The Overseer (60 page)

“This is Angela Duciens,” he said. “She is—”

“A marvelous field hocky player,” the old man cut in. “Yes of course. At the school in California. I seem to recall a match in which you scored—what was it, six, seven goals? Wonderful play.”

The young woman flushed. “It was eight, actually.”

“Of course.” He smiled, his hands raised in the air in absolute delight. “Eight. How could I have forgotten? Eight indeed. And against a rather formidable defense, if memory serves.” The woman nodded modestly. “Still, I should have remembered. You will forgive an old man.”

So went all the introductions, eased by the notes Paolo had prepared for him less than an hour ago; still, the tactic was having the desired effect. It was also allowing him to scan the large screen on the far wall, a map of the United States, peppered with small blue dots. The final stage.

Chaos was at hand.

 

She was reluctant at first. Stopping would be dangerous. The quicker to Montana, the better. Then again, they had made remarkable time, twelve hours of uninterrupted speed, a slight delay around Chicago for the late-morning rush hour, and then open road for nearly nine hundred miles. Even then, it had been a temporary diversion. Perhaps Xander was right. Perhaps they could afford to stop.
Sleep—the vital weapon.
Just beyond the last tourist signs for Bald Hill Dam, she took them off Route 94. Xander said the fates were being kind. Sarah knew better.

Six miles from the highway, however, his mood changed dramatically, the relative calm of the drive all but forgotten once they stepped inside the room. It was a near carbon copy of the Tempsten accommodations—small sofa and a bed, a lamp whose shade had seen better days. Sarah had little trouble identifying the source of his awkwardness.

“No, no, no,” he said quickly, “you use the bathroom first. You’ve been driving. It’s only fair.”

She peered over at him. “Fine,” she answered, a smile in her eyes, “if it’s only fair.” She slipped past him and moved to the bathroom. Half a minute later, she reemerged, to find him bedded down on the sofa, a pillow
missing
from under the bedspread. His back was to her.

Staring across at his long body under the blanket, she couldn’t help but smile. Quietly, she let her jeans slip to the floor, her T-shirt loose at her thighs. She then flicked off the light and walked over to the sofa. Without a word, she slowly slid in beside him.

He nearly jumped, pressing his back against the back of the sofa and
taking
the covers with him. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a little cozy, but—”

“No, I mean
what
are you doing?” He tried not to stare at her legs. “I … I left you the bed.” He tossed the blanket on top of her. “I thought … I thought you’d want the bed.”

“I suppose it would be a little more comfortable, yes.” Their faces were less than six inches from each other. “But you wanted to be here,” she said playfully, “so this is where we’ll sleep.”

He tried to get up but realized it would mean having to slide over her. “This … this isn’t going to work.”

“It was your choice.”

“No. You don’t …” His awkwardness was turning to genuine anxiety. “Look, I don’t think this is—”

“Is what?” For the first time, Sarah felt uncomfortable.

“Is … what we should be doing.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I see.” She slowly sat up, her back to him. “What exactly
is
it that we shouldn’t be doing?” She waited. “I’m not asking you to sleep with me, Xander, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No,” he said defensively. “That’s not what I thought. It’s just that I … I don’t know. …”

“You don’t know what?”

It took him a moment to answer. “I don’t know … if I can do this.”

She looked at him. “Do what?” Again, she turned away. “I thought we could be with each other. Hold each other for a while. That’s all.” There was a caring in her voice. “I meant what I said yesterday.”

“So did I.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

For a few moments, neither said a word, his cheek somehow closer to her neck, his chest all too conscious of the touch of her back. “It’s been …” He struggled to find the words. “I lost my wife a few years ago. She was … she made everything right. And then she was gone.” Tears began to fill his throat. “And then yesterday, I held you.” She could feel his breath on her neck, “which was … remarkable.”

“For me, too,” she whispered.

Again silence. “Sarah … it’s been a long time since I let myself—” He stopped.

She remained still. “I understand. I do.” She started to get up.

“No,” he said, taking her arm and keeping her on the sofa. “I don’t
want
you to have to understand. Holding you was … I never thought I’d be able even to do that again. Maybe it’s because of what’s been going on. … I just haven’t felt like that.”

She could sense his lips near her neck, her body suddenly frail, small. She felt his arm slowly begin to trace around her waist, pulling her closer,
pressing
her to him. “Like what?” she whispered.

His arm began to tremble; his lips brushed across her neck, the very touch enough to shorten her breath, her lungs tighten with air. “To be held.” She turned to him, everything suddenly numb, eyes lost to one another. And he lifted her up, his hands cradling her in their grasp, the bed, her head on the pillow, his breath colliding with hers, the sweet taste of lilac on his tongue. They kissed, tenderly at first, each a quiet exploration,
innocent
desire mingling with the anguish of first touch. Soon, the heat of her body seemed to envelop him, his hands drawn to the flesh of her back, his mouth swallowing the nape of her neck, down to her breasts, the eager curve of her thigh, all semblance of covering thrown from the bed. She, too, fell into him, driving her fingers through his hair, forcing him onto his back and riding up on top of him, her tongue gliding through the ridge of his chest, her lips bathing him in an unleashed longing.

She pulled him inside of her, thighs clenched around his waist, driving upward with each thrust. He grabbed at her back, brought his chest to hers, pressing her breasts against him as they continued to surge into one another. No sound save for the gasping for air. Suddenly, she was on her back, his arms engulfing her, his desire rising, her fingers tearing into him—back, thighs—pulling him in deeper, deeper, until in an anguished release, they climaxed, arms clenched so tightly around each other, they could hardly breathe.

Unable to let go, they fell asleep, naked in each other’s arms.

 

The first explosion bolted them upright; the second forced her to the edge of the bed, flames from outside rising and falling in reflection through the paper-thin blinds. She looked back at him but could find no words. He, too, was silent. Their reprieve was over. The world outside had returned.

She stood and grabbed for her clothes, he frozen, his back rigid against the wall. Pulling her jeans to her waist, she moved to the window and peeled back a corner of the blind. Outside, rain pelted at the glass, hardly enough, though, to blur the source of the explosion. There, in the most distant part of the parking lot, she saw the engine of a small truck in flames, its meaning clear. An invitation. An invitation to
her
. Sarah pulled on her shirt and peered out again, the handle of her gun wedged tightly in her
fingers
. She looked back at Xander; he had not taken his eyes from her. She slowly opened the door and stepped out into the downpour.

The rain was cold, at first jarring, then a relief, shocking her senses into wakefulness. A number of the motel’s guests had also ventured out, the owner of the truck all too obvious among them, a man lost in utter
disbelief
, pacing a few yards from the fire. Several others worked
extinguishers
in an attempt to tame the worst of the blaze, but they were only a diversion, a means, she realized, to get her out of the room.
What other reason could there be?
Somewhere among the faces, she knew a pair of eyes was watching, waiting for her to emerge. She could sense them, feel them on her.

This time, the men of Eisenreich had been clever. This time, they had forced her hand. Searching the rooms would have left too much to chance. Too many options. A wrong choice and they would have left themselves open. Better to draw her out.

She spotted the man among the guests. He was making no attempt to blend in with the growing crowd. Rather, he stood a few paces off to the right, staring directly at her, an obese woman clutched at his side. Etched across the woman’s face was the look of abject terror. Sarah understood. He was going to kill someone. Whom that might be would all depend on her. Either way, it would not be here. Death in the open would be foolish. Too many witnesses. He was playing it well.

Certain that she had seen him, the man moved off toward the trees across from the motel, his arm held firmly around the bait. Sarah watched as they disappeared. She then turned and whispered through the open door to Xander.

“Get some clothes on, grab your gun and pack, and get outside. I want you to work your way into the crowd by the fire.” He started to answer. “Just do it!” Before he could say anything, she was gone.

 

Xander threw the blanket from his legs and pawed the carpet for his pants and shirt. Half a minute later, he emerged from the room, the rain battering at his face as he tried to find her. There had been something in her voice, something he had never heard before.
So quickly back to this
. He wanted to cry out, to pull her close to him, but there was no place, no time for such thoughts. They had stolen a few hours. Nothing more.

He looked to his left—the fire. He peered into the rain—a darting figure across the road. And then he heard the sirens. Police. They would ask questions. He shut the door and raced toward the woods.

 

Sarah slipped through the trees, her gun drawn. The rain had begun to come down in torrents, lashing at her face from all sides and forcing her hand to her eyes with greater frequency. Visibility was next to nil; any hopes of hearing them up ahead were lost to the percussive hammering of water on a frozen ground. But they were there. She knew that. He had set the trap, and he would be waiting.