Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (15 page)

Emily Louise Pagan. Wanted for Murder, Arson with Intent to Murder, Grand Theft Auto, Armed Robbery, and Escape.

     Aliases: Emmy Lou Pagan.

     Date of Birth: June 3, 1955

     Place of birth: Little Pecos, Texas

     Hair: reddish gold.

     Eyes: green Height: 5'7"

     Weight: 135 pounds

     Sex: Female

     Race: White

     Occupation: Unknown

     Scars and Marks: Heavy facial freckles

Remarks: Pagan is fond of gardening and has great horticultural knowledge, is known to visit gardens and might frequent nurseries or wherever plants are cultivated and sold. Might also be seen in the company of a Negro woman named Mercy. CAUTION: EMILY LOUISE PAGAN ESCAPED FROM PRISON BY SETTING FIRE TO THE FACILITY. WITH AN ACCOMPLICE SHE STOLE AN OFFICIAL CAR AND USED A POLICE WEAPON IN THE COMMISSION OF A HOLD-UP IN WHICH TWO PEOPLE WERE KILLED. SHE IS CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS PERSON, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL FBI OFFICE OR THE NEAREST POLICE.
The FBI is offering a $50,000 reward for information leading directly
to the arrest of Emily Louise Pagan.

A
BBY WAS WALKING TOWARD HIM THROUGH THE MIST, HER
garments long and white and pure. Her hair was longer than he remembered, tumbling over her shoulders, and as she drew near, Jack saw that one strap of her gown had slipped down to expose the swelling of a pale breast.

     
They were in a forest, Jack could smell the loam and dampness, heard the call of a bird overhead. Stillness lay all around them as if time had stopped. He realized he was naked from the waist up, and when he looked down, saw that his trousers were leather, and his feet were clad in fur boots.

     
He felt raw. Primal. He wanted only one thing.

     
By the time she reached him, Abby's hair had grown down to her waist. Now the top of her gown was down around her hips, but her bare breasts were hidden behind long dark tresses.

     
She smiled, but there was mystery in it, and her eyes were shadowed. She lifted milky arms and Jack took a step toward her. When his fingertips touched her cool flesh, she closed her eyes and bent her head back to expose her white
throat. The air was chill. Snow lay on the ground. He wanted to warm her.

     
She slipped smoothly into his embrace, face upturned for the kiss, her body molding to his. Her lips were cool, her kiss impersonal. It inflamed him all the more because he knew there was heat within her, and he wanted to draw it out.

     
A fur cape materialized on his shoulders. He spread it on the ground and lay Abby upon it. Her smile was serene as she kept her eyes on him, but she remained aloof, all Mystery.

     
He lay by her side and explored her ivory body, touching, caressing, watching her face as he searched for the heat. She smiled enigmatically, as if challenging him, and it heightened his ardor. He slid the white gown up her thigh and explored until he found her sweet spot. At his first touch, she moaned, and suddenly the forest vanished and they were on top of a desert butte with vast wilderness stretching to the far horizons and a blazing sunset scorching the western sky.

     
Abby circled her arms around his neck and he felt heat on her skin. Her lips had turned scarlet, parted and moist, her tongue pink and inviting. A hot wind blew as he kissed her deeply, and when he reached for the gown, which had turned the color of pomegranate, Abby parted her legs and a wave of heat engulfed him.

     
His hands possessed her breasts, warm in his fingers. Moans escaped her throat, which had turned blush-colored, as if she burned. Her mouth was hungry on his, as if she wanted to devour him, and she curved her leg around his thighs, urging him to delve into her heat.

     
He nearly exploded with the first thrust, and when she cried out, the cry echoed in the red canyons of the desert.

     Jack awoke with a start and found himself drenched in sweat. He lay there stunned. It had been a long time since he had had an erotic dream. And with Abby Tyler of all people.

     After he had discovered a file on Nina in Abby's bungalow, the night before, he had returned to his room with a sick feeling in his stomach. She had blatantly lied to him about knowing his sister. Not only did she know Nina, she possessed a file that, from what he could see, held several papers plus photographs. He felt betrayed. He realized he had been softening toward Tyler and his police instincts were being overridden by his male appreciation
of her. From now on he was going to keep his guard up and trust no one.

     Especially not Abby Tyler.

     
Remember why you are here. Do not be seduced by this place.

     That was it, of course. It wasn't just Tyler, it was this resort. Insidiously seductive, getting under your skin and into your soul without your knowing it, until it was too late.

     He didn't bother to try for more sleep, even though he had had only four hours. Jack Burns had not slept more than four hours straight in weeks. Not since he had been called to a crime scene and fainted at the sight of the corpse.

     It hadn't been his first corpse either.

     After a cold shower, which shocked his body back into obedience although Abby Tyler was still on his mind, he went to the stereo and slipped in a Beethoven CD. As the emotionally turbulent
Appassionata
filled the air, Jack turned his eye to the photograph on his nightstand, Nina.

     He was still reeling from the shock of four years ago when, sitting at the bedside of their dying mother, he and Nina had heard a startling confession. Monica Burns' voice came out feathery and light on her last breath: "You were fourteen, Jack, away at boarding school. I wanted another child but I couldn't conceive. So we went to an adoption agency. They said we were too old, that babies were being placed with younger couples. We found a lawyer who handled what he called specialty cases. He said he could guarantee a baby, but it would cost a lot of money. We came up with the cash, and you were brought to us, Nina. The minute you were placed in my arms, you were no longer adopted. You were my child. That's why I never told you. Jack, you came home from school and you believed I had been pregnant. I left it at that.

     "But now that I am leaving you and will no longer be around, you should know the truth, Nina..."

     Nina had begun her investigation the next day, going through her mother's papers, finding the lawyer who had handled the adoption, retired and living in Phoenix. He couldn't give her much to go on, but what he was able to provide had sent Nina all over the country. With old adoption records
opening up, she had been able to follow leads, interview people from thirty-three years ago, and start to put a picture together.

     What she discovered had come as a shock: Nina had been bought through an illegal adoption ring.

     It haunted her. Had she been kidnapped? Had her teenage mother been coerced into giving up her child? Was her real mother searching for her at that very moment? Four years of obsessive searching had brought Nina to the last phone call she had made to Jack a few weeks ago, saying she wondered what Coco McCarthy, Sissy Whitboro and Ophelia Kaplan had in common, and why were they going to a resort they knew nothing about? The phone call in which Nina said she was meeting someone that night and it could lead to something big.

     And then next day she was found murdered.

     Jack looked at the file folders spread across his desk. The sum of his sister's exhaustive research into a blackmarket adoption ring over thirty years ago. Unfortunately, her notes did not clarify everything. She had written the name Abby Tyler in large letters and circled it in red.

     Why?

     And who was Nina meeting with the night she was murdered?

     Jack had run a check on Abby Tyler and discovered she owned the resort the three women had won prizes for. He had then run background checks on Tyler but had not been able to find much. In fact, Tyler's history seemed to go back only to 1974. And that was why he needed her fingerprints.

     Paperclipped to Nina's photo was a glossy brochure for a beautiful place called Crystal Creek Winery. He had clipped it to the photo because it, too, was a reminder of his mission. The winery was for sale and Jack had been negotiating with the owner when he got the call about Nina. The winery was his lifelong dream; he wanted to retire there and collect his police pension while growing grapes and making wines. The brochure had been in his pocket the night he fainted. He never got back to the owner. His life had stopped at that moment, next to Nina's corpse, like a clock with hands frozen in time. The winery, archery contests, plans for travel—Jack's entire life was put on hold the night Nina died, and it was still on hold, to move forward again only when he had the answers.

     Jack was restless. Nervous energy flowed through his muscles and bones. He had to get out of there, this place with the magic, away from the woman who was doing things to his mind. Peering through the glass door that led to his private patio, he noted the beginning of sunrise behind the distant mountains. Jack decided it was a good time to do some shooting.

     Holstering his police revolver beneath his jacket, he perused the Guest Services book.
"The desert area beyond the periphery of The Grove is laid with delightful and romantic nature trails that guests are free to use. We do request, however, that you inform Management before you leave the resort grounds. We also recommend you check weather ahead of time as there can be the danger of flash floods and sandstorms. If you wish a ride, please call Reservations."

     "Excellent hunting in Africa," Zeb said twenty minutes later as he guided the SUV along the desert track.

     The sun had cleared the horizon and was washing the landscape in breathtaking hues of pink and gold. Spring wildflowers were in bloom, spread out in carpets of blue and yellow and scenting the morning air with exotic perfumes.

     Jack didn't respond to Zeb's comment. He had never cared for hunting, didn't see the appeal. Noticing the elephant hair bracelet on Zeb's arm, he wondered if Zeb missed the "real" game of Africa—the giraffes and lions and rhino—because the wildlife of the Mojave must seem tame by comparison.

     "Here we are, sir, Indian Rocks." A massive geologic formation of rounded boulders that looked as if they had melted. Recent signs had been posted: DANGER! Caves Unsafe! Do Not Enter!

     Jack looked around at the surrounding wilderness and saw emptiness and desolation, not a building or road or habitation for miles.

     Perfect.

     "Do you have a cell phone on you, sir?" Zeb asked after Jack had gotten out of the vehicle.

     "Yes, why?"

     "In case of emergencies." Zeb handed him a small card with the resort's security number on it. "This line is monitored twenty-four hours."

     Jack squinted around at the rocks and sand. "Looks safe enough."

     "We've had high coyote activity lately. We suspect there is a den on the north side of these rocks. Would you like a driver to return for you?"

     Jack looked back at the dense growth of trees, white domes peeping through. What was it? Three miles away? "I can walk back."

     "If you change your mind," Zeb said. Then he gave Jack a friendly salute and drove off.

     Despite the sharp sunlight flooding the sandy plain, the air was biting cold. It whipped through the massive boulders that comprised Indian Rocks, whistled through cracks and crevices, raced around Jack, tugging at his clothes, nipping at his face and hands. The place felt ancient and sacred. Jack could almost believe he was the last man on earth.

     Unfolding the portable target that was designed to stop broadhead or field point tipped arrows, Jack wedged it between two boulders and then paced a hundred feet from it, back to where he had left the rest of his equipment. He removed his jacket and folded it onto a rock so that he stood in jeans and a T-shirt that was tight fitting both for safety and better accuracy. Loose clothing was a hazard in archery, and could also throw one's aim off. He also removed the gun and shoulder holster.

     Noting the direction of the wind and the angle of the sun, Jack slipped the shooting glove onto his right hand, hooked the quiver to his belt, and picked up his bow that was already strung.

     Jack had discovered archery when he was a boy at one of the expensive summer camps his wealthy parents were always sending him to, places where movie stars' kids went. He had taken immediately to the bow and arrow, the feeling of control, the moment of tension, the pulling back and letting go, the satisfaction of the bull's eye. Jack occasionally entered competitions, to test himself and evaluate his skills—his favorite being unmarked-distance archery—but he had never joined a team. Jack Burns was a solitary archer.

     His bow was a Hatfield Take-Down Recurve with sixty pounds of draw weight, custom crafted right-hand grip, fiberglass surfaced laminated limbs finished in satin gloss, and reinforced tips for fast flight string.