The Fifth Kingdom (8 page)

Placing his hand over the smaller research journal, he pushed it away and moved the other larger one closer to Deanna. “It
is
important to her. Very important.”

She turned away from him slightly and opened the book to the first page. Her hand trembled as she ran her fingers over the words there. She ducked her head down, making it difficult for him to gauge what was going on with her. Not even her breathing provided a clue, except possibly that she was controlling her every action since each inhale/exhale seemed measured. Way too regular.

Her actions remained guarded until she reached the end of the page and laid her hand on the surface of the table. She continued staring down at the paper, pressing her fingers down onto the tabletop as if to stabilize herself.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke and rough with emotion. “Did you read this?”

“Only the first couple of sentences. I realized it was personal and stopped, although I did look through some of the pictures.” Because he thought it would help her move forward, he shifted so that he could more easily reach the journal and carefully flipped the pages until he came to one of his favorite photos.

“You seemed all excited about this Christmas gift,” he said and motioned to a series of pictures taken nearly two decades earlier during the holidays. In the photographs, a gap-toothed Deanna was busy ripping bright red-and-green paper off a nearly foot-high metal box.

“It was a chemistry set that I had wanted when I went through my mad scientist phase. I spent my entire Christmas vacation making snow in test tubes and awful smelly things,” she replied in a choked whisper, but without his prompting, she began to flip through the pages. Every now and then she would pause, relate another story about a family adventure to him.

A trip to Colonial Williamsburg where she had been chosen to be part of an irate mob rebelling against taxation without representation.

Tromping up the Statue of Liberty to share the breathtaking views from the crown.

At the last entry, she paused and ran her hand over her mother’s neat writing beneath the article. “She says she’s proud of me. Of the woman I’ve become.”

“She has reason to be proud,” he offered up since there was no denying that for a woman not yet thirty, Deanna’s academic accomplishments were beyond reproach.

She whipped her head up to meet his gaze. Tears had returned to her eyes, but she was valiantly fighting them back. “She said similar things in the other diary. Snippets here and there and yet…”

This time there was no damming the tears that spilled over and ran down her cheeks, but she did nothing to stop them nor did he. He suspected that she had held them back for far too long and he understood the reason for them. He had felt much the same way more than once in his life.

“Why didn’t she tell you this in person?” he said, completing her earlier thought. Reaching up, he cradled her cheek and wiped away the tears there.

A sob escaped her then, ripping through her body with rough force. It was quickly followed by others.

He shifted closer and embraced her. Gave her the proverbial shoulder to cry on while she vented years and years of hurt that no amount of psychotherapy had been able to cure. “It wasn’t you, Deanna. Her leaving was never about you.”

How well he understood that, Bill thought. For a long time he had thought he had done something to drive his parents away. If it hadn’t been for his foster father Thomas, that self-doubt might have led him down a different path.

“I always tried to be her good girl. To be the best that I could be,” she mumbled against his shoulder and sniffled.

Being an overachiever had clearly been Deanna’s coping mechanism, but that alone would never have made her happy because Miranda had not been there to see the accomplishments.

“It’s obvious from the journal that she’s proud of you and everything that you’ve done.”

Deanna pulled away from him then, swiping her hands across her cheeks to rid herself of the telltale signs of her tears. Pulling her shoulders back almost to bolster herself, she said with greater conviction, “I know that now.”

And that knowledge had freed her only a little because he could see in her watery gaze that the big “Why?” still lingered. Cradling the side of her face, he said, “You may never know why she left, Deanna.”

She nodded. “Maybe when we find her. Maybe then she can tell me why.”

“Maybe,” he echoed, wanting to be supportive, yet at the same time not wanting to give her any false hopes.

“Would you mind if I took some time alone to look through this more thoroughly?”

He suspected it would put her through an emotional wringer and worried that it would delay her review of the other, more pertinent journal. But he had to weigh that possibility against Deanna being less useful if she was constantly being distracted by the emotions relating to her mother.

“Not at all. I can get to work on tracking down this Lopez guy. Use the key to read some more of the other book.”

She rose from the table, wrapped her arms around the journal and held it to her chest. Smiling tightly, she said, “Thank you for understanding.”

“If you need me…” he offered despite being unsure of just how he could help her.

With a curt nod, she walked away, but not before stopping at the entrance to the hall to look back at him. It was a pleading,
don’t leave me
look he recognized well. He had seen the same look reflected in the mirror dozens of times as a young boy after his parents had abandoned him.

Then firming her lips and straightening her shoulders, she walked down the hall, leaving him to his work.

After taking a break to check-in with the two agents guarding the perimeter of the safe house as well as ADIC Williams, Bill sat back down at the dining room table with his computer and Miranda’s research journal. Memorizing the simple code, he read through the latter part of the entries, understanding for himself just what it was that Miranda believed she had discovered and why it would be important to Primera Mexica.

As he had discussed before with Deanna, Miranda seemed to have a great deal of interest in the Sun Stone, although the notes did not indicate why. He assumed it was likely because Miranda had found a relic that was somehow tied to the Sun Stone and that she needed more information to confirm her suspicions about her discovery. That would explain why she had consulted with Hector Lopez, a local historian active in preserving Mexican antiquities and a supposed expert on the Aztec Sun Stone, which now resided in the National Museum of Anthropology.

It worried him that Miranda might have walked straight into the hands of someone working with Primera Mexica, especially since a few times throughout her narrative, Miranda had indicated that what she had discovered might hold great power. Of course, he hoped that could mean just great symbolic power much like he and Deanna had already discussed.

Closing the book and saving his notes, he rose and stretched out. He had been sitting at the table for a couple of hours and had grown stiff. His injured side protested the movement, yanking a moan from him. Pain radiated from where he had been hit earlier. Awareness of the injury brought another reality: he was dog-tired.

He grabbed the journal and his computer and headed down the hallway, pausing at Deanna’s door. He wanted to knock and see how she was doing, but it was nearly one in the morning. He assumed she had likely set aside her mother’s journal to get some sleep. Walking across the hall to his bedroom, he changed into comfortable pajama bottoms in deference to the two guests across the way. Tucking his gun and the book into the nightstand drawer, within ready reach, he sat on the bed and grabbed his laptop again, intending to do some more research on Hector Lopez when he realized Deanna was standing at his door.

“I thought I heard you moving around,” she said, one hand braced on the jamb. Her chestnut-colored hair was sleep-tousled. Her hazel-green eyes were slightly swollen. She had been crying. He forced himself not to look below her shoulders because although she wore a modest one-piece sleep shirt, there was no hiding the curvy body or amazing legs peeking from beneath the edge of the shirt.

Locking his gaze on hers to avoid the temptation, he said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

In a husky voice, she said, “I wasn’t sleeping.” After a deep inhalation and the space of a heartbeat, she blurted out, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Because he remembered one too many times curled up by himself on whatever had passed for his bed, he nodded and motioned to the empty space beside him. “It’s a big bed. Plus it’ll make it easier for me to keep an eye on you.”

She smiled then and it reached her eyes. “Far be it for me to make your life more difficult,” she replied wryly.

“Now that’s a change,” he said with a chuckle and patted the mattress beside him. “It’s all yours.”

She walked over and slipped beneath the covers and for safety’s sake, he stayed above them. He reached over and shut off the light on the nightstand, plunging the room into semidarkness. Moonlight streamed in from the windows on the far side of the space, providing some illumination. Enough for him to see her face when they turned toward each other in bed.

She had grown serious in those scant few seconds it had taken him to turn off the light.

“How do you do it?” Her arms were wrapped across her body as if she would unravel if she didn’t somehow hold herself together.

“Do what?” he asked, needing further clarification.

“Act so confident and self-assured, like nothing in the world can rock your foundation?”

She’d chosen the right word to start her query. Act. It was what he did every day of his life, hiding the real him. The one that at times was still the scared little boy who wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball to protect himself. She had brought out that fearful side of him more than anyone else ever had. Part of it was that he identified with her. The other part…

It would possibly be too dangerous to acknowledge what that other part was, but he knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with a less than honest answer. “My life and the lives of those who depend on me demand that I be in control of everything around me.”

Deanna raised her hand and laid it on his chest. Beneath her palm his heartbeat picked up speed and the way his breath hitched for a just a moment confirmed that his restraint was hard-won.

“For a long time I thought I had things in order. Now I realize just how shallow a veneer that was,” she said.

“There’s no shame in that, Deanna,” he replied and covered her hand with his, his palm rough against the back of her hand. It was the hand of a man whose labors were difficult. The hoary moonlight allowed her to see the silvery line of the scar along the one knuckle. Another sign to add to the others that gave testament to the hard life he had lived up until now.

“For months after she left I tried to be the perfect child, hoping she’d come back,” she said and rubbed her hand along the crisp hairs on his chest, finding the action somehow soothing.

“But she didn’t and yet you still kept on striving to do more.”

“I think I knew why I was doing it–to please her and yet to punish her by showing her what she was missing,” Deanna admitted, finally acknowledging the conflicting motivations that had been driving her for so long.

“But you still wonder if you couldn’t have done more. Been better. Been more than perfect, but you already were,” he said and raised their joined hands until his lips brushed across her knuckles.

The action sent a shiver through her. His action was filled with not only understanding, but with his own pain. She freed her hand and cradled the strong line of his jaw. Stroked her thumb across his beautiful lips.

“Your parents were fools.”

She closed the distance between them, replaced her thumb with her lips, lightly brushing her mouth against his. Savoring the complex textures of his mouth. The harder outer edge and the softness of his lips. The warm spill of his breath as he exhaled roughly before bringing his mouth flush against hers.

They kissed over and over, moving ever closer until her body pressed against the powerful length of his. He laid his hand at her waist and she placed hers back over his heart. The beat of it strong and racing beneath her palm.

And then, as desire was on the verge of overtaking them, something changed. Like an overinflated balloon popping, need burst apart and another emotion slipped in.

They slowly tempered their kisses, but stayed close. Continued to hold one another while the need for solace overwhelmed all others.

Her head was pillowed on his powerful arm until he shifted to his back and pulled her along, tucking her close. She rested her head against his massive chest and placed her hand along his midsection, careful not to apply too much pressure against his injured ribs.

“Are they feeling any better?” she asked, looking downward and skimming her hand over the bandage she had wrapped around his midsection earlier.

“Much,” he replied and covered her hand. Twining his fingers with hers, he brought their hands up to rest close to his heart once more.

“G’nite, Guillermo,” she said and closed her eyes, her earlier grief about the journal abated by the comfort of his presence.

“Good night, Deanna,” Bill replied, experiencing a sense of peace within his heart like none he ever had before. For all of her earlier prickliness and pushiness, there was a new tranquility about her. A break in her earlier hard exterior. In that veneer she had admitted building as a defense.

Having erected a barrier around his own heart, he should have recognized hers for what it was. That he hadn’t should have warning bells ringing that he was allowing his emotions to interfere with the investigation. With his read of her.

Maybe no longer,
he thought. He tightened his hold on her waist and the soft sough of her breath hinted at the fact that she had fallen asleep. He imagined the roller-coaster ride of emotions she had experienced that day had taxed her.

As it had him, he acknowledged.

Pulling in a deep breath until his ribs protested, he inhaled the scent of her, memorized it. Let it weave its way through his brain as he finally allowed sleep to claim him.