Rooted in Danger (Blackthorne Inc.) Page 2

  “Maybe someday. Don’t worry about my life, just rest. I’ll be back,” she said, in a very bad Arnold imitation. She hastened to the lobby where Derek waited. He stood at her approach and flashed a friendly smile. The sensation in her belly was completely different now.

  Chapter Two

  “Why the long face, Fozz? No redheads in here?”

  Fozzie scowled at Grinch. “I’m merely in a contemplative mood.”

  “Whoa, something’s got someone’s shorts in a wad,” Manny said. “Must need another round.” He motioned to the waiter.

  “Tonic for me,” Grinch said when the man shuffled over. “I’m flying in the morning.”

  “I’m gone,” Fozzie said. “Man like me needs his beauty sleep.”

  “As if anything would help your ugly puss,” Manny said.

  Hotshot waggled his eyebrows. “My money says sleep’s not what Fozzie has in mind. He’s going walkabout again.”

  “With an eye out for redheaded pulchritude, I’m sure,” Manny added.

  Tossing a bunch of colorful currency onto the table, Fozzie accepted the usual post-mission banter. “Get stuffed, the lot of you.” He wove through the bar, eyes burning and throat scratching from the cigars and cigarettes. The concept of smoke-free hadn’t hit this island. He pushed open the door.

  Outside, the tropical air smothered him. Car exhaust combined with more cigarette smoke from people seated at the outside tables. His stomach churned.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and wandered in the general direction of their hotel, trying to ignore the knots in his belly and the voices in his head.

  Post-mission buzz. Get over it.

  They’d done all they could. Whether she lived or died was out of their hands. Why couldn’t he put it out of his mind?

  Because you hate not knowing.

  But would knowing they’d failed be worse?

  You didn’t fail. You did exactly what you were sent to do.

  The smell of brine and seaweed grew stronger. Steel band music wafted from the distance. He realized he’d wandered to the waterfront with its nightclubs, restaurants and shops targeting tourist dollars. He followed his ears toward the music, discovering it came from a higher-end version of the bar he’d left. He glanced at his watch. An hour ago?

  You’ve got it bad, my man.

  Shrugging tension out of his shoulders, he passed through the opening in the low iron grillwork dividing the outdoor seating from the sidewalk, and found a table near the restaurant wall. Ingrained habit. Back to the wall, face the entrance, even when he was on personal time. Or was there personal time in his line of work?

  Get a grip. You've got a new assignment. Move on.

  He fished in his pocket for the file Blackthorne had sent to the hotel. A waitress, long dark hair blowing in the sea breeze flashed him a white-toothed smile.

  “Red Stripe,” he said. “Skip the glass.”

  “Right away.” She disappeared, hips swaying in counterpoint to her hair.

  He turned the paper over and over in his hands. When the waitress returned and deposited the brown bottle in front of him, he took a long pull, quenching a thirst he wasn’t aware he’d built up on his walk. He wiped the condensation from his hand and shifted the candle on the table closer. He unfolded the note and read the instructions for the tenth time. As expected, they were exactly the same as when the hotel desk clerk had handed him the papers.

  Robert Stoker Hamilton, head of Epicurean Unlimited, a restaurant supply company selling everything for the trade, including the kitchen sink. Bread, burger, or brazier, if a restaurant used it, Epicurean sold it. The man had hired Blackthorne, Inc. to find his daughter, and Horace Blackthorne had saddled Fozzie with the chore.

  Locate Victoria Hamilton, age twenty-nine. Tell her Daddy wants to make amends. Last suspected location, Florida.

  He looked at the next page. It hadn’t changed either. An only child. Daddy thought she liked to read. Shipped off to a Swiss boarding school at age thirteen.

  Fozzie couldn’t imagine Victoria’s childhood. His family’s sheep station had been miles away from civilization, and he may have grumbled about the work, but there were always people around. Two sisters, a brother. Mom, Dad, his grandparents. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Station hands. A constant flow of people. Loud, loving people.

  Bloody hell.

  Find a grown woman, one who obviously had no desire to keep in touch with her old man. Then again, this could be a quick-and-easy. Find the woman, tell her Daddy wants her to come home. Mission accomplished. Much as he hated the way Horace Blackthorne required all his operatives to delve into the public side of Blackthorne, Inc., it came with the territory. Pulling a seek-and-find investigation was a hell of a lot better than babysitting some rich client’s too-wild offspring so they didn’t embarrass the parental units.

  He flipped the paper. A high school yearbook picture at least ten years out of date. Not much to go on. But that was why people hired Blackthorne, Inc.

  With his mood lightened, Fozzie studied the low-quality faxed picture. A perfectly average face. He tried to add ten years and frowned. Women changed appearance hourly. Hoping the “more to follow” notation under the picture meant a thick dossier would be waiting in Miami, he surveyed the patrons, spotting at least five women who bore a vague resemblance to his quarry.

  If one restaurant in a tiny resort town yielded five possibles, he could only imagine what it would be like searching an entire state. Even as he watched, a couple entered the restaurant. Another woman who touched at the nondescript image in the photo. Her eyes darted around the outdoor tables. He watched as a hostess began leading them across the patio, but the woman shook her head and said something to her companion. Older, Fozzie noted. Significantly. Her father? Normally, when men opted for younger women, they went for arm candy, and this woman was more like white bread.

  The couple followed the hostess into the darkened cavern of the restaurant proper. He hoped Blackthorne’s computer geeks were working on narrowing the field. Big time.

  ~~~~~

  Torie ignored the butterflies swirling through her insides. Automatically, she scoped out the restaurant, trying to see if anyone took interest in her. In the five years since she’d learned of her grandfather’s plans, she’d stopped trusting anyone.

  If she was alone, she knew nobody would look twice at her, so lingering gazes or flirtatious smiles meant someone had ulterior motives. Likewise, she tuned into quickly averted glances. Or to people sitting alone. She took in the man in the shadowed rear of the patio who’d looked up when they’d arrived. Thick, curly brown hair and bushy eyebrows. Teddy bear came to mind. After giving her a casual appraisal, he returned to whatever papers he was reading. Probably waiting for someone. She tried to relax.

  “Is this all right?” the hostess asked, waving her arms toward a table near the boundary of the outdoor patio seating.

  Torie lifted her face to Derek’s. “Um… I’d rather sit inside. Is that okay with you? I … um … it’s quieter. I’m kind of tired of steel drums.”

  He nodded, and they followed the hostess through the darkened interior of the restaurant. His hand at her back was simple courtesy. His behavior was strictly fatherly. Yeah, right. As if she’d had a normal father.

  “Are you avoiding someone?” Derek asked when they’d been seated. “You’ve been looking over your shoulder since we left the hotel. You don’t have some bruiser of a jealous boyfriend, I hope. Nobody who would get the wrong impression. My intentions are purely honorable, I assure you.”

  She laughed nervously. “A bruiser? Not hardly. Or a ninety-pound weakling, either. I guess I’m an inveterate people watcher.” She hid behind the menu waiting for the heat to leave her face. Was she that obvious?

  Change the subject.

  “It was very nice of you to come all this way for Kathy,” she said.

  “I wanted to make sure she got the best possible treatment. Sometimes medical care in other countries
isn’t up to our standards.”

  “But didn’t the doctors say they had more experience with these infections?”

  He smiled. “I’ll admit to a case of American ego. And a bit of selfish entrepreneurism. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough, and Katherine’s the best researcher I have. I need her healthy and on the job.”

  Over dinner, she parried his questions about her background, turning the conversation toward him. “How did you get involved in your line of work?”

  His smile faded. “I lost my grandfather to one of those diseases nobody’s heard of. I didn’t know until I was much older that a viable treatment was within reach. But all the money goes into the high-profile diseases. The big companies would rather spend what they have in pursuit of the diseases that afflict millions, not hundreds.” Bitterness edged his tone.

  “Like AIDS and cancer?”

  “Exactly. When my grandfather died, I made up my mind to use my inheritance to help others in his situation. I made some wise investments and founded Wingard Research.”

  “That’s very impressive.”

  He spread his hands in a gesture of nonchalance. “I figure someone needs to stick up for the underdog.”

  “You must be doing a good job. Kathy enjoys her work.” Torie tensed, realizing she was approaching questionable territory. Keeping the conversation away from herself was one thing, but she couldn’t let Derek know that Kathy shared her confidential notes.

  Derek didn’t seem to notice. “Have you known Katherine long?”

  “Not really. I volunteer at the library, and she was looking for reference books. We connected.”

  “And what do you do?”

  She hesitated, sipping her wine while she collected her thoughts. “I guess we have something in common. I also inherited from one of my grandparents. Call me selfish, but I’ve never felt the urge to get a job or climb the corporate ladder. I move around a lot. Haven’t really found anything I want to settle down and do.”

  Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was because Derek posed no threat, but Torie found herself enjoying the evening. Someone brushed by their table, bumping her elbow. Wine sloshed in her glass.

  “Sorry,” the man said.

  “No problem,” she mumbled into her drink. She felt his gaze ripple over her, and she gripped the stem of the glass.

  He said nothing more, simply continued on his way. Once he passed, she twisted her head. Teddy Bear. On his way to the restroom. Or an excuse to get a closer look at her?

  “I think we should leave,” she said to Derek. “I want to get to the hospital once more tonight and see how Kathy’s doing.”

  Derek checked his watch. “I need to touch base with my office.”

  “So late?” Torie asked.

  “Experiments can run round the clock for days, and I’m expecting some significant results. I’ll get you a cab. If I finish before visiting hours are over, I’ll join you there. Give my good thoughts to Katherine.”

  Twenty minutes later, Torie pushed open the door to Kathy’s hospital room. A stout woman in a white uniform bundled the linens from the bed. Torie’s heart leaped to her throat as her stomach plunged to her toes.

  “Excuse me?” Torie said.

  The woman turned. “Yes?”

  “The woman. In this room. Kathy. Katherine Townsend. Where is she?”

  The expression on the woman’s face confirmed Torie’s fears.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “When? How? Why?” Torie fought to push the words past her tightening throat.

  “I will get the doctor,” the woman said. Sheets in hand, she bustled away.

  Torie stared at the empty bed. On quaking knees, she backed out of the room. She couldn’t stay in here, not one second longer. In the hall, she gripped the handrail on the wall while the world phased in and out around her.

  A hand rested on her shoulder. She blinked away hot tears and stared up into deep brown eyes. A caramel-colored face sharpened into focus. “I am Doctor Cardenas. You are … ?” The words reverberated from the distance, echoing in her ears.

  She was aware of her mouth opening, but no words came.

  “Please. Come with me and we can speak in more comfortable surroundings.”

  A hand at her elbow. Walking on numb legs. Waiting for an elevator. Sitting in a padded chair. A cold glass pressed into her hand.

  “Drink.”

  Torie blinked, and found herself seated at a wooden desk, a glass of water in her hand. With effort, she controlled her trembling and raised the glass to her lips. Cool liquid soothed her desert-dry mouth but did nothing for the emptiness in her heart.

  She struggled for composure. Dr. Cardenas—that was his name, she recalled—stood at her side. His eyes held compassion and sorrow.

  “Please. Before we continue, I need to confirm your identity,” he said.

  Numb, she pulled her passport out of her purse. He perused it, then handed it back. “Thank you, Miss Stoker. Would you like more water?”

  “I’m—” she coughed, cleared her throat. “I’m all right. What happened to Kathy?”

  “I’m afraid the infection spread too rapidly. Her respiratory system couldn’t handle it and shut down.” He crossed to the desk and removed a sealed envelope. “She left this for you.”

  He passed it across the desk, and she saw her name printed in Kathy’s distinctive hand.

  “Thank you.” She put it in her purse, something to deal with later. What should she do now?

  She should see the … body. Say goodbye. Somewhere deep inside she found the courage to ask.

  “Are you sure?” the doctor asked.

  No! If I don’t see her, she won’t be dead. “Yes.”

  “Very well.”

  The world shrank to the clicking of her sandals on the tile as they wound their way through a maze of corridors. The doctor pushed open a glass-paned door and motioned her inside. She held her breath, bracing herself for the sight of Kathy.

  “Please wait here,” Dr. Cardenas said, stepping into a small anteroom. He indicated two chairs beside a wooden desk and disappeared behind a pair of double doors. Moments—or an eternity—later, he returned. “This way.” He held the doors open, and once again she held her breath. The doctor remained close enough to catch her if she faltered. Torie steeled herself. She was not going to pass out. Or get sick.

  The room looked very much like what she’d seen on television. A steel door stood open and a long metal shelf extended from the depths of the compartment it guarded. A chill, not just from the refrigeration, cut through to her bones. A gray plastic bag, like an oversized sleeping bag, was unzipped enough to reveal Kathy’s face.

  “Did … did she … suffer?” Torie asked. Kathy’s face, reposed in death, looked almost peaceful. Almost. The bluish-gray pallor made it impossible to deny she was dead.

  “No. Her medications prevented that.”

  She stepped forward. “You’re in a good place, Kath. I’ll bet you’re surrounded by plants—beautiful, flowering, colorful plants. I’ll miss you.”

  She turned and pushed past the doctor and out the double doors. As she exited she heard the rasp of the zipper. She clenched her jaw and waited in the anteroom. Dr. Cardenas joined her.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” she asked.

  “We’ve contacted her parents. They’re flying in from Michigan tomorrow.”

  “Her boss. Derek Wingard. He should know about … what happened. He’s staying at the same hotel we—I am. The Royale.”

  “Yes, I remember. We spoke earlier today. Would you like me to notify him?”

  Something told her she should deliver the news in person, but this time, she took the coward’s way out. “Yes, please.”

  Clutching her purse, she stood. “Thank you, doctor. If there’s anything I can do, you can reach me at the hotel.”

  “Do you need transportation?” he asked. “I can have reception call a cab for you.”

  “Thank you.” Chin held
high, spine stiff, she strode through the lobby to the street where the hospital smells disappeared behind the blend of ocean and car exhaust. A cab pulled to a stop.

  “Miss Stoker?” The driver jumped out to open the rear door.

  Torie slid into the seat. “Hotel Royale.” She stared into nothingness, her eyes refusing to focus, as if by denying the world existed, Kathy would be alive again.

  She navigated the hotel lobby, survived the elevator ride to her floor, thinking of Kathy entrapped in a body bag. As if watching someone else, she trudged along the hallway and fumbled her key card into the lock. She went straight to the mini-bar and pulled out the bottle of Bacardi, Kathy’s favorite, and skipped the usual Coke mixer. “Here’s to you, friend.” She tipped the bottle to her lips, letting the fire burn all the way to her belly.

  Chapter Three

  Torie shifted her armload of firewood and kicked open the door. Stomping her feet on the porch before stepping over the threshold, she gazed at the billowing gray clouds rolling across the sky. She hurried inside, dropping the wood into the box next to the stone fireplace before shrugging off her backpack.

  Arranging the kindling and the logs precisely the way the books had demonstrated, she laid a fire. Within moments, warm orange and yellow flames shot up like dragons’ tongues. She stared into the blaze for several heartbeats, proud at how quickly she’d handled the transition from the sub-tropics of sea-level Miami to the high-altitude temperatures of Aspen Corners, Oregon.

  Unwrapping the long wool scarf from her neck, she hung it neatly on a peg by the door, along with her jacket. She flopped down onto the threadbare sofa and unlaced her boots, then yanked them off and wiggled her toes in their thick socks. Socks. Boots. Not sandals. She stretched her legs onto the hearth and let the warmth permeate her feet. She sat there, watching the flames, listening to the quiet music of the fire, sniffing the faint smoky aroma.