Angel Face (24 page)

“Water’s great. You should go in.”

He’d been so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t realized she’d walked up to him. She was wrapped snugly in the cloth and looking radiantly alive. Her face was rosy pink and so was the rest of her.

“You have beautiful thighs,” he told her.

Her smile lit up the sky, and he had his answer. That was why he was going to do it, for something as simple as this, a smile. He wanted to see her do that again. And he wanted to give her many more reasons to.

T
HE
landing field looked like something commandeered by guerrilla forces, the kind who liked to ransack the fort after they’d routed the enemy. The tower had no windows that weren’t broken and seemingly no equipment, although there were no airplanes, either, so perhaps equipment wasn’t necessary.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Angela didn’t want to appear ungrateful for Jordan’s help, but she
couldn’t imagine making it off the field, much less getting all the way home.

“Has to be, according to the map.” He turned the pickup truck toward a hangar that stood across the rotting tarmac, although
stood
was optimistic. Rusted tin sheeting hung on a tilting metal frame that looked as if it were vertical only by the grace of the rain forest gods.

The heat and humidity had wreaked havoc here, too. Angela found it difficult to breathe, the air was so hot. She wished they’d thought to bring something from the hut to drink. They had a long journey ahead, and she doubted there would be a beverage service on the charter. She told herself the hot tickle in her throat was from thirst, not fear. She was leaving behind the sense of refuge and rebirth she felt when she first arrived. But this was the right thing they were doing, better than running to the farthest ends of the earth and never returning, which had been her plan.

“I have a plane chartered and paid for, so it had better be the right place,” Jordan was saying. “Of course, we were supposed to fly out yesterday.”

While they were driving, he’d told her about his private detective friend who made arrangements for the hut and the plane. As a precaution, the detective had found a place for them to stay when they got back to the States. The rickety pickup bought by Jordan himself had broken down twice, giving Angela the opportunity to demonstrate mechanical skills she didn’t know she had.

She’d deduced by the noise the engine made that it was the fan belt. Jordan, the expert on hydraulics, insisted it was the water pump and patched up that instead. When the truck immediately broke down again, she tightened the fan belt, and he thanked her grudgingly for her help.

Angela jumped as the hangar door gave out an ungodly screech and began to roll up, creaking and shuddering loudly. It was the kind of racket that caused pain deep in
your jaw and made you want to cover your ears. But she’d already caught a glimpse of some dirty sandals on the other side of the door, and she had a bad feeling they might belong to their charter pilot.

She grabbed her battered backpack and let herself out of the truck. Jordan went to help raise the door, and as it rolled up, Angela was greatly relieved to see a relatively normal-looking older man, whose grease-spattered face and grimy overalls suggested that he’d been working on the small aircraft parked in the hangar. Not a guerrilla, she noted. He didn’t even appear to be Hispanic.

“You the folks who chartered a plane to California?” The man’s lips flattened against a mouthful of strong white teeth. It might have been a grin, but Angela wasn’t sure.

“You’re out of luck,” he said cheerfully. “That plane’s long gone.”

He was grinning.

“This is an emergency,” Jordan said, “a dire emergency. The lady and I have to get to California as soon as possible.”

“I could maybe get one of you there in my Piper Arrow.” He checked out Angela with an eager glance. “Let’s see now. She couldn’t weigh very much, could she, even with that suitcase she’s carrying. All righty then, I’ll take you both, but that’ll be—”

His grin brightened, rivaling a tooth whitener commercial. “Let’s say five grand, shall we? Twenty five hundred each?”

More evidence for Angela’s no-good-men theory. He looked normal, but looks couldn’t be trusted.

“The charter was prepaid.” Jordan dug through his pockets, apparently searching for the paperwork. He turned to Angela, but she couldn’t help him. She’d found nothing but a wallet and car keys when she went through his clothing.

“I don’t know anything about a prepaid charter.” The other man chuckled, growing chummier by the moment, “but if you need to get to California today, I’m your man. I even take American Express.”

He wiped his face with his forearm, smearing grease to his eyebrows. “You get my point, I guess. I’m your only man.”

Angela and Jordan exchanged glances. His expression said exactly what she felt. They were in a Mexican jungle, driving a pickup that wouldn’t make it another mile. What choice did they have?

“When do we leave?” Jordan asked.

“Soon’s I get my baby here fixed.” The pilot pointed to his plane, which was sitting on blocks in the hangar. It didn’t look much more travel-worthy than the pickup.

“What’s the problem?” Angela asked.

“Timing,” the pilot muttered.

“Is that anything like a fan belt?” she asked. “I might be able to help you with that.”

Angela found the exchange amusing. Jordan did not. He gave the man his American Express card, watched grimly as the transaction was processed, then went to get what few belongings he and Angela had from the truck. It was high noon, and the sun was straight overhead. There was no relief anywhere from the sweltering heat and humidity. At least the hut had been surrounded by trees, Angela thought. There’d been some shade and an ocean breeze. This was brutal.

Angela had found some clean clothes in one of the dresser drawers at the hut. She tugged at the neck of her T-shirt, watching Jordan pull off his shirt and mop his brow with it. When he was done, he artfully arranged the white cotton on his head like a desert nomad. She considered trying the same trick, but thought better of taking her shirt off. She’d probably done enough stripping this millenium.

Staring at his broad back, she realized what was happening, and her thoughts grew pensive. They were leaving, and she was already feeling the loss of something she never had. Him. Her one good man. She didn’t understand why he’d agreed to help her, and more, why he would be willing to put himself in such jeopardy. If a CIA agent had said the damning things about Jordan that had been said about her, she might not be so quick to help, especially if Jordan were the prime suspect for multiple murders and he was believed to be after her. But what haunted her most now that they were actually going back was the premonition that she might somehow be the cause of his death and that they would have been right about her.

Jordan was on his way back to her, and the sunlight had turned his hair ice white and made his eyes as blue as the blazing sky. He wasn’t capable of killing, she told herself. But she knew that wasn’t true. Anyone was, if pushed far enough. Anyone.
What would he do if he found out the truth?
she wondered. The only thing she had not been able to tell him.

“J
ORDAN,
let me come with you,
please
.”

Angela’s voice cut into him. Her emotion was so raw it hurt to hear. She was sitting at the desk in the Long Beach hotel room that had been reserved by his detective friend, Mitch Ryder. Her pensive gaze was misted with hints of blue and green, reflections of the floral print sundress she wore.

Mitch had given them his assurance that the hotel was secure, but Angela wasn’t convinced. She wasn’t afraid to stay there alone, but for some reason she didn’t want Jordan to go.

“You’re the one who’s vulnerable,” he told her. “They’re after you, not me.”

“I can’t just sit here and wait while you confront a CIA agent named Firestarter. I’m frightened.”

A khaki jacket hung on the back of the bar stool where Jordan stood. He slipped it on, surprised at the fit. There’d been a satchel full of clothing and supplies waiting for them when they checked in, as well as a rental car. Mitch had even been able to scrounge up Jordan’s pager, the
tiny, annoying device that had saved more lives than Jordan could count. Jordan had decided on the spot that the detective was underpaid.

“Nothing will happen to me,” he assured Angela. “I’m just going to have a little talk with the agent, that’s all.”

“Then why do you need a gun?”

“Because Mitch thought it would be smart, a precaution.” The SIGPro nine-millimeter she spoke of was on the coffee table that fronted the room’s one homey touch, an overstuffed couch. Like most males, Jordan had been intrigued by guns in his youth, and he still knew most of the makes, but he’d never carried one. Fortunately, Mitch had made sure there was a weapon in the satchel, and he’d given Jordan a crash course in gun safety before Jordan left for Mexico.

A banging noise startled both of them. Jordan vaulted the couch and swept up the gun. He was halfway to the front door when he realized what it was. The room had a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator.

“The icemaker,” he said. “It just dumped the tray.”

“God, that was terrifying.” Angela rose and crossed a bedroom just big enough for the king bed, small couch, and writing desk. There was a bathroom the size of the closet, and strangely enough, the drapes and bedspread were done in a similar bird of paradise fabric as the grass hut in Mexico. Maybe Mitch had connections with a hotel franchise for runaways.

Angela hesitated at the bed, as if she wasn’t quite sure where to go next. Jordan slipped the handgun inside his jacket. Quietly, he came up behind her, although something kept him from touching her. He didn’t want to startle her again.

“Would you rather I left the gun with you?” he asked.

“It wouldn’t do me any good. I’ve never shot one.”

Now he reached for her and turned her around. “If
anyone knows how to use a gun, you do, Angela. I’m sure of that.”

She gave him a stricken look. It was almost as if he were accusing her of something.

“I didn’t mean that—”

“It’s just that I can’t remember.”

“I know, I know, I should never have said it.” This was not the woman who cut off his shirt in the jungle. This was the one who was desolate over Birdy’s clipped wings. The problem was, he was never quite sure who he was dealing with, and right now he didn’t need the confusion.

“Angela, it’s going to be all right. Let me go. Let me help you.”

“Jordan, please tell me why you’re doing this.”

“I’ve asked myself that very question.”

She tugged on his lapel. “It’s important! I have to know. Too many people have been hurt.”

This was not the time for his trademark irony, he realized. She was palpably sad, and he had helped make her that way. “I wish I could tell you.”

She nodded, resigned. But he couldn’t stand to see her so unhappy.

He touched her mouth, and the softness made his voice drop low. “When I first saw your picture, I knew I’d seen you before, but I couldn’t figure out where. And then I realized it wasn’t just me,” he told her. “I wasn’t the only one who’d seen you before. I was in the company of every eight-year-old kid who had ever stared up at the clouds and caught a glimpse of heaven.”

“Heaven?”

“When little boys dream of angels, this is the face they see, Angela. Do I need a better reason for doing anything?”

Her breathing lost its rhythm. “What a lovely thing to say.”

“I guess you could blame it on Firestarter. He supplied the picture.”

“The one in my dossier? But I thought he told you I was a serial killer.”

“He did. He impressed that on me very strongly.”

“And that made you think of angels?”

The moment seemed to call for a shrug. “It did.”

“Lucky me.”

She laughed, and they were in each other’s arms, holding on, holding on.
If only we
could
hold on
, he thought. But she broke away abruptly.

“Call me the minute you talk to this Firestarter person. Use a pay phone if you have to.” A hesitation. “What kind of an operative would call himself Firestarter?”

“One with half his face burned off, I guess.”

“And he did it himself? He started the fire?”

Jordan didn’t have an answer for that. “Avoid the phone unless there’s an emergency,” he told her. “The same with the pager, but don’t hesitate to call me if you have to.”

He took her hands, actually intending to leave this time. But she was sighing, fighting tears. She seemed much more concerned for him than she was for herself, but he had to wonder what was really frightening her. He hoped to God it wasn’t the same foreboding that had taken hold of him. He was haunted by what he might find out when he met with Firestarter.

T
HE
tiny refrigerator was stocked with Thai takeout, bottled iced tea, and fresh fruit, compliments of Mitch Ryder, but Angela couldn’t make herself sit down and eat, even though she should have. Her stomach was empty, her thoughts were mired with fear and guilt, and that quiet voice of certainty in her head had deserted her. In its place were howler monkeys from the jungle, shrieking warnings.

A remote sat atop the TV. She clicked on a news
channel, knowing she wouldn’t listen. Maybe the noise would help distract her from worrying about what could go wrong.
“Give up what you can’t control. Mental battles are wasted effort. You’re only fighting yourself.”

Another bit of wisdom from her anonymous mentor? She couldn’t seem to absorb anything right now. There were times when the entire world shouted at you to do the right thing, and you still did the wrong one. It was a question of perception, theirs versus yours. Everyone had a blind spot, a crucial truth they couldn’t see. Or wouldn’t.

She returned to the desk, drawn by the silent phone. It was too early to expect a call from Jordan, but the waiting was already unbearable. Meanwhile, he’d warned her not to leave the room under any circumstances or call out unless it was an emergency. If she needed anything, she was to contact the desk and have them get it for her. But all she wanted was to call her apartment and get her messages. Surely he hadn’t meant that. They’d been accumulating since she left for Mexico, and if anyone from SmartTech had called, she needed to know. It would help her know what to expect.

She turned away with a sigh, aware that she had to do something. Right now, her idea of torture was exactly this: being stranded in a sterile hotel room, waiting for disaster to happen. She was somewhere in Long Beach, but other than that, she had little sense of what was going on. She didn’t even know how much danger they were in, but her mind kept filling in the blanks with gruesome details.

The room wasn’t big enough to pace, and eventually she found herself in the bathroom, confronted with her own stumbling dread in the mirror. This was the face of an angel? Then how could it have been the cause of so much pain and devastation? She didn’t understand what Jordan saw when he looked at her, what they all saw, or why this horror kept happening. Her agitation was so great
it made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

“Rain, rain, go away,” she whispered.

There was some transformation taking place inside her. She could feel it, another tiny fissure in the barrier that walled her off, but this one was deep. Poison fumes were seeping through the crack, forming nightmarish figures, all of them male. There was a knife in her hand and she was stabbing at bodies, sprawled bodies, all of them seemingly dead. But it was the screaming that horrified her most. These weren’t cries of pain. And it wasn’t the victims. It was her. She was crying for justice, for blood.

A sound caught in Angela’s throat. It was mute agony. This was what she’d been afraid to tell Jordan. It was what she’d been desperate to keep at bay, the revenge fantasies.
Desperate because she loved them, because they fed her twisted soul
. She was cursed, fatally cursed. She had the face of an angel and the mind of a monster, and the man who raised her had done this to her. He had made her into a creature as demented as he was. Her legacy was terrifyingly violent nightmares, impotent rage, and a desperate need to be anybody but who she was.

“Do as you’re told, and no one will get hurt.”

Angela picked up a washrag and began to scrub at her face. Moments later, she’d scoured away all traces of makeup and yanked her hair into a tight knot. Laughter burned her throat, but she couldn’t release it. It wasn’t until she’d completely obliterated the face that other people saw that she could stop the rout. This was no angel. This was a freak. She looked like a freak of nature, and that was exactly what she wanted.

When she went back to the phone and lifted the receiver, her anxieties had been replaced by a numbing sense of mission. The number she dialed was her own. There were three voice mail messages, two from Mona Fremont and one from Peter Brandt. Mona reminded her she’d missed a session and then called again the next day,
urging her to make another appointment. The psychiatrist had sounded almost frightened.

The next message was from Peter Brandt.

“Angela, don’t under any circumstances go to the lab,” he warned. “It isn’t safe. Come to my home. Come here as soon as you can. We have to talk.”

The call had come in that morning, and something in his tone raised Angela’s hackles. It was a quality she’d never heard before. Peter Brandt was lying.

F
OG
was rolling in low over Long Beach harbor, thick, sodden waves of it. It looked like a silvery comforter that had drifted down to settle upon the earth. Jordan pulled the jacket around him and was glad to have one. It wasn’t unusual weather for the beach, even in the summer, but tonight of all nights, he wanted visibility.

There were things that had to be cleared up. Had to be said.

The low tide gave off pungent, sinus-clearing smells that were rank with seaweed and dying marine life. He could make out row after row of sailboat masts and a cruise ship, festooned with banners advertising harbor brunch cruises. Across the way, there was a yacht club and restaurants, all set against a fuzzy skyline dominated by the majestic
Queen Mary
.

He was curious why the agent had chosen this area to meet, but the obvious answer was the weather. A fog bank drove even the diehards away from the beach. They wouldn’t be disturbed here. Jordan checked his watch. He hadn’t been waiting long enough to be concerned yet. Firestarter was only ten minutes late, but something about this place gave him the creeps. Heavy fog dampened everything, even the noise level. It was too quiet.

He’d spotted a pay phone nearby, and the urge to call Angela had been strong. But he had nothing to tell her
yet, and the only thing that could reassure her now was information. He’d made the call to Firestarter when they landed in Los Angeles. And then he’d made one other call from a pay phone at the airport, aware that it was risky, but he’d wanted to let at least one person at California General know he was back.

He’d decided against calling anyone on the administrative or nursing staff, and he’d avoided his colleagues as well, including Steve Lloyd, the second man on his team. There would have been too many questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he wanted to do was check on his surgery schedule and his patients. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to get through, so he’d left a message and hoped to God he hadn’t chosen the wrong person.