His Mysterious Ways Page 7

  “And that proves what exactly?” Lassiter said in a deadly calm voice.

  Taglio shrugged. “That’s what I wanted you to explain last night, but I couldn’t find you after I left the hotel. Seems Melanie Stark isn’t the only one who knows how to disappear,” he said slyly. “So I went off to have a few drinks, and then later, I swung back by the hotel before calling it a night. I knew the woman’s room number because the clerk had given it to me earlier. I decided to go up and have a look-see for myself, but she wasn’t alone. I heard voices coming from her room, and one of them was yours.”

  Lassiter paused a heartbeat, then said very softly, “You were on duty last night, Taglio. Deserting your post is a serious offense.”

  “We both left the army a long time ago. Military rules don’t apply to us.”

  Lassiter smiled. “That’s right, they don’t.”

  He took a step toward the younger man, and alarm flashed across Taglio’s face. Then he glanced up at the surveillance camera and gave a shaky laugh. “Better not do anything impulsive, Lassiter. We’re being watched.”

  “So we are. For now.”

  “Look, you may not believe this,” Taglio said, “but I didn’t get you out here to threaten you. I’m trying to warn you.”

  “About what?”

  The younger man paused. “I’m not the only one who knows where you were last night. Somebody else followed you to the hotel. Somebody else is interested in that girl.”

  Lassiter grabbed the front of the man’s shirt and hauled him up hard. “What are you talking about?”

  “Hey, take it easy.” Taglio gave him a shaky smile. “Look, I know you didn’t sell Kruger out on general principle. Somebody must have made you an offer you couldn’t refuse. All I’m asking for is a piece of the action. Cut me in and I’ll give you a name.”

  Lassiter jerked him forward. “Give me a name, and I might give you a head start to the border.”

  “You won’t kill me, Lassiter.”

  “No? You sure about that?”

  Taglio swallowed, not looking at all sure. “You want to know who’s interested in the girl, don’t you?”

  Lassiter shoved him away in disgust.

  And a split second later, Taglio hit the ground.

  It happened so fast, Lassiter thought at first the younger man had stumbled. But then the sound of gunfire registered, and he saw blood leaking from a hole in Taglio’s forehead. Lassiter’s auto pilot kicked in then, and he dived for cover behind the jeep, dragging Taglio with him.

  Quickly, he checked for a pulse and heartbeat, and when he detected neither, he got out his radio to put the camp on alert. Then, adjusting his frequency, he roused Angus Bond in the infirmary.

  “Sniper fire in Sector Seven,” he said. “I’ve got a man down.”

  The Aussie’s voice sputtered over the static. “What’s his condition?”

  “He’s dead, but there could be other casualties.”

  “I’m standing by.”

  Lassiter couldn’t tell if Bond was sober or not, but from Taglio’s point of view, it didn’t much matter.

  He glanced down at the wound. It was a clean shot. Couldn’t have been more dead center if Taglio had had a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead. The sniper was either very lucky or very good. Or both.

  Returning his radio to his belt, Lassiter reached up and grabbed a pair of binoculars from the front seat of the jeep and then carefully positioned himself between the tire and bumper to scour the mountainside.

  He tried to trace an invisible line from where Taglio had been dropped to a point anywhere from five hundred to fifteen hundred yards up the mountainside. But even the lower elevations were covered with dense rain-forest vegetation and, combined with the heavy blanket of mist, rendered the sniper invisible.

  Lassiter took off his cap and placed it over the barrel of his rifle, then exposed it over the hood of the jeep.

  The shot was instantaneous, dead center through the front of the cap.

  Question answered. The sniper was good. But he’d also given away his position, and that was all Lassiter needed.

  There was a doorway, a portal not ten feet away. He could see a very faint glimmer of light. His bloodstream tingled with the change in energy, and he could feel the vibration of his body subtly alter as he lunged toward the opening.

  He experienced the familiar tug of resistance as he went through, then an immediate rush of energy, a blur of light, and in the blink of an eye, he emerged on the mountainside to the rear of the shooter.

  Immediately, he took cover and then inched his way toward the sniper’s blind, mindful of his surroundings.

  But he was too late. In the almost infinitesimal time it had taken him to travel through the wormhole up the mountain, the sniper had vanished.

  A chill shot up Lassiter’s spine as he walked over and picked up the weapon the killer had left behind.

  The rifle was a surprise. He expected a rebel sniper to have gotten his hands on a Soviet-made Dragunov by way of Cuba, but this weapon was an M21, a semiautomatic sniper rifle that had been used by the U.S. military years ago. It was obsolete now, but the M21 had once been the primary sniper rifle of the Vietnam War.

  Something Melanie had said last night suddenly came back to Lassiter.

  …even as far back as Vietnam, there were rumors inside the military of a special-forces team connected to Project Phoenix that could enter a heavily guarded building behind enemy lines, carry out a mission, and return to their home base without ever having been seen.

  Lassiter gazed around the deserted mountainside as the blood in his veins turned to ice.

  “BUT YOU CAN’T release her yet,” Melanie protested in alarm. “She’s still too weak, and besides, she has nowhere to go.”

  Dr. Wilder sighed heavily. “I’m not talking about releasing her today. Angel is still a very sick child and she isn’t out of the woods yet. But you have to understand something, Melanie. We have only a few beds here at the clinic, and we have to reserve them for the patients who need them the most. If Angel’s recovery continues as I expect it to, the time will come in the very near future when we’ll have to make other arrangements for her.”

  Melanie bit her lip. “You mean an orphanage, don’t you.”

  “I don’t see that we have any other choice. If we can’t locate family or friends who are willing to take her in…” He trailed off on a shrug. “What else can we do?”

  He was right, of course. If Angel’s family couldn’t be located, then the little girl would eventually have to be placed in an orphanage; the alternative was begging in the streets. The choices were heartbreakingly few and very often brutal for children like Angel. That was reality in Cartéga, and neither Melanie nor Dr. Wilder could change it no matter how much they might wish to.

  Even if Melanie had the means to take the child in herself, the Cartégan government was very strict about foreign adoptions. A single American female wouldn’t stand much of a chance. The best she could hope for was to somehow find the child’s parents or persuade another family to take her in.

  “Why don’t you go back to your hotel and try to get some rest?” Dr. Wilder gave her a sympathetic smile. “Carmen told me you came in before six this morning. You must be exhausted.”

  “I’m all right,” Melanie murmured, but in truth, she could feel the weariness settling into every muscle and bone in her body.

  After Lassiter had left her room the night before, sleep had been impossible. Melanie had alternated between tossing and turning and staring out the window.

  Finally at daybreak, she’d given up on rest and had come down to the clinic to see if she could help with the patients. The only nurse on duty at that hour had been Carmen Santiago, a pleasant, middle-aged woman who’d been delighted to have an extra pair of willing hands.

  But as busy as Melanie had been all day, she still hadn’t been able to keep her thoughts from wandering to Jon Lassiter. It wasn’t every day you saw someone disap
pear before your very eyes, she thought dryly, using his own words. Witnessing his phasing had stunned her—she’d never actually seen anyone do it—but afterward, she couldn’t honestly say that she’d been shocked or even surprised that he could. On some level she must have already known.

  Why else would he have pursued her so relentlessly? Most people would have looked for a logical explanation for what he’d witnessed at the infirmary two nights ago. And barring any reasonable conclusion, they would have decided it was their imagination or a trick of the light.

  But Lassiter had never doubted his eyes even for a moment because he knew it was possible. That explained why he’d gone to so much trouble to hunt her down.

  But it didn’t explain why he’d been so adamant that she tell him how she did it. Didn’t he know?

  Or had he, like her, discovered the ability quite by accident?

  Melanie’s first experience had occurred at the rehab facility. Only twenty-four hours clean and sober and she’d been climbing the walls, certain she’d go out of her mind if she didn’t find a way out of what she considered a prison.

  When she saw the glimmer of light in the wall, felt the tingle of energy flowing through her bloodstream, she assumed she was having some sort of episode. And when she was able to pass her hands through the wall, she knew she’d finally gone off the deep end.

  But something, desperation or instinct, made her walk through the wall. When she suddenly found herself outside the rehab center, she was terrified, certain that she really had lost her mind. But then she did it again—could do it over and over—and she finally had to accept the reality of her ability.

  Strangely enough, when provided the opportunity, she hadn’t run away from rehab. She’d gone back into her room, climbed into bed and pretended that nothing had happened. But the knowledge that she could leave whenever she chose gave her the courage to stick it out. She’d finished the program, and for nearly a decade, had taken nothing stronger than an aspirin.

  But there wasn’t a day that went by she didn’t think about her addiction. There wasn’t a morning she didn’t wake up wondering how she’d get through the rest of the day.

  “Melanie?”

  She mentally clicked back to Dr. Wilder. “Sorry. I must have drifted off.”

  “You look dead on your feet.” He came around the desk and put an arm around her shoulders. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

  He gently but firmly led her down the hallway to the front door. “I’ll see you in the morning, but don’t come in too early. You need to get some sleep. After all, aren’t you supposed to be on vacation? Volunteering at a clinic isn’t much of a holiday.”

  “It has its rewards,” Melanie said with a smile. She gave him a wave as she walked away.

  But she’d gone only a block or so when she realized she’d left her bag back at the clinic. Her room key was inside, but more important, her father’s letters.

  Since Lassiter’s sudden appearance last night, Melanie had had every intention of transferring the letters, along with her passport and spare cash, to a rented safe in the hotel, but she hadn’t yet had a chance.

  Now she wavered, trying to convince herself that the bag would be perfectly safe in the clinic until morning. The desk clerk at the hotel could let her into her room. There really was no need to go back.

  But she knew herself too well. She wouldn’t be able to get any rest until her father’s letters were put somewhere safe. Those letters were her only link to him—and to her past—and she didn’t want to lose them.

  Turning, she hurried back to the clinic and let herself in the front door. The desk and hallway were deserted, and she assumed Blanca and Dr. Wilder were with patients. But as she headed down the corridor to the tiny closet where the staff stored their personal belongings, she heard raised voices coming from Dr. Wilder’s office.

  Normally, Melanie wouldn’t have given the sound much thought. And she certainly wouldn’t have eavesdropped on a private conversation if she hadn’t heard her name spoken with such heated animosity. As it was, she hesitated just outside the door, unabashedly listening in.

  “…understand your problem with her, Blanca. I really don’t. She came here to volunteer her services when she could just as easily be spending her time reclining by the pool at her hotel and sipping coconut rum punch with the other turistas. I would think you’d be grateful for her help.”

  Blanca muttered something too low for Melanie to understand, then she said more loudly and in perfect English, “She is going to bring us nothing but trouble, and you know it.”

  “I know no such thing.”

  “She brought him here, didn’t she?”

  “And I got rid of him,” Dr. Wilder said impatiently.

  “But for how long? He’ll be back. Others may come, too. As long as she’s here, we’ll be constantly looking over our shoulders.”

  “You’re exaggerating. Working yourself up into a state when there’s really no need. I have everything under control.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Blanca said in a wounded tone. “Why do you want her here so badly?”

  “It’s like I said. We can always use an extra pair of hands.”

  “And that is the only reason?”

  “Mi gorrión pequeño, what else could it be?”

  Melanie had already guessed their relationship was more than just professional, at least on Blanca’s end. But to hear the distinguished Dr. Wilder call a woman half his age “my little sparrow” was a bit unsettling, although there was no reason it should be. Blanca was young, but she wasn’t a child.

  And this conversation was really none of Melanie’s business. Even though she was burning with curiosity, she knew the only decent thing to do was leave quietly and pretend she’d heard nothing.

  She might have done exactly that if Blanca hadn’t said in a low, menacing tone, “If she means nothing to you, then why let her stay here? Let me get rid of her.”

  “I have my reasons for keeping Melanie close. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “But—”

  A door slammed somewhere nearby, and Melanie jumped. Inside the office, Dr. Wilder and Blanca fell silent. Then Blanca hissed, “¿Qué fue eso?”

  “Someone slammed a door. Nothing to be alarmed about, but I’ll go check it out.”

  Melanie glanced around frantically for a place to hide. There were doors all up and down the corridor, but none near enough to give her cover before Dr. Wilder made it across his office and glanced out.

  Without thinking, she moved across the hallway, closed her eyes, put out her hands and passed through the wall.

  She emerged into the room on the other side. Dr. Wilder’s muffled voice sounded through the plaster. “It’s okay. It must have been one of the staff leaving through the back door. Diego, perhaps…”

  His voice faded, and only then did Melanie realize how hard her heart was pounding.

  A soft gasp brought her around with a start, and she saw then that she was in a patient’s room.

  Angel watched her from across the room, her eyes wide and dark with terror. As Melanie started toward her, the little girl opened her mouth to scream.

  Chapter Six

  The official investigation into Danny Taglio’s death was a mere formality and was concluded only hours after the shooting. An officer from the Santa Elena police force drove out to the compound, asked a few questions, wrote up a report and then left, thus washing his hands of the whole affair.

  Since Taglio had signed on under Lassiter’s command, the responsibility for the final arrangements fell to him. And since Lassiter had no idea where Taglio was from originally or how to get in touch with his next of kin—or even if Danny Taglio was the man’s real name, for that matter—he’d made arrangements with a local mortuary for the body’s removal and interment the following day.

  There would be no funeral. No memorial service. No weeping widow or grief-stricken mother. Taglio would be laid to rest in foreign soil withou
t benefit of song, prayer or eulogy.

  The same fate awaited Lassiter someday. Which was fitting, he supposed, considering that his own interment should have occurred five years ago, at the bottom of the North Atlantic.

  Instead, he’d awakened in a hospital with tubes and machines attached to his body and the echo of screams inside his head.

  Weeks later, in spite of a full recovery, he’d been dismissed from the military as mentally unfit to serve. A fate worse than death for a man who’d never wanted anything more than to fight for his country. And now he was a man without a country.

  “Lassiter?”

  He roused himself from his reverie and stared across the desk at Angus Bond. The older man held up a bottle of gin he’d pulled from a desk drawer.

  “Care to join me?” he asked, filling a glass. “I hate to drink with the flies.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Still on duty, I suppose.” Bond gave him a rueful salute with the glass before tossing back the contents.

  “Have you had a chance to examine the body?” Lassiter asked.

  Bond grimaced. “I had a look. But what you asked me to do…” He broke off as he poured himself another shot of gin. “I’m not a damned pathologist, Lassiter. I treat head colds, intestinal problems, stitch up the occasional laceration. Cutting open a man’s skull, even with the proper instruments, is a gruesome business at best.” He killed the second drink, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “The poor boy’s head is a mess.”

  “He doesn’t have to look pretty,” Lassiter reminded him. “There won’t be an open casket.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Bond muttered. But it was obvious he’d been affected by the idea of doing an autopsy.

  “What can you tell me about the wound?” Lassiter asked.

  Bond shrugged. “The bullet followed a fairly straightforward path through the brain. There was surprisingly little yawing or fragmenting. I’ve seen wounds like that in combat. A soldier takes a clean hit in the shoulder or leg, or even the chest cavity, then gets patched up and is sent back to his outfit in a matter of weeks or even days. In other words, Lassiter, if Taglio had been hit almost anywhere else besides in the head, he’d likely still be alive. Does that tell you anything?”