Firebird (36 page)

She tried to say no, but the doctor raised a syringe and then water was taking her down once more.  She heard a voice, felt her eyes close, saw the words spinning like sparks against her lids as she sank into the darkness.

It wasn’t an accident
.

CHAPTER 37

“Pride is his own glass...”

Shakespeare

POTOMAC RIVER MARINA

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29

“Alexandra!  Wake up.  You’ve been dreaming.”

She sat up quickly, pain shooting knife-like through her left shoulder, down her arm.  “Ouch!  Oh, God…”

A large animal nudged her cheek, his nose wet and gentle.  A human hand reached out.  Long, strong fingers. 

“Easy, Chica.  You were having a nightmare.”

Garcia?  “Go away.  The world is moving.”

“You were shouting.”

Shouting?  She opened her eyes carefully, hearing the concern in his voice.  “What did I say?”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Oh. “  He was hovering over her and she shot him a look as she shifted away.  “No mystery there.  What are you and Hoover doing in my bedroom?”

“
My
bedroom, Red.  You’re on the
Vaya con Dios
.  How are you feeling?”

She grinned weakly.  “Like I’ve been trampled.  Everything is fuzzy.”

“The doc gave you some strong pain meds.  Your shoulder is badly bruised but he said you’ll be fine in a day or two.”

She nodded. 
And heard the terrifying sound of hooves crashing through her head
.

“Juliet!” she cried out.  “You’re sure she’s –”

“Told you last night, not a scratch on her.”

“Last night?”  She looked around the small cabin.  “What time is it?”

“Dawn.  Friday morning.”

“Friday!  Bloody hell!”  She pushed weakly at the bedclothes and a lightening bolt seared down her arm.  “Whoa!”  She looked down and realized for the first time that her left arm was in a soft sling.  “Good grief, I don’t have time for this!  I’ve got to get home to Ruby.  She has a doctor’s appointment in New York this afternoon, I need to be there, it’s important.  And I need to check on Juliet -”

“Juliet’s fine.  Rhodes has called twice.  Said to tell you he would take your niece back to New York himself, this afternoon.  Offered to take you, too, but I told him you were leaving earlier.  I knew you needed to get back for Ruby’s appointment.”  He gestured to the portholes that were filled with deep pink light.  “It’s not yet six.  You can still make an early shuttle and be home by late-morning.  Hoover and I will get you to the airport.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I don’t do things to be nice, Red.”

She scowled up at him.  “How did you know about Ruby’s schedule?”

“I’ve been in constant touch with your nanny’s brother – Dan, isn’t it? - and the ex Secret Service guys I sent to work with him.”  He saw her look and shrugged.  “You told me once you couldn’t breathe when you were scared for your child.  I’m just giving you some breathing space.”

He was full of surprises, this man with the dangerous eyes.  The Lab crowded closer, settling beside her.  She pushed at the blanket and saw that the twin-sized bunk where she sat was rumpled with sleep.

“Where did
you
sleep?” she asked suddenly. 

His mouth quirked in amusement as he struggled with the answer.  Finally he relented and pointed toward a blinking computer screen.  “I worked.”

“Oh.”  She moved very slowly, gasped as she saw the spill of coppery silk across the foot of the bed.  Her right hand flew beneath the blanket, felt the soft cotton of a man’s oversized pajama top.

“I didn’t...  We didn’t…?”

“I prefer awareness,” he murmured, looking directly into her eyes.

Something stirred, deep in her chest.

He said, “You insisted you’d manage, in no uncertain terms.  Truth be told, you were more Lucille Ball than Kim Novak when I got you here.”  He held up a long white robe, offering it with a questioning look.

“Nothing wrong with Lucille Ball,” she muttered, allowing him to drape the robe over her shoulders.  It smelled of him, and the sea.  She turned to see his dark hair fringed over those usually-so-serious eyes - now lit with a disturbing glint.  The words on the faded tee-shirt stretched across his chest said, “Lawyers Never Lose Their Appeal.”

His hand, grasping hers at the river.  Like a lifeline
.

His voice.  Stay with me
.

She hadn’t expected this sense of connection.  This
trust
.  She hadn’t seen it coming.  Oh, no, she thought.  No way.  “I’ve got to get back to Georgetown and pack,” she said, her voice suddenly brusque.  She moved too quickly, and once more the fire shot down her arm.  “Ahhhh!  Damn!”

“This will help.”  He placed a steaming mug of espresso in her right hand.  “It’s none of my business, Red, but those nightmares of yours…”

“You’re right, Garcia.  It’s none of your business.”

She saw his jaw tense.   “Right,” he murmured.  “I’m just glad you’re okay, given everything that happened last night.” 

Everything that happened?  Her thoughts were so blurred.  She closed her eyes, gulped the hot caffeine and let the memories rush back in a blaze of images.  Anthony’s angry blue eyes.  The candlelit ballroom, the Lions.  Baritone laughter, the scent of musk cologne.   Juliet at the top of the stairs.  A broken silver sandal, and the unsettling expression on Garcia’s face in the shadows of the garden.   A portrait of Lady Falcon.  The stables.  A flash of diamond-fire, the horror of pounding hooves... 

Diamond-fire
.

“Where is my purse?” she asked suddenly, searching the rumpled bedclothes.  “Is it here?”

He answered as if her sudden question made no sense.  “Purse?  How the devil would I know?”

“Hurry, Garcia.  It’s...  muy importante!  Small, gold-colored.”  She raised glowing eyes to his.  “I found something last night.  In the stables.”

Together they searched the rumpled bedclothes.  “Here it is.”  From beneath her crushed gown he lifted the tiny gold evening bag and handed it to her.

“BethereBethereBethere.”  She tipped the purse.  Lipstick, comb, cell.  Glasses!  She snatched them up.  Unbroken, thank God.  And there -

“What is it?”

“
Yes
!   Behold Exhibit A, Counselor. 
The Firebird
.”  She tipped a velvet pouch, and the shining brooch fell into his palm.

He stared at the jewels, dazzling in the new morning light.  “Dios.”

She smiled at his stunned expression.  “Last night I realized that the stable was one of Eve’s hiding places.  She must have planned to hide the brooch at Foxwood until she needed it. 
This
is what everyone has been searching for.  This brooch must hold the answers.”

He gazed down at the jeweled bird.  “Good work, Hotshot.  So the pieces of your puzzle are finally beginning to fall into place.”   He moved to his computer.  “And I found something else last night.  Using the information from Charles Fraser’s letter I did a search with Fraser’s key words: 1966, European cities, Prince Ivan, and injuries by fire.”  He pressed several keys and the printer whirred to life.  “Aqui esta,” he murmured, retrieving the pages and handing them to her.

She raised a questioning eyebrow as she moved to the light of the window and tipped her glasses over her nose.   

It was a report from the London Times, dated September 9, 1966.  The words leaped out at her.

Kirov Dancers Lost in Theatre Fire.

Her eyes flew to his, wide with shock, then back to the printout.

London, Covent Garden, September 9.

Last night a deadly fire swept the backstage area of The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, after a performance of Stravinsky’s Firebird Ballet by the Kirov Ballet troupe on its first tour of the West in several years.

“Oh, my God, Garcia,” she whispered.  “It’s the Firebird ballet!”

Seven bodies have been recovered, including three theatre crew and orchestra members and four members of the Kirov company.  Three dancers are still missing.  Details are unavailable at this time, but it is believed that the dead or missing include the principals who danced the roles of Prince Ivan and the Firebird.  Garden officials are at a loss to explain
...

Her eyes flew to his.  Ivan!  She finished reading and turned to him.  “Ivan must have been one of the dancers,” she murmured.  “He must have been hurt in the fire.  But he didn’t die…”

“No, Red.  He didn’t die.  Sounds like he took a flying jeté west.”

She smiled as she held the Firebird brooch to the light that spilled through the porthole, and studied it intently.  “Jewels designed for a Czarina,” she said softly, “glimmering with legend and mystery.  What is the Firebird’s secret?”

Hoover gave a low whine and Garcia rolled his eyes as he reached for a thick leash.  He glanced at her as he snapped his fingers at the Lab.  “Timing is everything,” he murmured.  “But nature calls, and Hoover has taught me to listen.”  Amusement softened his voice.  “Hold your thoughts.  I’ll give Hoover a quick run and we’ll take on your Firebird when I get back.  Make yourself at home.  Head’s in the bow, towels are clean, your pain meds are on the desk.  If you’d rather take Advil, it’s in the galley cabinet.”  His voice changed.  “That’s about it.   Not sure what else you’ll need, I’ve never brought a woman here.”

She watched man and dog clamor easily up the ladder to the deck, then wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug and inhaled deeply
.  I’ve never brought a woman here
.  She could feel the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

Swallowing the strong caffeine, and making sure once more that his pajama top skimmed the top of her knees, she stood up carefully, pulled the robe more tightly around her and set the Firebird brooch by the brightening porthole.  Rainbow sparks skittered across the cabin walls.

She limped to the small bathroom.  One-handed and cursing the pain, she splashed water on her face, used his mouthwash and gulped three Advil.  Returning to the main cabin, she saw that she was still alone.  Good.  She needed time to think.

Everything hurt.  Restless and impatient, she moved around the small crowded cabin.

Shining teak, polished brass, compact kitchen.  Huge skylight over an easy chair, scattered books and a good reading lamp.  Irresistible.  She sank into the chair, set the coffee mug down, slipped her glasses over her nose and checked the book spines.  He liked biographies, and history, and novels of the sea.  Politics and philosophy.  And - modern poetry?  So he read e e cummings and T. S. Eliot.   She shook her head.  Like those poets, Jon Garcia was a complicated, unsettling man. 

His guitar was propped in a corner, wood glowing in the morning light.  Under a brightening porthole, his computer hummed softly on the narrow galley table.  She resisted the urge to check the screen and, turning, saw several framed photographs set on the small table by his chair. 

The truth is in the photographs
.  Her sister’s voice in her ear.  She bent to see the faces more clearly.

Hoover on the prow of the Vaya con Dios, a jaunty red bandana around his neck.  A lovely, older woman on a mist-wrapped beach.   Maine?  She had to be his mother - Garcia had her rangy, New England height, her eyes.  And there - a beautiful raven-haired young woman with her arms around a small curly-topped boy with huge dark eyes.   Both smiling, happy.  Inexplicably uneasy, she lifted the frame.  A newspaper clipping, tucked behind the frame, fell to the floor.

Retrieving the paper, she glanced at the headline.  The terrible words leaped out at her.

Mother and her Two Year Old Son Struck Down on Christmas Eve.

Jesus God
.  She read the first paragraph and fell back, stunned.  “Oh, Garcia,” she murmured, feeling the sorrow knife through her chest.  All that darkness she sensed in him...  She folded the paper gently and returned it to its’ place behind the frame.

At that moment the Lab bounded down the ladder, followed by Garcia.  He looked at her, sitting by his photographs, with an expression she couldn’t read.  Finally he said, “You’ve met Lily and Jack, I see.”   

She could hear the pain pulsing in his voice and stood up to face him.  “The young woman and the boy?  They must mean a lot to you.”

He turned away.  “Si.  They were everything to me.”

Were.  Oh God
.  “Not - one of your investigations?”

“No.  Much deeper than that.”  She could barely hear the words. 

“Can you tell me?”

He was very still, staring out the porthole at the breaking day.  Finally he said, “My wife.  And my son.”

“Oh, Jon.”  She took a halting step toward him.

He shook his head, held out a hand with a ‘don’t come any closer’ gesture.  “It was all a very long time ago.  But sometimes it still seems like yesterday.”

“You loved them,” she said simply.

“Si.  I thought we’d grow old together.”  He closed his eyes.  “Funny thing is, Red, I never even knew I
wanted
a family.  My Madre would tell you I was always a loner.  I traveled a lot of roads before I met Lily.”

“But they brought you to her.”

“Si.  All those random choices.”

She gazed at the sharp planes of his face, thought again that he’d stepped from a painting by Goya.  “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“I’m guessing those random choices of yours didn’t begin in Maine.”

He shook his head.  “I was born near the Mexican border, in a dark house with a tin roof in a sweltering town on the edge of nowhere.”  His voice grew distant, remembering.    “No one expected you to leave, or achieve anything there – except my Madre.”  He smiled softly.  “She taught me, made sure I had music, books.”

Poetry
, thought Alexandra, glancing at the books on his table. 
History and politics
.