At the Edge of the Sun Page 9

  Maggie nodded, adrenaline coursing through her, and for the time being all thought of Mack Pulaski left her. For the moment they were partners, she and Randall, counting on each other in a life-or-death situation, and there would be no room for doubts, for lack of trust, for a moment’s hesitation. “I think subtlety would be wasted on a man like Tim Flynn.”

  “He won’t be alone, Maggie.”

  “I imagine they’ll be into shooting first and asking questions later,” she said. “I’ll take one of the Uzis.”

  “You ever shot one before?”

  Maggie laughed, a wry sound on the hot dry air. “In a shooting range in Atlanta, Georgia,” she said. “They have them franchised all over the country for would-be soldiers of fortune and frustrated housewives. You go in, plop down twenty-five bucks and get to blast away.”

  “Which category do you fit in?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you a would-be soldier of fortune or a frustrated housewife?”

  Maggie looked across at him. “You’re treading on thin ice, Randall. You should … Jesus, what’s that?” A figure loomed up in the gathering shadows, and Maggie dove toward the backseat with the guns.

  Randall caught her halfway there, slamming the jeep to a stop and cursing. “It’s a goat, Maggie,” he said, and his hands were hard on her arms. “They wander all over the place. Now’s not the time to get spooked.”

  She pulled back, away from him, sinking back into the front seat, the lethal little Uzi machine gun safe in her hands. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  Randall leaned over and switched off the ignition, and the silence around them was deafening. Only the quiet sound of the goat, munching away on some of the sparse vegetation, penetrated the stillness. “I’m in charge,” he announced flatly. “You’ll do what I tell you, no questions asked, no arguments. Understood?”

  “Who made you king of the world?”

  “I did. I know the territory, Maggie. I’ve gone up against people like Flynn before—you haven’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  A weary smile lit his dark face. “Maggie, I know everything there is to know about you.”

  “The hell you do.”

  “I know you’re afraid of the dark, and I know why. Your stepfather raped you in a dark poolhouse when you were sixteen, and you’ve hated the darkness ever since. I know the names of every man you’ve ever slept with, I know your bank balance and your measurements and your favorite wine and your favorite kind of pizza. I know who you love and who you hate. I just don’t know why you hate me.”

  She bit back the surge of rage. “I hope your informants are more reliable than Ian’s have been.”

  “They’re worth the money I pay them. Are you going to tell me why you hate me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  His eyes met hers for a long, silent moment, and she had the uneasy feeling that they understood each other far too well. “Not right now,” he said finally. “Just so long as you do what I tell you, just so long as you trust me for the next couple of hours. Will you give me that much?”

  She didn’t even argue. “Yes.”

  He nodded, and she could see the faint trace of relief in his shadowed eyes. “All right. We’ll head toward the clearing and—” His voice broke off as a sudden rumbling trembled across the rough land.

  “Hell and damnation!” Maggie said. “It’s a helicopter.”

  Randall didn’t waste a moment. The Bronco roared into life, the headlights split the gathering darkness, and they were careening through the night. Maggie held on for dear life, the Uzi clutched in her grip, her mind and emotions numb. In the next few minutes she would have to fire the damned thing, and suddenly there was a hell of a lot of difference between a suburban firing range and a Lebanese night.

  It was endless moments before they reached the campsite. The helicopter was already taking off, the wind from its huge propellers whipping everything in sight, and the bright lights blinded them as the Bronco skidded to a stop.

  “Get down!” Randall shouted to her over the deafening noise as he rolled out of the seat and hit the ground running. Bullets were flying everywhere, spitting into the dirt around Maggie, shattering the windshield, thudding into the carcass of the Bronco. And Randall was firing back, toward the rapidly receding helicopter that was disappearing into the twilight sky.

  Quickly Maggie spun around, on the lookout for any gun-wielding confederates Flynn might have left behind. No one, not a trace of life from the deserted building, the collapsed tent fluttering madly in the helicopter’s wake.

  And then he was gone, Flynn and his cohorts, out of reach, out of range, and the noise of the copter faded into a gentle flapping and then into silence. Slowly Randall rose from his crouch beside the Bronco, rose and looked over at her.

  “Are you okay?” The question was polite, showing none of the rage and frustration he must be feeling.

  “Yes,” said Maggie. “How about you?”

  “Fine.” The word was short, clipped.

  It was getting darker. There was still the trace of a fire in the middle of the clearing, and there were piles of refuse scattered all about. Depression was settling over her. A logical reaction to a missed chance, she told herself, shivering lightly in the warm night air. She could smell diesel fuel from the helicopter, smoke from the fire, and something else, something she knew but refused to recognize. “Can we go now?” she said, and her voice shook slightly.

  He just looked at her. “Not quite yet,” he said. “Do you want to stay in the Bronco while I take care of the bodies?”

  nine

  She knew what the smell was—there was no longer any way to avoid that knowledge. She’d smelled it before, too many times. In her boss Peter Wallace’s office, kneeling over his body. In a Swiss chalet with a dead man and a thousand gerbils at her feet. In her sister Kate’s bathroom. It was the stench of blood and death, a smell like no other, and she felt the nausea begin to rise.

  She swallowed the bile, shook off the tremors that threatened to overcome her, and met Randall’s distant expression. “Who did we kill?” She hadn’t fired her gun, but for some reason she didn’t want him to take the responsibility alone.

  The gesture was in vain. “We didn’t kill anyone. Flynn leaves no witnesses, remember?”

  “I remember.” She didn’t need to ask him how he knew there were bodies. He knew just as she did. “What are we going to do with them?”

  Randall shrugged. “See if they’re all dead. See if Flynn left any clues behind.”

  “Can we bury them?”

  “Not likely. The ground’s too hard, and I can see at least three bodies. It would take hours to dig a hole large enough.” He stopped. “You sure you don’t want to wait in the car?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “That’s right. You don’t need anyone or anything. This must seem like a piece of cake to a hard-nosed woman like you.”

  “Not exactly. Don’t goad me, Randall. I’m just trying to help.”

  He looked at her for a long, silent moment. “All right,” he said finally. “You see if there’s anyone in the tent. I’ll take care of the ones out here.”

  The tent hadn’t collapsed completely. As Maggie moved quietly through the camp she tried to breathe through her mouth, to calm the screaming nerves that threatened to overtake her. There was blood seeping through the tent where it lay on the ground. Maggie cast a surreptitious glance back at Randall. He was bent over one of those huddled shapes, his back to her, and another shiver swept over her. Her throat had closed up, and all her swallowing couldn’t seem to open it again. Steeling herself, she lifted the flap of the tent and stepped inside the sagging structure.

  She didn’t need to examine the figure on the ground to know he was well and truly dead. Nor did she really need to move closer to the woman lying on the narrow cot. But something drove her, as she pushed the sagging tent away and crossed the narrow space.

  The woman must
have been in her early twenties. She had the dark auburn hair and clear white skin of the Irish, and the staring eyes were a true green, rather like Ian’s. The other man had been butchered, swiftly, efficiently, as no doubt the bodies in the compound had. But Flynn had taken his time with this one. And Maggie remembered her mother, lying small and huddled in a hospital bed, and she began to shake.

  She didn’t even hear Randall move in behind her. “Do you think that’s Maeve O’Connor?”

  Maggie shook her head, trying to clear the blinding tears from her eyes. “I don’t know. Do you want me to see … ?”

  “I want you to go outside and get in the Bronco,” he said, putting firm hands on her shoulders and turning her away. “Walk on the left side of the clearing and watch the bushes. You never know when you’ll see another goat.”

  “Randall.”

  “Go.” He gave her a push, and his hands were rough, reassuringly so. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

  Maggie drew in deep lungsful of the tainted air, forcing her body to calm down, forcing her hands to relax around the Uzi she was still clutching. She kept her face averted from the neatly piled bundles of what had once been living, breathing human beings and headed toward the waiting Bronco, cursing herself for being a weak-willed coward.

  Randall was wrong. There were no goats wandering around, no trace of life anywhere near the compound. Death was thick in the air, and any creature with any sense had run as far away as it could. Which is exactly what Maggie wanted to do.

  The once-hated Bronco was a haven. The warm Lebanese air had turned cold and ugly, and she climbed in, closing the door and rolling up the windows, huddling down in the plastic-covered seat and wrapping her arms around her. She couldn’t even bring herself to rummage for something warmer in the suitcase she’d tossed in the back. She just sat there, her mind and memory a merciful blank, and waited for Randall.

  Time had lost its meaning. It could have been hours later when Randall finally slid into the driver’s seat, it could have been merely minutes. It was fully dark; the moon hadn’t risen yet but for once Maggie didn’t mind the dark. Too much lay hidden by the shadows, too much real horror overwhelmed the mere possibility of death and darkness.

  “Where are we going?” To her amazement her voice came out even and calm, with none of the inner torment evident.

  He’d started the Bronco, and the noisy engine filled the silence. Moments later they were moving away from the encampment. “We’re going to find someplace to spend the rest of the night,” he said finally, not turning to look at her. “And then we’re going to drive straight to Damascus and get the first plane to Rome.”

  “And then what?”

  “That’ll depend whether Flynn’s gone to Italy or someplace else, and whether he’s continued to leave the too-convenient trail that he’s left so far. It could come to a dead end.”

  “And then what do we do?”

  He spared her a glance then. “I have my sources. So, for that matter, do you. I imagine we’ll be able to pick up his trail again.”

  “Especially since it seems as if someone wants us to know where he’s going,” Maggie said. “These clues are just a little too coincidental. Particularly since each one leads us into a trap.”

  “You noticed that too, did you? Someone’s definitely jerking us around. If it isn’t Flynn himself I’m going to be very interested to see who it is.”

  She slid down further in the seat, opening the window and letting in the cool, clean breeze. “Randall,” she said, and her voice was uncharacteristically small and beseeching. “Bud Willis has to be dead, doesn’t he?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know, Maggie. You were the one who saw him die, not me.”

  “That’s right,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I saw him die.” She could feel the question in Randall’s eyes as he glanced over at her, and she steeled herself for it. But he was silent, biding his time, no doubt. He’d already warned her, sooner or later she’d have to tell him. And she would. When she was ready, not when he demanded answers. “So what hovel are you taking me to tonight?” she inquired, keeping her voice cool.

  He managed a small, weary grin. “What makes you think it’s going to be a hovel?”

  “It always has been. You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Randall. Tenements and shacks in Eastern Europe, bombed-out buildings in Beirut. I expect we’ll be spending the night in a goat barn.”

  “Then your expectations are wasted. I’m taking you where you belong. A palace, Maggie.”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean it. There’s a deserted palace called El Khabrim not more than five miles from here, if I remember Mabib’s instructions well enough. No one’s lived in it for more than a century, but apparently enough of it is still standing to provide shelter.”

  “Great. What makes you think half of the PLO isn’t hiding out there?”

  “Because it’s a hell of a location. And because Mabib would know if it was in use. No one lives within miles of this area but a few goatherders. Why do you think Flynn chose this area for his pickup? No witnesses.”

  “How far are we from the border? Couldn’t we drive straight through to Damascus and spend the night at some nice tourist hotel?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m too damned tired, that’s why. We’ll spend the night at the palace, get an early start, and be in Damascus by noon. If you have any more objections or suggestions you can keep them to yourself.”

  Maggie had just opened her mouth to protest his highhanded arrangements, and she shut it again. She didn’t want to be alone with Randall for another night, alone with her anger and the unwanted attraction that sprang up no matter how much she distrusted him. But she was being foolish, she told herself. She’d been safe enough last night sharing a tiny cot with him. Tonight, with both of them so tired they could barely move, she’d be as inviolate as a nun.

  Five miles it might have been, but it was almost an hour before Randall pulled to a stop. The moon had risen, and with it a soft breeze, stirring the warm night air. Maggie climbed out of the Bronco, her weary muscles protesting, and peered up at the huge structure looming some distance away.

  “It looks like something out of the Arabian Nights,” she said, a mixture of awe and irritation in her voice. “Couldn’t you drive any closer?”

  “No.” He had pulled her suitcase out of the back and tossed it to her. “Stop bitching, Maggie. It’s just a short hike. Mabib said there was even a fountain up there—you could take a bath.”

  At those blessed words Maggie stopped all complaints. She had a desperate desire to be clean, to wash the blood and sweat and dust from her. “Lead on, MacDuff. First dibs on the fountain.”

  He turned and looked at her for a long, silent moment, and she could see the surprise in his face. Her light-hearted words were at odds with her usual hostility, and for a moment she regretted them, casting about in her mind for some way to sharpen her momentary lapse. And then she gave it up. “Come on, Randall. Let’s call a truce.”

  “Temporary or permanent?” His voice was patient.

  “Only temporary,” she replied. “It’s better than nothing.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

  For a palace, El Khabrim was damnably close to a hovel. To be sure, the filth and dust-covered hallways were mosaic, there were more than a hundred decaying rooms, and the view over the moon-drenched valley was magnificent. But it was still nothing more than a large-scale ruin, with the one blessed amenity of a large, clear pool of water in the midst of the tangled overgrown garden. Maggie looked at the pool and sighed.

  She should have hated it. She should have turned to Randall and started bitching once more, but she was silent. There was a timeless magic to the night, the centuries flowing about them. Desperate, bloody struggles belonged to another time, to the harsh daylight and the glaring sunlight, not to the moon that silvered everything around them. Not five
miles away bodies lay huddled in ignominious death, but in El Khabrim death had no place, reality had no place. The Arabian Nights had settled around them like a gentle blanket of silk.

  “What do you think, Scheherazade?” Randall spoke beside her, and his rich voice only added to the magic. “Will it do?”

  She wanted to break the spell that was weaving its insidious way around her. She wanted to lash out at the man beside her, the man whose deep voice seduced her, the man whose tall, lean body aroused her. She wanted to drive him away, but the words wouldn’t come. Her only defense was to keep her face averted, refuse to look at him, refuse to acknowledge her very intense awareness of his body so close to hers.

  But not looking didn’t make her reactions go away. She wanted to turn to him in the magic night, lose herself in his arms, forget all the pain and misery and doubt that had dogged her path. But she couldn’t. “It’ll do,” she said, her voice low and expressionless.

  “I’ll find someplace for us to sleep.” And then he was gone, and she was alone in the garden with only the moonlight and the soft warm breeze. For a moment she shivered, tempted to call him back to her, but one tiny part of her brain remained, warning her. If she called him back he wouldn’t leave, and she wouldn’t want him to.

  Quickly, efficiently, she stripped off her clothes. The pool was shallow, cool, and wonderful, and she silently slipped into it, letting the water ripple around her. She ducked her head under, pouring the water over her face, watching it sparkle over her arms in the moonlight. She floated, mindlessly, staring up into the limitless reaches of the starry sky. She could have stayed that way forever; leaving the watery womb would mean reentering a cruel and dangerous life. But she wasn’t alone. Randall had returned from his foray into the decaying ruins of the palace and now stood there silhouetted by the moonlight, watching her.

  “Go away.” This time it came out all wrong. The words were a dismissal, but the tone was a husky invitation. But it wouldn’t have mattered how she phrased it. Randall would do what he had decided to do.