At the Edge of the Sun (3 page)

“There’s no way to tell. She’s in rough shape, but people have survived worse. They’ve also died of much, much less. It’s in the hands of God.”

The three older sisters immediately looked even more uncomfortable. Jilly was also the only one of them who believed in a higher power. Granted, Jilly’s God was a benevolent, liberal force for good in the world and not a fundamental judge and jury demanding blind obedience to a limited set of values, but faith hadn’t had much space in the sisters’ upbringing and had no space at all in their adult life.

“And in the hands of the doctors,” Kate added defiantly.

“And in the hands of the doctors,” Jilly agreed.

“So we’re back to the same question,” Holly said, stretching out her long legs in an instinctively graceful gesture. “What are we going to do about it?”

Maggie took a deep breath. “I’m going to England. Tonight. Alone. The L.A.P.D. were able to trace Flynn as far as London. They’ve passed it on to Interpol, but I’m not about to sit around waiting.”

“You’re going tonight? Sybil might not make it through the night,” Kate shrieked.

“Kate, it’s not going to make any difference if I’m here or not,” Maggie said gently. “And it’ll make a difference in whether I’m able to catch up with Flynn or not. He’s already got a twenty-four hours’ head start on me—I can’t afford to let him get much more.”

“But—” Kate argued, but Holly interrupted.

“Maggie’s right, you know. Sybil would rather have Maggie catch him than she would want her hovering over her hospital bed. But she’s wrong about something else. She’s not going alone. I’m going with her.”

“No, you’re not,” Maggie said flatly. “I can’t spend my
time worrying about you while I’m trying to track down Flynn. All my energy needs to be concentrated on him, not on looking after an amateur.”

“I’m not needed here, Maggie,” Holly said. “Kate and Jilly are enough. You might find I’m more than simply decorative.”

Maggie shook her head. “I can’t take the chance. I can’t risk putting you in danger, Holly. This man has already killed a dozen women, not to mention countless political victims. He wouldn’t think twice about carving you up.”

“What about you?”

Maggie smiled, a faint, distant smile that held a trace of her old humor. “I can take care of myself.”

“But—”

“No, Holly. Besides, I’ve got my reservation on the midnight flight to London, and I’m already packed. I don’t want to wait around for another flight while you pack half your wardrobe.”

“But—”

“Miss Bennett?” The green-suited doctor who appeared at their side took the customary moment to stare at Holly before turning to Maggie. “Your mother’s regained consciousness. She’s asking for you.”

The doctor’s definition of consciousness and Maggie’s differed. Sybil lay in the big white hospital bed, a small, huddled figure attached to tubes and machines that brought Bud Willis back to mind no matter how she fought it. Her mother looked small and old, her famous aquamarine eyes sunken, her black hair lifeless. And she’d said only two words before sinking back into a coma.

“Get him,” she said, and her eyes closed once more.

And Maggie had touched the oddly frail flesh. “I will, Sybil,” she said softly, knowing she was beyond hearing. “I will.”

LAX was still busy, even at eleven o’clock at night, but Maggie felt a curious, welcome sense of isolation as she
waited for the boarding call. Her mother’s words still lingered in her mind as she sat in one of the orange plastic seats, waiting. She’d get him, all right. The Colt 380 pistol was hidden in its special pouch in her makeup bag, makeup that had been touched far less often than the gun during the last four months. It would go through with the checked baggage safely enough, and she had only customs to worry about.

She was leaping blind, with only minimal information. The L.A.P.D. had been scarcely helpful, and she’d had to rely on her boss for what solid information she had. Mike Jackson had taken over as head of Third World Causes, Ltd., when Peter Wallace had been murdered. She’d worked with Mike during her short tenure at the CIA, and they’d always shared a mutual respect. He’d been able to con some stuff out of Interpol, not a hell of a lot, but enough to give her a start.

She had no choice. She’d head for London, then fly on up to Ireland, Flynn’s next likely destination according to the information Mike had given her. She was adept at getting what she wanted, and she could always use her short-term association with the CIA if nothing else worked.

She sighed, pushing a slender hand through her hair. Her luggage, including the gun, should already be safely aboard, and as soon as they dealt with the piles of matched lavender luggage that had just arrived …

Maggie sat there, just across from the check in counter, watching with a dawning sense of foreboding. The first load of lavender luggage was followed by a second, and a slender female dressed in the same unlikely shade of purple. Maggie waited as Holly checked twelve pieces of luggage, took her boarding pass, and turned to flash her patient sister a brilliant smile.

“Twelve suitcases, Holly?” she greeted her mildly enough.

“It’s less than I usually take,” she murmured sweetly.

“How’s Mother?”

“Still in the coma.” The smile vanished. “Aren’t you going to yell at me for coming?”

“To tell the truth, I’m glad you’re here. It’s not good for you, but I’m glad I don’t have to do it all alone,” she said. “Considering nobody even knows what the man looks like, we’re going to be up against it. I’ll be glad to have some help.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“I tried to tell you in the hospital but you kept cutting me off. I saw him one afternoon at Sybil’s, when he didn’t realize I was there.”

Maggie felt a sudden dawning of hope. “Could you recognize him again?”

“I think so. Unless he’s using a disguise, and according to what little they know about him, he doesn’t use disguises. Too egocentric, apparently. And since most people don’t know what he looks like, he wouldn’t need to.”

“You’re sure he doesn’t know you saw him?”

“Sybil may have mentioned it, but I doubt it. From what I know about him, he doesn’t leave witnesses. If he knew I saw him I expect I’d probably be in the hospital along with Sybil. Or in the morgue.”

Maggie shivered at the thought. “Maybe. We’ll still have to be doubly careful.” She rose, gathering her paraphernalia. “They’re boarding, Holly. You sure you don’t want to change your mind?”

“I’m sure. Let’s go.”

The flight was by no means full. There was no scramble for boarding, no need for hurry, so it was surprising that the man should bump into them like that, just as they were heading down the winding passageway to the jet. His mumbled apology was in an impeccable upper-class British accent that was at odds with his rough appearance. Maggie’s eyes were sharp as she watched him hurry on ahead of them, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his head ducked down.

He was about average height, with a tough, sturdy body that might almost be called stocky. His clothes were rough, nondescript, and his face was infinitely forgettable. If it hadn’t been for his eyes.

“Bad tempered, wasn’t he?” Holly said lightly, her own eyes trained on the figure ahead of them.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you see the way he glared at us? As if he hated us? Hell, it was his fault he bumped into us, not ours.”

“I didn’t notice.” She eyed Holly’s abstract expression curiously. “I just thought he had nice brown eyes.”

“Green,” she said automatically.

“Were they?”

Holly grinned. “You know they were. And don’t worry—he’s not my type.”

“I’ve never figured out what exactly is your type,” Maggie said.

Holly smiled, her dazzling, serene smile, and the captain flashed her a startled returning smile as they stepped aboard. “Neither have I,” she said sweetly.

Timothy Seamus Flynn pushed the heavy china plate away from him and belched quietly. The rare roast beef lay congealing in fat, and he eyed it curiously, contemplating the nature of dead meat. He was sitting in Champignons, a very posh, very private gambling club in the heart of London, where he intended to throw a great deal of money away at the gaming tables. Whether he came away richer or poorer made little difference to him. He’d made more money than he expected on his latest undertaking, enough money to throw around for a good long time.

Not that he was going to do that. A few nights of rich British food and rich British pussy and then he’d head back to Northern Ireland with what was left of Sybil Bennett’s jewels. Explosives cost money, and while it was a constant battle between his own expensive tastes and his devotion to
the cause, it was time for the cause to win out for a bit. In a couple of days.

He belched again, and he could taste the beef blood on his tongue. He smiled lazily, drained the cognac, and headed for the gaming tables.

Randall shifted his long legs and grimaced at the darkness outside the plane. He hadn’t had much choice when it came to night flights to London, and this particular airline came with seats so jammed together that his six-foot-plus frame could barely squeeze into the classless flight. The food had been worse than usual, and there was a baby crying unceasingly three rows behind him. He swore beneath his breath, using words he hadn’t even thought of in years, and the savage, fluent cursing soothed some of his temper. He had five more hours to go, five more hours crammed into this tourist-laden airplane, and then he could concentrate on what was foremost in his mind: finding Timothy Flynn.

There was no guarantee that Maggie would appreciate the gesture, no guarantee at all. But since their last, hostile meeting when she’d flatly told him he was second best and she wouldn’t settle for him, he’d been waiting for the right moment. Presenting her with her mother’s attacker might be just the right touch. Better than candy and flowers any time.

He shifted uncomfortably, staring out into the rainy night, and wondered where Maggie was at that moment. If he knew her, she was already on her way to London herself. She wouldn’t be counting on anyone else to find Flynn. And she certainly wouldn’t be counting on Randall.

But he’d find Flynn. And he’d find Maggie. And then, just maybe, he’d find some peace of mind.

Customs was easy enough, with all the holiday traffic. Maggie managed her innocent calm as the officials made a cursory inspection of her luggage, of her makeup case with the hidden gun, before gesturing her onward while they
dealt with Holly’s mountain of suitcases. There were times when her sister’s proclivity for fancy clothing had its uses.

Maggie stood there patiently, her own modest suitcase at her feet, when her senses suddenly became very alert. She didn’t whip around, didn’t move, didn’t even risk a furtive glance over her shoulder. She just stood there, absorbing the feel of hostile eyes boring into her narrow back, burning her vulnerable, exposed nape. And then she moved across to Holly, who was busy dazzling the Customs inspector, and touched her lavender silk arm.

“We’re being watched,” she murmured. “Have any idea who it could be?”

Holly turned, her face wonderfully bland as her magnificent eyes swept limpidly over the bustling tourists before resting on Maggie. “Yup,” she said succinctly. “Green Eyes.”

“What was he doing?”

“Just standing there with the London
Times
, leaning against a pillar and trying to look innocent. Except he was glaring at me again.”

“Maybe you remind him of his ex-wife,” Maggie suggested, inwardly pleased at Holly’s deft handling of the situation.

“Maybe,” she said with a grin. “Or maybe he just hates beautiful women.”

“I love your modesty.”

“You love my honesty,” Holly shot back. “Are you going to call the hospital? This may take me awhile.” She flashed another brilliant smile at the customs official wading through the fourth suitcase. The bemused official smiled back.

Maggie nodded. “See if he follows me.”

The row of telephones were well within sight of the customs tables. Green Eyes was lucky, he could watch them both from his vantage point with the London
Times
shielding him. At that moment he seemed far more interested in Holly than her sister, a fact Maggie noticed without a trace
of rancor. Holly was absolutely right, she thought as she dealt with the vagaries of transatlantic telephones. He was staring at her with intense dislike, if not outright hatred.

Such animosity was unnerving and completely unexpected. As far as Maggie knew, Holly had no enemies. If she lived a butterfly existence, the very rootlessness that kept involvement away also kept hatred away. There were no deep emotions, either negative or positive, to interfere with her admittedly shallow existence.

Could the man be Flynn? He hardly seemed Sybil’s type. He was too sturdy, too pugnacious, too lacking in charm or beauty to appeal to someone of Sybil’s exacting tastes. Of course, his eyes were quite beautiful, but Sybil was more into handsome faces and broad backs. No, it couldn’t be Flynn, and Flynn worked alone, without accomplices. Besides, Holly would have recognized him.

Maybe he was just a nutcase, a random psycho who preyed on beautiful women. Holly’s face was famous enough if one was a reader of
Vogue
or
Elle
. Somehow Maggie doubted Green Eyes was into high fashion.

Slowly she replaced the receiver. No change in Sybil’s condition, damn it all. Well, no news was good news—at least she hadn’t worsened. Maggie crossed the room, ignoring their watcher. All they needed was a weirdo complicating matters. The sooner they got through customs and into London the happier she’d be.

There was no sign of Green Eyes when they climbed into their taxi. Maggie leaned back against the seat, next to Holly’s slender shoulders, and looked out the back window of the cab. The sturdy silhouette of the driver behind them was ominously familiar. She almost fancied she could see his green eyes, still watching them.

“Damn.” She ducked back down again. “He
is
following us.”

Holly didn’t turn. “Did we ever have any doubt?”