Lover, Stranger Page 8

  “Because all that philanthropy takes a great deal of money, and you also have very expensive tastes.” Grace made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “You can’t buy all this with citations and awards and letters from the president. Plus, you have the perfect cover. Your clinic in Mexico is remote, practically inaccessible, from what Amy said, and perfectly legitimate.”

  “Except for the fact that, according to you, I operate on criminals on the side,” he said bitterly. “I give them new faces so they’re free to go out into the world to rape, murder, and steal at will.”

  Grace’s gaze didn’t quite meet his. “Reardon probably found out about you from someone in prison. When he escaped, he made his way across the border and somehow found your clinic in the jungle. I think he gave you a great deal of money, probably millions, to give him a new face.”

  “Millions?” Ethan frowned. “The article said he’d been in prison for over six years. Where would he get that kind of money?”

  “At the time he was caught, it was estimated that he’d amassed a fortune worth well over thirty million dollars. It was never found.”

  Ethan stared at her in surprise. “So who is this guy anyway?”

  Grace paused. “He’s an ex-Navy SEAL and an explosives expert who sold his services to the highest bidder. He became a mercenary, an assassin, sometimes a terrorist. It didn’t much matter to him what the job entailed so long as the price was right. He enjoyed killing and he was good at it. It was all a game to him, one he made a lot of money from. The first time he escaped prison, he went after the FBI agent who had captured him. Reardon firebombed the agent’s house and wired all the doors to explode when the people trapped inside or the rescuers on the outside tried to open them. There was no way in or out. The agent, his wife and a daughter all died in the fire.”

  Her expression remained coldly dispassionate, but Ethan sensed she wasn’t quite as calm as she appeared. There were lights inside her eyes. Tiny flares of rage when she spoke. Was she thinking of her sister?

  “After that, he remained free for several years,” Grace said. “He was a master of disguises, always staying one step ahead of the authorities. He may even have gone out of the country for a while. But then he made one very serious mistake. The only one in the agent’s family who hadn’t been killed in the fire was a teenage girl who’d sneaked out of the house that night. Reardon came back to get her.”

  “Why?” Ethan asked. “How could the girl hurt him?”

  “Because she could identify him, for one thing. And because she was a loose end. From everything I’ve learned about Reardon, he doesn’t like loose ends. He’s almost obsessive about it.”

  “So what happened when he came back for the girl?”

  “There was another agent, a woman. She was the murdered agent’s partner. She’d made it her life’s work to track down Reardon and send him back to prison. She knew he’d eventually come after the girl, and when he did, she got him.”

  Ethan didn’t much like the sound of that. “You mean she used the girl as bait?”

  Grace shrugged. “That’s one way of putting it. But she also saved the girl’s life. To her, the end justified the means.” Grace picked up one of the framed citations and studied it closely.

  Ethan used the opportunity to study her. She seemed as focused as ever this morning, her voice steady, her expression still as determined as he remembered it.

  But what he hadn’t remembered was how the blue of her eyes lightened or darkened depending on her emotions, or how the tint of her lip gloss reminded him of lush, ripe strawberries. What he hadn’t remembered was the scent of her perfume, so subtle it seemed hardly more than imagination, or the way her modestly cut jacket only hinted at the womanly curves beneath. Ethan hadn’t remembered any of those things—or was it that he had just been working very hard to forget them?

  “How do you know so much about this Reardon?” he asked her.

  They both glanced up at the same time, their gazes locking. Ethan’s gaze was drawn to her lips when she spoke. “A lot of the information is in the article I showed you, plus, after I found that clipping in Amy’s apartment, I did some research. I wanted to know why Reardon’s picture seemed to frighten her so much.”

  “You think Amy knew what was going on in the Mexican clinic?”

  “I think she at least suspected, and that’s why she was so afraid.” Grace set aside the frame she’d been holding. “Amy had been to the clinic with you on at least one occasion. She even alluded to the fact that she’d seen a man down there, a patient, whose face was covered in bandages. She didn’t know who he was, but she found his presence at the clinic strange because most of your patients down there are children. I think she came back here and somehow started putting two and two together.”

  Ethan walked over and stared at the picture of him and Dr. Salizar in front of the Mexican Clinic. If everything Grace said was true, no wonder Salizar looked so frightened. Ethan wondered if the clinic had really been burned to the ground by banditos, or if one of his former patients had come back looking for him.

  He turned to Grace. “So you think Reardon killed Amy because she was on to him?”

  “No. I think Amy was a bonus. I think you were the target because you may be the only person in the world who has seen Trevor Reardon’s new face.”

  In spite of himself, Ethan felt chilled by her words. “And now I can’t identify him because I don’t remember him.”

  “That’s the ironic part,” Grace said. “He could be anyone. Your next-door neighbor. The mailman. Anyone. If Trevor Reardon wants you dead, the only way you can survive is to somehow find him first.”

  “You mean use myself as bait,” Ethan said, marveling at her coolness. “Like the FBI agent used the girl.”

  Grace shrugged. “It makes sense. You’re a loose end. Sooner or later, Reardon will come after you.”

  “And when he does?”

  She shrugged again. “When he does, we have to be ready for him.”

  He looked at her and just shook his head. “Has it ever once occurred to you that you and I are hardly trained to capture a murderer, let alone an ex-Navy SEAL who has a penchant for explosives?” For a moment, Ethan thought she was actually going to smile at his words. She almost seemed to be enjoying herself, and he said angrily, “For God’s sake, this isn’t a game, Grace. I’m a plastic surgeon without a memory, and you’re a—what did you call it—a researcher for a law firm? What in the hell makes you think we can pull this off?”

  “Have you got a better plan?” she demanded. “You certainly can’t go to the police.”

  Ethan closed his eyes briefly, remembering the jungle, the fear, the certainty that the men who pursued him were the police. Had the Mexican authorities been on to him? Was that why he’d been running?

  If what Grace suspected was true, if Ethan had in fact aided and abetted criminals by selling them new faces, then he would more than likely be looking at a stiff sentence of his own if he were to go to the police. And maybe, if he had done all the things Grace thought he had, prison was exactly where he should be.

  But there was still some doubt in Ethan’s mind, still some lingering suspicion that Grace Donovan hadn’t told him everything. That she had left out something very important, and until he could figure out the whole story, he wasn’t about to throw himself on the mercy of the court.

  “Maybe I can’t go to the police,” he said. “But I still don’t understand what’s stopping you.”

  “I thought I explained myself last night.”

  “But it still doesn’t make sense. I don’t want to seem cruel, but you can’t help your sister by getting yourself killed. If I’m Trevor Reardon’s target, then I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Grace said, frowning. “You can’t do this alone. You need me. I can watch your back. We can watch each other’s back for that matter, because I’m not giving up on this. Reardon killed my sister, and I’m going to make damne
d sure he pays. If you won’t help me, I’ll go after him on my own.”

  And she would do it, Ethan thought. He could see the determination in her eyes, in the defiant way she held her chin and jaw. She would go after Reardon alone, and then Ethan would have her death on his conscience.

  The thought of her getting hurt or killed made him almost physically sick. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he said.

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, I do. I’m not helpless. Believe me, I can take care of myself.”

  “Against an assassin-turned-terrorist?”

  Her gaze flickered but didn’t waver. “He’s a man. He has weaknesses. We know two things about him. He’s dangerous and he’s compulsive. He won’t be able to resist coming back to finish what he started. All we have to do is be ready for him.”

  She made it sound so easy, but somehow Ethan knew she wasn’t being naive. She really believed what she was saying, and her confidence was almost enough to convince him. Almost.

  “So what’s our first move?” he asked.

  Sunlight from the window fired the red highlights in her hair as she tucked a strand behind her ear. “I guess the best way to flush him out is to go about your normal business. If Reardon is after you, then he’s probably made a point of knowing your routine.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting I see patients today,” Ethan said dryly. “I don’t think I’m up for that. And I don’t think they would be, either.”

  “No, of course not,” Grace said. “But you can always check in with your office, maybe even go by there. After that, we’ll play it by ear.”

  He said suddenly, “Do you have a key to Amy’s apartment?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because you found one clue there already. Maybe there are others.”

  “You don’t think the police will have cordoned off her apartment?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Not likely. From what the detective told me last night, they’re inclined to believe someone broke into the office looking for drugs, and Amy was shot when she surprised him. The police will be canvassing the neighborhood this morning, looking for witnesses and evidence dropped or stashed by the suspect. They may never feel the need to search Amy’s apartment.”

  Grace mulled that over. “You’re probably right Like I said, I don’t have a key, but I can get us in.”

  That confidence again. Ethan stared at her admiringly. “All right. You can make yourself at home down here while I go up and finish dressing. Then we can get out of here.”

  UPSTAIRS, ETHAN HURRIED over to the nightstand by the bed and opened the top drawer, removing the stack of bills he’d found in the safe that Pilar had somehow missed. Then he picked up the pistol he’d found in the safe. The gun was small, a high-caliber, custom-made job that almost fit inside Ethan’s hand.

  He tested the weight of the gun as a strong sense of déjà vu slipped over him. He’d had that same feeling the moment his hand had closed over the weapon in the safe. It was the first thing he’d come across that had seemed familiar to him since waking up in the hospital last evening.

  Ethan knew how to use the gun. Not just a gun, but this particular gun. He knew the sights would be accurate, the trigger pull crisp and the recoil minimal. He couldn’t even remember his own mother, and yet he knew how to field strip this weapon and reassemble it in a matter of seconds.

  Trying not to think about what that might mean, he slammed back the slide to put one bullet in the chamber, flipped on the safety with his thumb, then slipped the pistol into the back waistband of his pants. Next he peeled away several bills from the wad of money and stuffed them in his pocket. The rest he returned to the drawer.

  The shoes he’d been wearing the night before were beside the bed where he’d kicked them off. He slid them on, thinking briefly how much better they fit than the ones he’d tried on earlier that morning. His final preparation was to grab a jacket from the closet. It would be hot outside, but he needed something to conceal his gun. No use revealing all his secrets to Grace. Not yet at least.

  As he walked down the stairs to join her, Ethan couldn’t help reflecting on how much better he felt with money in his pocket and a high-powered weapon within his reach.

  Just what the hell kind of doctor was he anyway?

  THEY DROVE SOUTH on Gessner Road, a long street that was beautiful in some areas and cluttered with shopping centers, convenience stores and apartment buildings in others. The section near Ethan’s house was particularly lovely, with its tree-shaded sidewalks and flower-strewn median.

  The abundance of towering oaks and loblolly pines was one of the things that had surprised Grace most about Houston. She had expected a dry, sprawling metropolis dotted with oil wells and ugly refineries, but the city was very wooded with houses and glass office buildings almost hidden beneath thick canopies of green.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ethan staring out the window, watching the road signs, trying to familiarize himself with the city. For a moment, she tried to put herself in his place, but it was impossible to imagine what he was going through. To have no recall of who you were, what kind of person you’d been, but to have every reason to suspect the worst. To have been told everything he’d been told that morning—

  Grace nudged away the guilt prodding at her conscience. Everything she’d done was necessary. Every lie and deception essential. She wouldn’t spend time regretting what couldn’t be helped.

  Crossing Westheimer, one of the main thoroughfares in Houston, she turned right on Richmond, then pulled into an apartment group called The Pines.

  The complex was like a number of others they’d passed along the way—two-story buildings that housed between four and eight “garden” apartments per unit. The grounds were immaculately groomed, with huge pink and white oleander bushes hugging the sides of the buildings while tall pine trees, circled by beds of impatiens and monkey grass, shaded the common grounds between the units.

  Grace parked in front of the leasing office, shut off the engine, and turned to Ethan. In spite of the trees, the intense heat and sultry humidity invaded the car. She lowered the windows, but without a breeze, it didn’t help much.

  “Maybe you’d better let me go in alone,” she said. “I don’t want to make anyone suspicious.”

  She saw from his expression that he understood her meaning. Though improved, his bruised appearance was still enough to raise eyebrows. He nodded and watched her open the car door. Grace felt his eyes on her until she disappeared inside the office.

  As always, the air conditioning hit her full blast. That was something else Grace had yet to get used to—going from a furnace to a freezer in a matter of seconds. Houstonians seemed to think they could compensate for the soaring temperatures outside by turning their AC to frigid. Even wearing a jacket, Grace found herself shivering.

  A woman with frosted blonde hair sat reading a book behind a large desk near the doorway. The red-and-blue rhinestones on her T-shirt sparkled in the overhead lighting as she reached up and removed her glasses. “May I help you?”

  Grace walked over and stood in front of the desk. “I hope so. My name is Grace Donovan. One of your tenants is...was...my sister.” She broke off and glanced down at her hands. After a split second, she said, “Her name was Amy Cole. She lived in 4C.”

  The woman’s gaze grew anxious. “You said, was.”

  Grace bit her lip. “She was killed last night.”

  The woman gasped. Her manicured fingers flew to her fuchsia-stained lips. “I’m so sony. H-how did it happen?”

  Grace released a long, shaky breath. “I can’t really go into the details right now. It’s...still so fresh. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course.” The woman was at a loss. She stared helplessly at Grace. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I need to get into Amy’s apartment.”

  A frown flitted across the woman’s features. “Did Amy have you listed as the
next of kin on her leasing application?”

  “I’m not sure,” Grace admitted. “I’ve only lived here in Houston a few weeks.” She paused. “You see, the problem is, I have to choose something for them to...for Amy to...wear.”

  Understanding dawned in the woman’s face. Pity deepened in her eyes. She reached inside her drawer and withdrew a key. “This is a master. I’ll have to let you in myself. I can’t just give you the key.”

  “I understand,” Grace said. “And that’s fine. I appreciate your help.”

  The woman got up and they started for the door. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Amy was a good tenant. Always on time with her rent. Except for that one incident, there was never any trouble with her.”

  Grace paused with her hand on the door knob. “What incident are you talking about?”

  The woman bit her lip, as if worrying about how much to tell the dead woman’s sister. “There was a man, Amy’s boyfriend, I guess. I gather he was... married.” Her gaze flashed to Grace’s face. Seeing no signs of resentment, she continued. “He was at her apartment one night when his wife showed up. I live here in the complex, you know. Right across the parking lot from Amy’s apartment. Anyway, the woman created such a disturbance I finally had to call the police.”

  “What did she do?”

  Another pause. The woman’s frown deepened. “She had a gun. She shot out the tires on her husband’s Porsche, and then threatened to use the gun on Amy.”

  AMY’S APARTMENT WAS decorated in soothing pastels—green, peach and cream. The colors reminded Grace of warm breezes and flower-scented afternoons. Of youth and innocence and everything she’d lost one cold Saturday night.

  The apartments Grace had occupied since that night fourteen years ago, when she’d lost her whole family, were places where she slept and sometimes ate. They were never home. Not like this.