me that she visited only because she needed money.”

“True, but she's still his blood.”

“At the time of his death was Mr. Allard senile?” Jasmine asked.

“No.”

“Well, like I said before, he meant for you to have it.” Jasmine began checking the security system. “Boy, am I glad Noah had this security system installed. You're staying here tonight. We have a safe where the money can be kept temporarily until you de…”

Valerie stood up. “I'm not keeping it. And I'm going to the police.”

“Oh, please. Not tonight. It's too risky.”

Valerie sat back down, feeling more confused than ever. “You're right. I can't do anything about it now. I mean, I could call the police and…”

“I've got a better idea,” Jasmine said. “How about if I give Noah a buzz right now. He'll probably have a worthwhile scheme…and he knows people.”

“Great idea. Call him.”

***

Hours later, when Valerie awakened in the guest suite of Jasmine's home, she had no clue where she was. At first she thought she was at Mr. Allard's house, reading aloud passages from Ecclesiastes. In his final months, Mr. Allard had enjoyed listening to what he proclaimed to be her theatrical voice. It finally dawned on her that she was at Jasmine's place and that she was in trouble.

Because of the time difference with Africa, Jasmine had been unable to reach her husband last night, but she had left him a message. What time was it now? Valerie stared at the clock and shook her head in disbelief. It was almost 9 a.m. Dressing quickly, she hurried to the bathroom, washed up, and rushed down the exquisitely designed staircase, not even bothering to gawk out the windows at the panoramic views of the snow-blanketed forest and hills.

Jasmine had a light breakfast ready in the nook just off the rustic kitchen. She could afford a cook but she preferred to do things herself.

“It's about time,” she said mockingly. “I heard from Noah.”

“Why didn't you wake me?” Valerie sat down and gulped a glass of orange juice.

Jasmine ignored the question. “It's a good plan, but…” She gazed at the ceiling. “I'm afraid it's also a double-edged sword.”

Valerie looked hard at her friend. Jasmine didn't usually play games when she had something to say. “Can't be that bad. Does it involve police protection or something?”

“It involves you leaving the country temporarily.”

Valerie nearly choked on her orange juice. “Leave the country! If you're talking about me going to Cielo Vista, I can't do that. My agency is about to set me up on another job and…”

“You haven't officially accepted the job yet,” Jasmine interrupted. “So hold on, I'm not finished. You won't be going to Cielo Vista. The country is in Central America, Belize to be specific.”

“That's even worse. I don't know a soul in Belize.”

Jasmine took a deep breath and suppressed an eye roll. “Oh, yes you do. Aaron's in Belize.”

Aaron. Valerie's head, already spinning, would have fallen off her neck had it not been attached. Her heart surged and nearly jumped out of her throat. She said nothing.

“My thoughts exactly,” Jasmine said, noting her reaction. “Anyway, keeping you safe is the highest priority, but if you cooperate you'll also be doing Noah a favor. He's worried about Aaron.”

“Why is he worried about him?”

Jasmine inhaled deeply for the second time. “A couple of weeks ago, Aaron was injured on some…er, mission. He checked out of the hospital in Saudi Arabia way before any sane person would have. He calls himself recovering in Belize.”

“How seriously injured was he?”

“A gunshot wound. He had surgery and everything. Collapsed lung…something like that…I don't know all the details. But trust me, the man has supernatural recuperative powers.”

Valerie shook her head. “You knew all about this, didn't you? And you couldn't tell me?”

“You know exactly why I didn't. And I'm telling the truth when I say I don't have details. Noah doesn't talk much about Aaron's life aside from Avian International, but we both know he's ex-military and somehow tangled up in espionage.”

“And I'm sure Aaron is going to be thrilled about Noah's scheme to get me down there to nurse him.”

“Surprise! Noah presented your case to him, but the actual plan was Aaron's idea.” Jasmine hesitated, giving her a chance for the information to sink in. “True, though, he doesn't know about the nursing part. That's not going to be easy.”

Valerie barely heard the rest of what Jasmine said. So Aaron was concerned about her welfare—so concerned that he wanted her to be with him. Her worries about her own dilemma nearly dissolved. Even before she gave Jasmine her final answer, she knew what her decision was going to be. “What about my mother?” she asked lamely. “Aunt Marilyn would normally check up on her, but she's away.”

“While I'm here, I can do it,” Jasmine said. “I'm sure Denise will, too.”

“Denise? For a price, no doubt.”

Jasmine smirked. “You have two million dollars at your disposal.”

“Very funny.”

“Who's laughing? Sounds like you're moving from the devil to the deep blue sea.”

“Don't worry. I'm a good swimmer, definitely a lot better than you are.”

From the office window of a small hub that Avian International had at Philip Goldson airport in Belize, Aaron scanned the not-too-distant airstrip, awaiting the landing of a specific cargo jet carrying consumer electronic goods and, of far greater significance, a certain woman. Her arrival was going to cause a few complications as well as aggravations for him, but not as much as the thought of her floating around ripe for picking off by some low-life whose identity he already suspected.

Two FBI agents from the New York branch were on the case. Normally the FBI did not investigate domestic affairs that could be handled by the local police departments, but Aaron knew the director of the branch and the man owed him big time.

He had already arranged Valerie Redmond's accommodations at a small family-run inn on Caye Caulker. From what little he did know about her, he was sure she'd prefer it there, as opposed to a touristy hotel in Belize City, even though the latter would have been better for him because she would be farther away from his territory. His decision to keep her close was saying a lot about what boredom and convalescence could do to a man's mind.

The jet was approaching now. He watched the huge bird touch ground and taxi down the runway, the mighty roar from its engines deafening to most, but music to his ears. He'd once flown fighter jets in the Israeli Air Force and had been in the aviation business as a whole for a long time, but the exhilaration of flight still gripped him.

As he stood well off the tarmac, waiting for the small crew to disembark from the modified 727, freight handlers were already milling around. When the first person emerged, the pilot, he acknowledged the man with a nod.

His first glimpse of Valerie consisted of feet in sensible flat sandals and a pair of legs—long, shapely Tina Turner legs—descending the ramp stairs. He watched, actually pleased that he was not completely immune to the sight of a striking woman. The legs were topped by white capri-length pants paired with a coral-colored V-necked T-shirt. She was looking downward as she maneuvered her way carefully to ground level, her thick hair falling against her oval face, shadowing it. Behind her, an Avian freight handler carried her luggage. One suitcase. This surprised him. From what he knew about women, they rarely traveled light.

“Good morning, Valerie. Welcome to Belize,” he said.

Surprised, she looked up, squinting slightly in the bright sunlight as she recognized him and smiled. “Hello, Aaron. Thank you.”

She sounded somewhat tentative, quite unlike the self-confident woman he remembered. Perhaps her reticence was triggered by stress and jet lag. He hoped it had nothing to do with what he assumed to be his less than healthy appearance.

***

Valerie's pulse quickened at the sound of Aaron's sensually deep, Israeli-accented voice. She had not been prepared to encounter him the instant she stepped off the plane. For some reason, she had assumed he would send a lackey to pick her up.

“I'm sorry that we are not meeting under different circumstances,” he said.

Under different circumstances, you wouldn't want me near you,
she thought. “My life seems to have gotten rather bizarre lately.”

He was thinner than the last time she'd seen him, but the loss of weight didn't suggest poor health or diminish his presence in the least. In fact, it looked good on him. Possessing an exotic blend of Semitic and African blood, Aaron was tall, lean, and sharp angled, with close-cropped black hair that was mottled with a few streaks of premature silver. He wore dark sunglasses, a navy blue T-shirt that displayed well-defined muscles, and a pair of worn jeans bleached nearly white.

They strolled in silence to a Jeep parked near a warehouse. The young freight handler tossed her suitcase in the backseat, then headed off to join the rest of his crew. Aaron opened the passenger-side door of the Jeep for her and she got in.

Once they were on a hot bumpy road leading to who knows where, he spoke without taking his eyes off the road. “We're going to a small offshore island called Caye Caulker, where I've arranged your room and board. I hope you won't find it too remote.”

Valerie shrugged. “I certainly won't complain. After all, I realize I'm not here on vacation.”

“Tell me about Gordon Allard, the man you worked for.”

The question jarred her. It didn't seem like something a person would typically ask at that moment. But why be surprised? The person asking was Aaron. She didn't let her reaction show.

“I worked three years as his nurse. In the beginning, he was a bit difficult to deal with…you know…very British, cantankerous—”

“How did Mr. Allard acquire his material assets?” he interrupted.

“Money? Oh…um. He was an inventor. A mechanical engineer, actually. He told me he designed a specific type of helicopter engine that ended up being used in helicopters during the latter part of the Korean War and in Vietnam. He—” She stopped abruptly, frowning, feeling exasperated. “You know all of this already, don't you?”

“Yes.”

Darn him. He was playing with her. She did not bother to state the obvious,
Why did you ask?
Instead, she remained silent.

“Tell me something you think I don't already know,” he said.

She bit her lip, took a deep breath and stared ahead at the tropical greenery around them. “His wife, son, and daughter-in-law were killed in a car accident on the Long Island Expressway years ago. His granddaughter, who was only two at the time, survived.” She paused for a second, not caring anymore whether he knew this detail already or not. “His granddaughter suffered serious head trauma and spent months in the hospital. When she was well, he took her in and raised her as his own.”

“Did Mr. Allard talk much about his relationship with her?”

“Some. He said he loved her and did the best he could, but he was already in his sixties when he was raising her, and Carolyn became difficult when she hit her teen years.”

“In what way?”

“Like a lot of teenagers, I guess. She started hanging out with the wrong people. Wouldn't listen to him. He refused to let her drop out of high school, but she did drop out of college. She moved away from home, and for a few years he didn't even know where she was. Later she resurfaced and came back, but it wasn't because she was concerned about him. He said she was always borrowing money. He had established a trust for her, but she'd get it only if she straightened her life out. She never did.”

Aaron's expression was impassive. They had arrived at a grassy field with a primitive dirt runway. Off to the left of the field, a small two-seater plane awaited, white with two black and yellow stripes on each side.

“Your chariot awaits,” Aaron said.

Chariot? They were flying in that toy? She had never been in a single-engine plane before. “Why didn't you just fly out from the main airport?” she asked.

“Too much air traffic to contend with. The island's smaller regional airlines use this one. Don't worry. It's a very short flight. Only a few minutes. By boat it would take almost an hour.”

Get over it, s
he told herself, not wanting him to see her nervousness. Although she was certain the man could smell fear like a bloodhound, to his credit, Aaron gave no such indication. He seized her suitcase and tossed it in the back of the plane before she could even protest. His easy handling of the luggage did not in any way suggest that he'd been injured.

“You do realize that what you and Jasmine did was darn foolish,” Aaron said.

Startled by the statement and his bluntness, Valerie almost forgot where she was and glared at him. “What
we
did? What are you talking about?”

“Going to Allard's house without benefit of a reliable witness. You should have turned that key over to the lawyer and taken him with you. I have complete trust that all you took were those books, but you left yourself wide open for an accusation of theft by the Allard beneficiaries.”

Her head spun. He was right. How stupid was that? That scenario had never occurred to her at the time. She had been so assured of her own honesty that she hadn't taken into consideration that a stranger might think otherwise. She cringed, recalling that her original goal in life had been to become a criminal investigator.

“Not to worry,” Aaron said, noting her chagrin. “Maybe it won't happen, but if it does, we've got you covered.” He sounded a tiny bit amused as he opened the passenger side of the plane for her. Valerie was impressed, but she also found herself stifling the urge to slap the smug look off his face—smugness that penetrated even through the dark glasses.

“Did you ever personally meet Allard's granddaughter?” he asked as she climbed cautiously into the toy masquerading as a plane.

Are you human? Do you ever come up for air?
she wondered. “Once,” she said.

“Any words with her?”

“Perfunctory greetings only. She spent most of her time upstairs in the library, which was odd, since she was far from the bookish sort.”

Aaron leaned close to fasten her seatbelt, his hand brushing against her, causing her heart to flutter. Strong, capable, long-fingered hands—hands that should be holding her the way they had when he'd danced with her two years ago. She swallowed, irritated by her physical reaction to his close proximity. Two years ago, the occasion had been festive and he'd had a few drinks to loosen up. She was no doubt getting a dose of the real Aaron Weiss at this moment, and the real one considered her a naïve nuisance.

“You believe Mr. Allard's granddaughter is behind all of this, don't you?” she said.

“Don't you?”

A question with a question. Boy, she hated it when people did that. She wondered if he knew, or cared, that he was seriously provoking her.

Of course he didn't care. His attention was on the control panel. The engine had caught and the excuse for a flying machine was spiriting down the runway, while he was simultaneously radioing the tower. She turned her head toward the side window so he could not observe her expression as they became airborne. He was probably amused. That is, if Aaron
did
amused.

Five minutes into the flight, she felt herself relax, allowing all tensions to dissipate. It was difficult to feel resentful when below she could see the glorious expanse of God's blue ocean and brownish bits of island all laid out below her. The view was awesome. Why ruin everything by taking offense with Aaron the interrogator? Wasn't his intense personality part of the reason he'd intrigued her in the first place?

***

Caye Caulker was indeed a tiny island, just four miles long. There were no cars except those used by municipal authorities. The people, a colorful mix of Hispanic, Mayan, and African roots, rode bikes, walked, or used golf carts to get around.

Once they'd disembarked, Valerie and Aaron walked silently down the unpaved sandy road that led into the village, being occasionally greeted with friendly smiles and pleasantries. Aaron was cordial, in his cool, remote way, but no one seemed put off by it. The locals appeared to be familiar with his persona.

“The people are very friendly,” Valerie said.

“Yes, they are, but don't share anything confidential. Within every Belizean beats the heart of a
yenta
.”

“
Yenta
?” She'd heard the Yiddish/Hebrew phrase before, but the meaning momentarily eluded her.

“A gossipy woman,” Aaron said.

She forced herself not to flinch. Why did he have to throw in the disparaging woman remark? Men gossiped, too.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Aaron looked straight ahead. Even though she had protested, he carried her suitcase, setting it down only when they'd arrived at a charming pink building that proclaimed itself Annie's Inn. They were greeted by Annie herself, a sixtyish red-haired Canadian expatriate who was courteous and helpful as she showed Valerie to a room that was neat, clean, and basic. The kitchenette had a microwave and a small refrigerator, and the tiny bathroom had an enclosed shower. The largest area was the pastel green bedroom, which boasted a queen-size bed, a ceiling fan, and French doors leading out to a charming terrace overlooking the ever-present ocean.

“Where are you staying?” Valerie asked Aaron once Annie had left them alone.

He nudged her out to the terrace and pointed toward the blue expanse of sea where she spotted the distant masts of a sailing vessel.

“You're living on a boat?” she asked, surprised.

“My boat,” he corrected. “Her name is
Saniyah II
. I'll show her to you…perhaps tomorrow. You'll be more settled then.”

Valerie wasn't sure she'd ever be settled. Of course she didn't think Aaron would suggest they share a room, but she'd expected him to at least have a place in the same inn, or even a nearby one. With the ocean between them, how was she going to find out what his health issues might be?

“I'm leaving now,” he said. “Make sure you keep the doors locked at all times, especially the terrace ones. It's pretty safe here on this part of the island, but there's never an excuse to be careless.”

She nodded mutely. In truth, she wanted to grab him and shove him down on the bed. Not for some ulterior lust-crazed purpose, but just so she could examine him and make sure he was okay. On the surface, her concern seemed unwarranted. But her underlying fear was driven by past experience. She knew the type all too well. He was the quintessential invincible male who went to bed one night, suffered a heart attack, and never woke up again.

But she kept her thoughts to herself and watched him leave. When he was gone, she obediently locked the door, returned to the bedroom, and flopped down on the bed without even bothering to unpack.

The events of the day flooded her. She'd left New York in late afternoon for the flight out to Belize on an Avian cargo jet. Belize time was at least an hour or two behind that of the United States, meaning that back home it would be well into evening. Here it was still daylight. It was disorienting, to say the least.