Tess Gerritsen - Double Impact

She was still awake when he came back to bed and stretched out beside her. She lay there, worrying that he’d kiss her again and hoping desperately that he would.

“Guy?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“I’m scared.”

He reached for her through the darkness. Willingly, she let him pull her against his bare chest. He smelled of soap and safety. Yes, that’s what it was. Safety.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he whispered. “Even if you are Wild Bill Maitland’s kid.”

As if she had a choice, she thought as she lay in his arms. The sad part was, she’d never wanted to be the daughter of a legend. What she’d wanted from Wild Bill wasn’t valor or daring or the reflected glory of a hero.

What she’d wanted most of all was a father.

SIANG CROUCHED MOTIONLESS in a stinking mud puddle and stared up the road at Chantal’s building. Two hours had passed and the man was still there by the curb. Siang could see his vague form huddled in the darkness. A police agent, no doubt, and not a very good one. Was that a snore rumbling in the night? Yes, Siang thought, definitely a snore. How fortunate that surveillance was always relegated to those least able to withstand its monotony.

Siang decided to make his move.

He withdrew his knife. Noiselessly he edged out of the alley and circled around, slipping from shadow to shadow along the row of hootches. Barely five yards from his goal, he froze as the man’s snores shuddered and stopped. The shadow’s head lifted, shaking off sleep.

Siang closed in, yanked the man’s head up by the hair and slit the throat.

There was no cry, only a gurgle, and then the hiss of a last breath escaping the dead man’s lungs. Siang dragged the body around to the back of the building and rolled it into a drainage ditch. Then he slipped through an open window into Chantal’s flat.

He found her asleep. She awakened instantly as he clapped his hand over her mouth.

“You!” she ground out through his fingers. “Damn you, you got me in trouble!”

“What did you tell the police?”

“Get away from me!”

“What did you tell them?”

She batted away his hand. “I didn’t tell them anything!”

“You’re lying.”

“You think I’m stupid? You think I’d tell them I have friends in the CIA?”

He released her. As she sat up, the silky heat of her breast brushed against his arm. So the old whore still slept naked, he thought with an automatic stirring of desire.

She rose from the bed and pulled on a robe.

“Don’t turn on the lights,” he said.

“There was a man outside-a police agent. What did you do with him?”

“I took care of him.”

“And the body?”

“In the ditch out back.”

“Oh, nice, Siang. Very nice. Now they’ll blame me for that, too.” She struck a match and lit a cigarette. By the flame’s brief glow, he could see her face framed by a tangle of black hair. In the semidarkness she still looked tempting, young and soft and succulent.

The match went out. He asked, “What happened at the police station?”

She let out a slow breath. The smell of exhaled smoke filled the darkness. “They asked about my cousin. They say he’s dead. Is that true?”

“What do they know about me?”

“Is Winn really dead?”

Siang paused. “It couldn’t be helped.”

Chantal laughed. Softly at first, then with wild abandon. “She did that, did she? The American bitch? You cannot finish off even a woman? Oh, Siang, you must be slipping!”

He felt like hitting her, but he controlled the urge. Chantal was right. He must be slipping.

She began to pace the room, her movements as sure as a cat’s in the darkness. “The police are interested. Very interested. And I saw others there-Party members, I think-watching the interrogation. What have you gotten me into, Siang?”

He shrugged. “Give me a cigarette.”

She whirled on him in rage. “Get your own cigarettes! You think I have money to waste on you?”

“You’ll get the money. All you want.”

“You don’t know how much I want.”

“I still need a gun. You promised me you’d get one. Plus twenty rounds, minimum.”

She let out a harsh breath of smoke. “Ammunition is hard to come by.”

“I can’t wait any longer. This has to be-”

They both froze as the door creaked open. The police, thought Siang, automatically reaching for his knife.

“You’re so right, Mr. Siang,” said a voice in the darkness. Perfect English. “It has to be done. But not quite yet.”

The intruder moved lazily into the room, struck a match and calmly lit a kerosene lamp on the table.

Chantal’s eyes were wide with astonishment. And fear. “It’s you,” she whispered. “You’ve come back…”

The intruder smiled. He laid a pistol and a box of.38-caliber ammunition on the table. Then he looked at Siang. “There’s been a slight change of plans.”

SHE WAS FLYING. High, high above the clouds, where the sky was so cold and clear, it felt as if her plane were floating in a crystalline sea. She could hear the wings cut the air like knives through silk. Someone said, “Higher, baby. You have to climb higher if you want to reach the stars.”

She turned. It was her father sitting in the copilot’s seat, quicksilver smoke dancing around him. He looked the way she’d always remembered him, his cap tilted at a jaunty angle, his eyes twinkling. Just the way he used to look when she’d loved him. When he’d been the biggest, boldest Daddy in the world.

She said, “But I don’t want to climb higher.”

“Yes, you do. You want to reach the stars.”

“I’m afraid, Daddy. Don’t make me…”

But he took the joystick. He sent the plane upward, upward, into the blue bowl of sky. He kept saying, “This is what it’s all about. Yessir, baby, this is what it’s all about.” Only his voice had changed. She saw that it was no longer her father sitting in the copilot’s seat; it was Guy Barnard, pushing them into oblivion. “I’ll take us to the stars!”

Then it was her father again, gleefully gripping the joystick. She tried to wrench the plane out of the climb, but the joystick broke off in her hand.

The sky turned upside down, righted. She looked at the copilot’s seat. Guy was sitting there, laughing. They went higher. Her father laughed.

“Who are you?” she screamed.

The phantom smiled. “Don’t you know me?”

She woke up, still reaching desperately for that stump of a joystick.

“It’s me,” the voice said.

She stared up wildly. “Daddy!”

The man looking down at her smiled, a kind smile. “Not quite.”

She blinked, focused on Guy’s face, his rumpled hair, unshaven jaw. Sweat gleamed on his bare shoulders. Through the curtains behind him, daylight shimmered.

“Nightmare?” he asked.

Groaning, she sat up and shoved back a handful of tangled hair. “I don’t usually have them. Nightmares.”

“After last night, I’d be surprised if you didn’t have one.”

Last night. She looked down and saw she was still wearing the same blood-spattered dress, now damp and clinging to her back.

“Power’s out,” said Guy, giving the silent air conditioner a slap. He padded over to the window and nudged open the curtain. Sunlight blazed in, so piercing, it hurt Willy’s eyes. “Gonna be a hell of a scorcher.”

“Already is.”

“Are you feeling okay?” He stood silhouetted against the window, his unbelted trousers slung low over his hips. Once again she saw the scar, noticed how it rippled its way down his abdomen before vanishing beneath the waistband.

“I’m hot,” she said. “And filthy. And I probably don’t smell so good.”