Tapestry of the Past
Read Tapestry of the Past Online
Authors: Alvania Scarborough
An
Ellora’s
Cave
Romantica
Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Tapestry of the Past
ISBN 9781419918025
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Tapestry of the Past Copyright © 2008
Alvania
Scarborough
Edited by Helen Woodall
Photography and cover art by Les
Byerley
.
Electronic book Publication September 2008
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
(http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Tapestry of the Past
Alvania
Scarborough
Dedication
For efforts above and beyond the call of duty, I would like to thank Bethany Cagle and Tiffany
Winget
. You ladies rock!
Special thanks to my Dad for pounding into my head “that dreading is worse than doing”.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following
wordmarks
mentioned in this work of fiction:
Carter’s Little Liver Pills: Carter Products, Inc.
Dick Dastardly: Hanna-
Barbera
and Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
Ford: Ford Motor Company
Rambo:
StudioCanal
Image S.A.
Smith & Wesson: Smith & Wesson Corp.
Suburban: General Motors Corporation
Superman: DC Comics
Volkswagen Beetle: Volkswagen
Aktiengesellschaft
Prologue
He was strapped face down on the table.
His sense of smell and hearing were acutely sensitive. The muffled shuffle of leather against the bare wood floor scraped across raw nerves, while the sound of his own breathing became an unrelenting echo that filled the small room. He smelled the dank rot of jungle, smelled his own blood as it ran, warm and wet, from his wrists and ankles. The scarred wooden table beneath him had its own odor, one permeated with old sweat and infused with anguish.
Inside him, rage battled with fear.
He welcomed the rage. Clung to it and stoked it until it became so hot it burned his mind and scalded his gut. Rage was the one weapon they couldn’t take from him and it was all that kept him alive and sane in Hell.
The door closed gently and he forced his eyes open. Ignoring the rush of nausea the effort caused, he lifted his head and squinted from between swollen lids. The soft glint of gold winked at the edge of his vision.
Bitter gall flooded his mouth and the muscles in his back tightened. In the days since his capture he’d learned to cringe from the flash of that ring. The identity of the wearer was a mystery—the man was careful to hover outside the bright circle of light—but five days ago he had caught a glimpse of the ring. He almost wished he hadn’t. The design, a dragon swallowing a tiger, haunted him.
The irony of the hunter becoming the hunted hadn’t escaped him. He tugged his wrists. He was now the prey. The knowledge was hard to swallow. Trained to be the best in the world, he’d ended up as nothing more than a victim.
That hint of gold flashed and winked as the man gestured just inside the circle of light.
Cold, surgical steel rested for a moment on his back before it moved in slow, precise patterns.
And then pain.
Icy hot.
Intense.
He closed his teeth on the inside of his cheek until salty, coppery blood flooded his mouth.
* * * * *
Gabriel Steele jerked awake, the taste of blood on his tongue. He thrust the covers off and rose quickly. Shoving one of the French doors open, he stepped onto the balcony.
He gripped the rail with both hands and let the slight breeze, river-cool, dry the sweat from his body. Occasional shudders rippled through him. Dropping his head forward, he drew the moist air deep into his lungs.
“Shit.”
Cold sweat popped out on his forehead as he fought the recollections, the nightmares he had spent nearly twenty years creating. Twenty years spent in the humid, festering jungles of the world, amid blood, death and destruction. Sometimes he wondered if the memories would drive him insane.
Or was he already insane and just didn’t realize it?
Cynicism twisted his lips. His superiors certainly hadn’t given a damn about his sanity. Not as long as he got the job done discreetly and efficiently.
And he’d been very efficient.
His hands clenched on the railing until the aged cedar threatened to crack. The faint plop of a frog jumping into the water from the river bank drew him from the past.
Gabriel drew a deep breath and let the tension seep from his body.
That life was no longer his. He now operated a commercial garden nursery.
Gabriel acknowledged the irony of his choice—creating life instead of destroying it—but gardening possessed a certain…serenity.
He stared out into the night. A faint sheen highlighted the river, turning its shallow waters into a dark meandering snake. Beneath his feet, the wooden balcony creaked and popped as the heat of the day dissipated.
A breath shuddered from his soul.
Serenity was a shadow and, try as he might, he couldn’t capture it.
Combing his fingers through his hair, he dropped into a nearby chair. The rattan creaked under his weight. He noted and separated the sounds of night, cataloguing them as safe.
The echo of a bobwhite sounding in his ears, Gabriel realized what he was doing.
A bitter smile curved his mouth.
Even here, traces of his former life wouldn’t let him be. As naturally as most people breathed, he checked his surroundings for hidden dangers.
Some habits, it seemed, were impossible to break.
Chapter One
It always began with a faceless body.
A soul-deep shiver worked its way from the pit of
Kalesia
Brannigan’s
stomach until she shook with the force of it. She wanted to turn away, to run and hide but couldn’t. Slowly, she walked toward the woman’s body on the ground.
Wisps of early morning fog swirled about her legs, almost as if it were trying to hold her back. She swallowed and forced herself to take those last steps that would bring her to the woman.
No! Don’t look!
At the last moment she averted her gaze from the still face and stared instead at the neat round hole that marred the amber silk of the woman’s blouse, just beneath the left breast.
Pain exploded in her chest. A choking, enveloping agony that ripped the very air from her lungs. Gritty soil ground into her knees as she hit the earth, gasping.
Dear God. She hated the fact she always felt the victim’s last moments. Her knees sagged and she knelt beside the body, unable to tear her gaze from the bullet wound. Such a small, insignificant thing to have effected so much damage. She wrapped her arms about herself and rocked.
She didn’t want to know anymore.
Coward! Look at her face. See the fear she went through before he ended her life without mercy.
No!
Kalesia
fought against the insidious prodding, strangely terrified of gazing at the waxen features. She turned her attention to the surrounding area.
Less than thirty feet straight ahead, brown grass and brittle brush gave way to slick, gray mud as the land sloped down toward a weed-clogged pond. The bare hyacinths and cattails in the shallows gave it a stark and forlorn air.
Kalesia
gained an impression of tracks at the edge of the pond but in the misty light she couldn’t quite make out whether they were human.
A prickle of unease sliced through the benign grayness of early morning, sending a cold sweat to her upper lip. The pond, the stretch of woods with huge oaks hundreds of years old, the lightning-blasted pine were all familiar.
A chill hit
Kalesia
.
Too familiar. Dread and an unwilling fascination made it hard to breathe as her gaze slid from the denuded scrub oaks to the lifeless face of the woman.
“No!”
Gasping for air,
Kalesia
clawed her way to the surface of wakefulness. Sitting, head bowed against her knees, she drew in deep, ragged breaths.
“Dear God, no.” Icy cold chills washed over her in waves despite the warm, humid night. She pulled the covers up until they were under her chin but couldn’t chase the cold away. The familiar items in her bedroom took on ominous shapes. She fumbled for the switch to the bedside lamp, pushing damp strands of hair off her face.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her burning eyes and battled for control of her trembling limbs. “A nightmare. It was only a nightmare. Everyone has nightmares.” The sound of her voice echoed in the air, startling her. She had to get out of the room, away from the shadows that seemed to lurk, to mock her.
She snatched a thick, terry robe from the foot of the bed and made her way down the darkened stairs to her kitchen. The light over the stove was on, offering a warm circle of safety. Locating the copper kettle, she filled it, taking comfort in the everyday task. In the distance, the faint hum of traffic brought a welcomed normalcy.
“Normalcy”. She pondered the concept as she poured water over the bag of Darjeeling tea. Few people would welcome a nightmare as she would, she thought with sudden fierceness. She wouldn’t have to fear a nightmare, could shrug it off as an attack of indigestion or blame a scary movie.
Like a normal person.
She opened a jar of honey and drizzled some into the scalding tea. The clink of the spoon against the stoneware mug was overloud in the silence of the old-fashioned kitchen. She gripped the edge of the cool granite counter and closed her eyes. One deep breath and then another. Slowly, she opened her eyes and she focused on her favorite room in the house, hoping it would work its usual magic.
She loved her kitchen. It had a down-home country feel that never failed to soothe. The soft yellows and muted rose and green made her mother wince every time she came to visit but
Kalesia
didn’t care. Her mother needed to accept the fact she’d raised a daughter with simple tastes.
A violent tremor ripped through
Kalesia
, slicing through her attempt to put off dealing with the truth. Because the truth was, she wasn’t a normal person and what invaded her sleep had not been a nightmare. She’d seen another murder. This time, though, was different. This time her own face had stared back.
* * * * *
“You want to report what?”
“You heard me,”
Kalesia
glanced at the name plaque on the desk, “Major Harley.” Harley was a man in his mid-to-late fifties, tall and with just a hint of a slight paunch. His brown hair, cut military short, had distinguished gray streaks feathering the temples. He appeared a no-nonsense sort of man with a direct gaze but now he stared over her shoulder. His lashes lowered for a long moment.