Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (23 page)

First, she put in a call to Clay on his cell phone. It rang four times before switching to voice mail. He’d always answered right away before. For some reason he wasn’t picking up now. She hung up and e-mailed him:

You wanted Hidalgo? Now you’ve got him!

She added a detailed report of the events of the night. The police would no doubt be waiting for Sebastian at the hacienda when he returned from his trip. They’d haul his ass off to jail. Good! He deserved it, the bastard. How anyone could treat another human being as he'd done was beyond her.

She ended her message:
Still no update on my mother? Talk to me! Where the hell are you, Clay? Have you found Talia? We have a fucking bargain!
She hit SEND.

What next? She clicked shut her laptop.

Despite the catastrophic state of their marriage, Peter had promised to do all he could on Talia’s behalf. He was a lousy actor and wouldn’t have been able to fake the look of horror and shock she’d seen on his face when she showed him the photo of her mother in captivity. He wasn’t a cold man, she told herself. He’d act.

Unless someone or something is stopping him
.

That thought soared into her head, out of nowhere. Why? Had something in her subconscious triggered this new concern? Until now it hadn’t occurred to her that someone might have a vested interest in
not
finding her mother.

Mercy pulled on her robe and ran down the hall to Peter’s room. He wasn’t there. No surprise. He seldom was at home. She marched back to her suite again.
All right
, she decided,
that discussion will have to wait.
Along with the question of their future. If they had a future. Anyway, she was in no shape to think rationally about her marriage at the moment.

She checked her phone messages.

Lupe refused to let voice mail take calls. She always answered the phone then wrote nearly undecipherable Spanglish on little pink squares of paper, which she stacked under a glass paperweight on Mercy’s desk. Blue squares were for Peter.

The only calls of importance were three from Mark, in New York. For some reason Lupe hadn’t given her mother’s boyfriend the phone number at Hidalgo's ranch, and Mark hadn’t called her cell.

Mercy ran downstairs and burst through the door into the always aromatic kitchen.

“
Ayeee!
” Lupe shrieked, dropping a pan of freshly baked
oreja
s. She clutched a fist to her heart. “You scare me to the death, missus.”

“I hope not.” Mercy patted Lupe’s arm. “I’d miss your wonderful cooking.”

Lupe gave her a wilted smile.

Most of the breakfast rolls had stayed in the pan and were salvageable. Mercy helped her pick up the few escapees and toss them into the bucket of leftover bread Lupe saved to feed her chickens at her home.

“I slipped in early this morning and didn’t want to wake anyone,” Mercy explained. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. Might I have a little fruit with one of those marvelous rolls and your excellent coffee? In the garden, if it's not too much trouble.”

Lupe's black moods always mended quickly with the lubrication of sufficient compliments. “
Si, si
. I will bring right away.” She beamed at her employer.

“
Gracias.
” Mercy picked up the cordless phone and brought it along with her.

Sitting at one of the patio tables she dialed Mark Templeton's number in New York City. He picked up immediately.

“Have you found her?” He sounded out of breath.

“I was hoping
you
had news,” she admitted. “No. But I'm still working on it. Peter has been foot dragging big-time for some reason. And getting information from the State Department has been impossible. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“What do you mean
trust
? You’re talking about our own government.”

“It’s complicated.” She had decided early on not to confide in him about her spying for Clay. It would only give him something more to worry about. “Are you making any headway at all from your end?”

“Yes. Sort of.” He sounded keyed up, but not necessarily in a good way. “An old friend, one of the first American entrepreneurs to take advantage of the fall of Communism, has made a lot of contacts in what used to be the USSR. There have been rumors lately, nasty ones, about a female American journalist who is being hunted down by the Russian Mafia.”

“My mother?”

“Let's just say, a woman whose description fits Talia.”

Mercy’s entire body went deepfreeze cold. “Does your friend know where she is? Or why they’re looking for her?”

“Not really.” He sounded exhausted but still clinging to hope. “The way I figure—if they’re still looking for her she must be hiding out somewhere. You know, not wanting to chance communicating with us and give away her location. That makes sense, right?”

“I guess,” she said doubtfully. Mark hadn’t seen the photograph. And she wasn’t about to send it to him, poor man.

If he was right about the Russian mob searching for Talia, when had that picture been taken? And why? Maybe her first assumption wasn’t right, that someone wanted to help her mother. Protect her. Maybe that was just wishful thinking and the photo was to prove someone had captured her, and they were offering her up to the bad guys. Her stomach pinched painfully at the thought.

Mark continued, “I have an idea. What if we use people with connections in Ukraine, like my friend, to spread the word that we’re offering a sizable reward for Talia’s safe return to the embassy in Kiev.” She had told him, on another call, about the first photograph, the one that showed the ruins of the abandoned reactors. He'd seemed unconcerned, given Talia's love of unusual, and often dark, subjects. Now he sounded so hopeful it broke her heart. “What do you think about a reward? Good idea, yes?”

“It might work.” What else could she say? “It can’t hurt, Mark.”

“Right. Definitely can’t hurt. I’ll get on it,” he said.

Mercy didn’t point out that this seemed a long shot. Talia was his world. How could she burst his bubble? She changed the subject. “What towns are nearest the reactors where she was touring? There’s Chernobyl, of course.”

“And Pripyat.” Mark paused. “Other smaller villages too. The explosion destroyed anything really close to the reactors. The rest were permanently evacuated due to radiation. Many of the towns in the area were new. Built to house the scientists and maintenance staff for the reactors.”

“How did you find all of this out?”

“Surfing the internet.” He sighed. “It’s pretty grim stuff. The radioactive fallout drifted into Belarus too. The government evacuated the affected villages but not until days after the explosion.”

“Big help, right?”

“You said it. They call them 'black towns'. Nothing much exists there now, I should think. Left unpopulated, uncared for. But nature regroups, takes back her own. Forests will have pretty much taken over in the years since the disaster. You can see that much on Google Earth.”

Mercy held her head in her hands and fought back her anger and a rush of hot, throat-choking tears.
But they’re freakin’ giving tours!
None of this made the least sense.

29

The Robinson R-44 helicopter slid down the center of the valley, flashing past dramatic slate-gray and iron-red mountains on either side. Sebastian sat behind the pilot, not talking, staring at the ground below. Jaw clenched. Fists jammed down on his knees. He could care less about the view. They couldn't reach the ranch quickly enough for him. Someone had made a terrible mistake. Someone was about to pay.

He’d received a strange voice mail from his housekeeper when he clicked his phone back on, after the meeting in Houston. Manuela screeched into his ear something about
La Señora
and
Maria shopping
and
accident
. But when he had tried to call the hacienda, desperate for details, he couldn’t get anyone to answer.

What the hell is going on there?
Had something happened to Maria? Was she hurt in an accident? No. Impossible. She was well guarded within the compound. Unless… Had his enemies brazenly attacked his home? Broken in and snatched the girl?

He wished he hadn’t been forced to leave the ranch. But his partners, north of the Mexican-US border, had been edgy, ready to wiggle out of their deal. Only a face-to-face would reassure them. Now was the worst possible time for anything to go wrong at the ranch, what with his being away and Mercy Davis being there and another shipment nearly ready to send.

Now that his business associates were satisfied, he was anxious to return home and find out what had reduced his housekeeper to hysterical jabbering.

The helicopter followed the river, the roar of its powerful rotors only a little softened by the sound-deadening headphones he wore. Soon the sprawling complex of Rancho Hidalgo’s buildings, his family’s legacy, slipped into view. The plane dipped down, came in low, aiming for the red-and-gold mosaic eagle centered in the landing pad. But it was the three black-and-white
Federale
police cruisers lined up in the main courtyard that held his attention.

His pulse quickening, he gripped the seat’s arm.

“Put her down fast and cut the engine! Something’s wrong,” he barked into his headset.

The pilot nodded.

If anything had happened to his daughter, there would be hell to pay!

Sebastian leaped from the plane before the landing struts touched the pad. Ducking beneath still-whirring blades, he ran full tilt between barns and storage sheds, nearly out of his mind with fear. What about Mercy? Had both of them been hurt? Jesus! Could it have been a car accident? What were they doing out in a car? Why hadn’t Carlos or Luis found a way to reach him?

Suddenly, an all too familiar figure blocked his path. The hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck bristled. He broke stride and slowed to a walk as he neared the other man.

“What's this all about, Detective Garcia?” 

The police officer wasn't handsome, by any stretch of the imagination, but he looked the part of an important official. His uniform was pressed along the pant legs and sleeves into saber-sharp creases, giving him a quasi-military dapperness. His cap brim rested a perfect three fingers above the bridge of his hawk-beak nose.

Garcia shot Sebastian a look that somehow managed to convey both menace and smugness. “Suppose you tell me, Don Sebastian.”

Sebastian’s supply of patience shrank to nothing. “Cut the crap. Why are your men on my land?”

Garcia smiled. “Police business, of course. I am doing you a courtesy. Instead of ordering your arrest and sending my men to retrieve you, I have come in person to speak with you. Man to man.”

Sebastian lurched toward him. “
Where
is my daughter and the woman she was with? What’s happened to them?”

“The ladies are perfectly safe,
Señor.
”

Sebastian brushed the man aside and marched toward the main house.

“Of course I am willing to interview you as we walk,” Garcia called out, jogging to catch up with him. “If you wish. But I had thought you might want to do this in private.”

Sebastian broke into a run.

“I will get straight to the point.” Garcia kept pace, clearing his throat as if preparing to deliver important news. It occurred to Sebastian that the man was unwilling to let him go on ahead because he was savoring this moment. Garcia continued, “Do you intentionally schedule the departure of your trucks for when you are out of the country? Is that how you protect yourself? You use your absence as an alibi?”

Still running Sebastian didn't spare Garcia as much as a glance. “What are you talking about?” he growled. “What has happened here?” He’d told Luis, hadn’t he?
Hold the goddamn shipment!

“Don't pretend you know nothing about what went down last night,” Garcia said, his tone sly.

Sebastian dodged around the granary's wall. “I’m not answering questions until my lawyer arrives. Before I call him, I want to check on my child.” Maria must be terrified. What had they told her about him? He’d kill Garcia if he let any of his men near her.

They rounded the corner and entered the garden—yucca bursting with pristine white flowers, vibrant orange bird-of-paradise blooms, blood-red hibiscus—then the cream stucco walls of the main house finally came into sight.

Garcia was breathing harder now, sounding winded, dragging behind. He called out, “I'm sure your daughter is much better now than she was last night.”

Coming to an abrupt stop, Sebastian spun around, seized a fistful of khaki shirt and hauled Garcia up to within inches of his face. “If you so much as touched my daughter, you pig, I will
kill
you! Whatever happened here, she's not involved.”

To Sebastian’s surprise, the detective didn’t reach for the pistol strapped to his hip. Neither did he spare a glance at two of his men, standing a ways off. They watched but made no move to help their boss.