Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (37 page)

     The thing that she knew had been on his mind all day. And he was so solemn now that she didn't want to hear it. But she remained silent and let him speak.

     "I'm leaving The Grove. I'll be giving my notice tomorrow."

     Her emotions plummeted. She stepped back. "Where are you going? Back to Africa?"

     He shook his head. "I can never go back there."

     She waited. The night wind whipped around them, tugging at clothing and Vanessa's long hair. Massive ferns and fronds thrashed together until it seemed as if even the stars might be blown from the sky. Zeb took Vanessa's hand and drew her into the protection of a stone wall, standing close to her, his voice filled with passion as he said, "I want you to know something about me, something I have never told anyone." His face was close to hers as he spoke. "After hunting was outlawed in Kenya, I became a tour guide, leading photographic safaris. But when I saw the atrocities that were being committed by poachers, the utter disregard for the endangerment of animals, I became outspoken against the government and their hunting policies. I was reckless. Friends warned me to shut up but I couldn't, I was so angry. When
I received anonymous threats on my life, I didn't stop to think. Vanessa, I was married. When my wife was killed suddenly and unexpectedly in a car accident, I became bitter and left. I can't go back."

     She wanted to weep for him, and to comfort him and take away his pain. "Are you so sure? You left twenty years ago."

     Zeb looked up at the tree tops thrashing against the black sky. Windy up there, but not down here in the protected windbreak of the oasis.

     He looked at Vanessa. Raised a hand to her hair, and then to her cheek. "My wife kept warning me to keep my mouth shut, that the walls had ears. I wouldn't listen. I didn't think the secret police would go after
her.
"

     "I am so sorry," she said.

     "Now you know why I can't go back. You understand, don't you?"

     "I know about murder and I know about police." And then it all came out in a rush, as if the words had been building up for twelve months, crowding behind her lips, waiting for the moment to make their bid for freedom: the pimp who knocked her teeth out, Vanessa cracking his skull with a baseball bat, the conviction and life-sentence, the year at White Hills Prison, the fire and the escape. She left out the girl named Emmy Lou who became Abby Tyler because that was Abby's story and none of Zeb's business, but she wanted him to know the truth about her, and if he turned away because of it, then that was that. But he didn't, he listened in amazement and she barely had the last words out, "I've been on the FBI's wanted list ever since," when he was kissing her hard on the mouth.

     She kissed him back, pulling him to her in a desperate embrace. For thirty-three years she had been alone. Except for Abby, Vanessa had no one. Once, she had gone back to her home town in Texas to learn that her mother had passed away, her sisters had all married and moved to other cities. There was nothing there for her anymore, nothing left of Mercy. So she had closed that chapter in her life and never looked back.

     But now, in this man's arms, tasting his kiss, feeling herself catch on fire, Vanessa knew that a new chapter was opening up.

     "My God," he murmured, looking at her, filling his eyes with the sight of her. "My God..."

     "Zeb, your wife's death. Are you so sure the secret police did it?"

     "What do you mean?"

     "You said it was a car accident."

     "But they arranged it."

     "How do you know?"

     He blinked. He opened his mouth and closed it. And then something occurred to him for the first time in his life: that he
didn't
know for sure what had caused the car to crash.

     "It could have just been a coincidence," Vanessa said in her gentle, wise way. "Sometimes we think the universe revolves around
us
, that the whole world is talking about
us
and is concerned solely with what
we
are thinking and doing. In reality, the world doesn't give a damn because it is too busy worrying about itself. Sometimes," she said solemnly, "a car accident is simply a car accident."

     Relief overwhelmed him—the thought that maybe Miriam's death wasn't his fault, the washing away of the guilt he had carried for so long. Not all at once, but it was a beginning.

     The wind picked up, catching them in a small whirlwind. He took Vanessa by the hand, and they ran through the thrashing greenery until they reached his quarters, a small suite behind the business offices.

     It was Vanessa's first time in Zeb's room and it came as a surprise. She had expected an East African theme with drums and animal trophies. Instead she found one wall fitted with shelves stocked with paperback mysteries and science fiction novels, and another covered in framed baseball cards, autographed posters, a catcher's glove in a case, and, on a special stand under a spotlight, a baseball with a single signature on it. "That," Zeb said with pride, "is an Official National League baseball autographed by Hall of Famer Sandy Koufax, 1959 and 1963 World Champion, three-time no-hitter, perfect-game pitcher. The crown of my collection," he said as he looked deep into her eyes. "And I would give it up in a minute to spend this night with you."

     They kissed again, more tenderly, with no fierce wind whipping about them just gentle light and the faint sound of music coming from his stereo. They kissed as they explored each other's bodies, relishing the contrasts of white on dark, hard on soft, their opposites being such an erotic turn-on that they didn't make it to the bedroom.

     Zeb pressed his face between her large brown breasts and felt the pain in his heart begin to dissolve. This woman was not Miriam, she was not Africa, she was herself, Vanessa—solid, warm, and compassionate. And when Vanessa opened herself to him she opened herself to Africa, because he made love to her with more than his body, but with his voice, in an accent that made her think of endless blue skies and snow-capped mountains embracing a dark-raced people who had lived on the red soil of Kenya since before the beginning of time. His mouth, imprinting kisses on her body, was stamping her with a new identity. He murmured endearments in Swahili. She closed her eyes and they were making love on Mt. Kilimanjaro.

     "I've been wanting to do this since the night we met," he said afterward, as they lay in each other's arms.

     "You are one slow white man."

     "And you are one beautiful black woman." He looked into her eyes, almond shaped, slanted, exotic, and marveled at this gorgeous creature who had brought him back from a fatal brink, made him feel like a man again.

     And made him think of lion-colored savannahs beneath the equatorial sun, thorn trees and vast grazing herds, snow-capped Kilimanjaro in the distance, and at his side, this incredible woman, leading him home.

W
HILE
V
ANESSA AND
Z
EB WENT OFF TO TAKE CARE OF THE
caviary, and guests sought shelter from the wind, and staff covered the swimming pools, anchored furniture, closed up the outdoor bars, Abby hurried toward Sierra Nevada Cottage.

     She hadn't wanted to leave Ophelia, but Ophelia was suffering from exhaustion and dehydration, and had injured her foot. The nurse had promised to call Abby when Ophelia was well enough for a visit.

     So Abby had decided to see Jack one last time. Tonight was her only chance. Because of the threatening note, "You're next," she had moved her departure from The Grove up a day. Someone knew her true identity. Abby wanted to be reunited with her daughter before that happened. Any minute now, federal authorities could arrive with a warrant and handcuffs. This time tomorrow she was going to be a thousand miles away.

     Jack carefully dismantled the bow and sealed the grip in a plastic evidence bag. He was leaving The Grove first thing in the morning.

     He thought of Abby. What a surprise she had turned out to be. Abby Tyler
respected her guests' privacy, she didn't seem to pass judgment on them or their strange requests, she wasn't a gossip, didn't say mean or malicious things about anyone. A woman who did not kowtow to the rich and famous. A classy woman who grew things only from the natural water underground, as if the desert were giving her permission to plant an oasis there, as if she had struck a bargain with the land.

     And warm. He might not know much else about her, but Jack sensed Abby's deep warmth, as if a hot desert afternoon had settled within her and continued to shimmer and glow. He was drawn to that warmth. It would drive out all the coldness in his life, the chill of corpses and unsolved murders.

     But she was hiding something. And lying.

     Bow, arrows, quiver and target in their cases, he gathered up personal things from around the cottage. He set the photograph of Nina on the fireplace mantel along with the brochure for the winery. They were linked by fate. The brochure had been in his pocket the night Nina died. He had had an appointment with the owner of the vineyard the next day—an appointment he never kept.

     Jack turned his eyes to the wind-blown garden beyond the "cabin" doors. He had hoped that, by now, he would have found Nina's killer and started to envision his future once again. He could not. The winery was still a faded dream that seemed destined never to be brought back to life. Jack wondered if even he himself could be brought back to life.

     A sound at the door made him think of the wind, something rolling by on the path. But when he heard it again he realized someone was knocking.

     "Ms. Tyler!"

     "I hope it's not too late?"

     He stared at her, thinking the windswept look suited her. And with her blouse the color of sunlight, tucked into sunset-orange slacks, it was as if she had brought daybreak with her. "How is Dr. Kaplan?" he asked.

     "She's resting. The nurse said she'll be all right. Detective, I came to show you something."

     He looked at the envelope in her hand and his guard went up. Reluctantly, he stepped aside and she entered. The wind came in with her, like a pushy intruder, rushing past Abby and Jack to sweep through the living
room that had been made to look like a cabin, over the rawhide furniture, the Indian rugs and along the mantel of the stone fireplace.

     As Jack shouldered the door closed, the draft sent papers sailing from the mantel to flutter down to the floor and land at Abby's feet. Jack bent to retrieve them but Abby was quicker.

     She raised her eyebrows at the brochure for Crystal Creek Winery in Rancho California. Curious—the vineyard pictured on the glossy paper was lushly green and fruitful—she read the description. Thirty acres of grape vineyard and wine-making facility that produced ten different wines, indoor and outdoor wine tasting areas, located on the slope of a hill that afforded visitors a spectacular view of the valley below. Midway between Los Angeles and San Diego, with fifteen other wineries in the Valley, Crystal Creek was popular on wine-tasting tours. It sounded delightful.

     Numbers and dollar signs were scribbled on it in ink, and the words
down payment.

     "Detective Burns," she said, returning the brochure and photo to the mantel, "I brought something for you to read. It's something private, that I wrote long ago. I've never let anyone read it. But I think it can help you."

     She held him with those eyes again, steady and unblinking, looking as if they had seen everything in the world and knew what it was all about. "I don't need to read anything."

     "It troubles me that you are in pain."

     "That's my own business," he said. Then he noticed a windswept lock of dark hair on Abby's cheek and, in a move that shocked them both, reached up and gently brushed it back.

     Abby's pink lips parted in a small gasp. Jack felt his cheeks redden. It had been an impulse. And now he still felt the warmth of her skin on his fingertips.

     Flustered, amazed at the shock his touch had sent through her, Abby cleared her throat and held the envelope out. "Please, read this. It will help."

     He turned a furious expression on her. "You want to help? Then tell me about Nina. Admit you know her."

     "Why do you keep saying that—"

     "Goddam it, I saw the file, Abby. I know about the file. So stop lying and tell me the truth."

     "Jack, I don't know what—"

     "Just go," he said, turning away. "If you're not going to be honest with me, then just get out of here."

     She stared at him, feeling hurt and angry, and then she turned and headed to the door. It surprised Jack. He hadn't thought she was a quitter. But when he saw that instead of reaching for the doorknob she began punching numbers into the keypad on the wall by the door, he ran to her, shouting, "What are you doing?" Grabbing her wrist.

     "It's the master code for the security system." She wrenched her arm free of his grip, hit a final button, and a high pitch sound beeped. "We are now locked in."