6
After her security tour, Kellen should have grabbed lunch. Instead, aggravated and with a nagging worry about those bones moldering out on the plain, she bundled up and fought through the worsening wind and rain to the maintenance buildings to spend a few minutes with her friends. Or, as she called them, the real people.
The resort had a three-bay garage complete with hydraulic lifts, air compressors, welders, tire storage and enough steel tool cabinets to work on jeeps, ATVs, vans and the old-fashioned tour buses used to convey guests and staff. Maintenance for everything else—heating, air-conditioning, plumbing, electrical—was next door in an equally spacious and well-supplied area. A long table, chairs, benches, stools, vending machines and two small, old refrigerators separated the two trades. All was housed in a structure that mimicked the castle’s architecture and included a loft that overhung the back of the shop with storage for vehicle and operational manuals, light bulbs, Christmas decorations and odd tools they occasionally needed but that were too fragile to leave on the main floor.
Adrian Wright stood at a workbench filling grease guns. He glanced up and gave Kellen a half-assed salute. “Hey, Captain, want to get dirty with me?”
“Hmm.” Kellen pretended to think. “No.”
ADRIAN WRIGHT:
MALE, WHITE, 23, 5’9”, BROWN HAIR, BLUE EYES, BURN-AND-PEEL SKIN. BORN NEW ORLEANS: PICKPOCKET + STREET GANG. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. GOOD WITH WEAPONS, ENGINES. MOUTHY, BRASH, EDGY. EMPLOYED 49 DAYS. FRIEND. POSSIBLE TROUBLE?
He lifted his greasy hands and wiggled them. “Admit it. You want me. You love me.”
“I do love you,” Kellen said. “Like a disgusting, loud, gross younger brother who deserves to have his head stuck in a toilet and flushed.”
“Sweet talker.”
“Where’s Birdie?”
“She’s getting dressed.” Adrian went back to work. “Someone has to go to the landing strip to pick up guests.”
Kellen called up the schedule in her mind. “Right.” She checked the housekeeping schedule. “Rooms will be ready. Where’s Mitch?”
“He’s not back from taking Leo and Annie to the airstrip.”
“Really,” she said flatly. She checked her device to see when their plane had taken off.
Mitch should have returned an hour ago.
Temo sat at the cluttered table. His prosthetic leg leaned against his chair. He was massaging his thigh and talking into his cell phone in rapid Spanish, none of which sounded like a compliment.
TEMO IGLASIAS:
MALE, HISPANIC AMERICAN—SECOND GENERATION, 25, 5’7”, 150 LBS., BLACK HAIR, BROWN EYES, FIT. SPANISH SPEAKER. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. PROSTHETIC LEG. BORN EAST LA. FATHER DEAD, DRUG-ADDICTED MOTHER, BROTHER TO YOUNGER SISTER, REGINA. EMPLOYED 62 DAYS. MECHANIC, HANDYMAN, LEADER. FRIEND.
She had tempted Temo, Birdie and Mitch to the resort with the offer of a job, and they had all taken her up on her offer.
Adrian had come by a different route. One day, he’d appeared, told her he’d hit the skids, offered his services doing anything. She knew him pretty well; she’d served with him for most of her deployment in Afghanistan. He never knew when to shut up and lately, when she caught him glancing over his shoulder or jumping at an unexpected noise, she suspected his big mouth had finally caught up with him.
Temo got quiet; he sat listening to whoever spoke at the other end. He met Kellen’s gaze and rolled his eyes, then launched into another tirade in Spanish that ended with him slamming the phone on the table, picking it up, hanging up and slamming the phone down again.
“Those phones don’t grow on trees, you know,” she said mildly.
“It’s not broken.” He flung it on the floor.
She picked it up, examined it. The tough case had saved it. “This is why we call you…Lucky.” She tapped his artificial leg.
“Call me by my real name… Cuauhtemo.”
She laughed. “Like I could.”
In Afghanistan, when Kellen met Temo, he had been belligerent; he hated her for being white, in charge, an officer and a woman, and he let her know it.
She hated him for being smart, mean and tough.
Then on a dark mountain road, he spotted a trap.
She rerouted the convoy, got them in a defensible position and saved his sorry ass.
They made a great team.
He lost his leg on his next assignment, in Peru, to a car bomb.
When she offered the job in maintenance for the resort, he took it sight unseen. In the first month, he discovered his boss was siphoning materials to a construction firm south of Portland. Temo went from flunky to manager of a thirteen-man crew, fixing whatever needed to be fixed: HVAC, leaky toilets, fire damage caused by a cigarette smoked in a nonsmoking room. In the spring when the guests arrived, that crew would double.
Kellen wasn’t surprised at his fast promotion. Temo’s near-fatal injuries, his long recovery, his rehabilitation had put fire to his already iron ambition. Before it was over, this guy would own the resort. Which made this display of temper unlike him.
She wiped the phone clean on her skirt, handed it over and asked mildly, “What’s up?”
“None of the new room controls for the gas fireplaces are working and those bastards who sold them to us are ignoring us. Smart controls, my ass.”
She’d been the one to recommend they try something more than a timer. “Are you going to be able to make them work soon?”
“If I had a manual written by someone whose first language is English!” Temo’s Spanish accent was fierce, but he had been educated in American schools and he had no sympathy for foreign firms who used a translation program for their communications.
“Okay,” she said in a bright tone. “About the animal carcass…”
Temo stuck his phone into his pocket. “I haven’t had a chance to get out there.”
“I’d bet none of the guests will venture out in this weather, but now that I’ve said that, some intrepid soul will go exploring. Can you send one of your guys?”
“My guys? The guys I inherited from the last maintenance man? The guys who can’t scratch their own balls without an instruction manual?” Temo’s color rose. “Too bad none of them can read a manual, English or Chinese or Spanish or any other language known to man. Maybe Klingon!”
“All of them are idiots?”
Temo sighed and subsided. “Two of them are okay. The rest of them have to go, but not until I find someone to replace them.”
“Have you checked in town?”
He eyeballed her evilly.
She backed away. “I just asked!”
“I’m looking around the US, trying to find old friends. If you don’t mind, I’ll go to LA and check on…friends.”
The way he said the word friends made her think he was trying to tell her something. But while she remembered every chart and schedule she’d ever seen, she couldn’t understand the unspoken words of a man who had faced too many challenges. She took his hand. “Go when you need to. Just…come back.”
“Sure. I can’t stay down there. There’s nothing for me there. My mom…and that guy she calls my stepfather.”
“What about your sister?”
“Poor kid.” He shook his head. “Poor kid.” He attached his leg, shoved his arms through the sweatshirt hanging on the back of his chair, got up and stretched. “I’ll go rescue that carcass from the scavengers. I could use a ride in the fresh air, plus it’s the only way I know to get Smart Home to call, so they can complain I was out of touch.” He headed toward the coatrack, wrapped himself in a muddle of scarves, hats and the warmest gloves he could root out. Yep, that was Temo. Add the slightest touch of winter and the guy froze. You could take the boy out of LA, but you couldn’t keep him warm.
Birdie walked out of the changing room.
BIRDIE HAYNES:
FEMALE, 24, 5’10”, 130 LBS., AMERICAN OF COLOR—HISPANIC, AFRICAN AND FAR EASTERN. BIG RAW HANDS, LONG FINGERS, CONSTANT BAND-AID ON AT LEAST ONE KNUCKLE. BEAUTIFUL SMILE IN A NOT-BEAUTIFUL FACE. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. RECENT WIDOW. EMPLOYED 70 DAYS. LEAD MECHANIC, GARAGE MANAGER. BEST FRIEND.
Birdie wore a starched white button-up shirt, the resort’s blue scarf and black slacks, and she held keys in her hand. When she spotted Kellen, she headed right for her. “I’m off to the landing strip to pick up the guests. I’ve got nobody to ride shotgun. Can you come?”
“I’m not dressed.” In the appropriate outfit for welcoming guests, Kellen meant. Then she looked around.
Temo was gone. Mitch had returned and slipped into greasy coveralls. Adrian was dirty, and due to his big mouth, he was never appropriate to greet guests.
Kellen ran through the working roster in her mind; in the whole resort, everyone was either on vacation or trying to cover for everyone else. She was stuck. “Only if I can drive.”
“Feeling out of control?” Birdie asked.
“Driving would help.” Driving always helped. Feeling the vehicle respond to her command promptly, smoothly, efficiently gave her a measure of peace. “Do you have the hors d’oeuvres?”
“I ordered them. You get them from the kitchen. I’ll bring the van around.”
“Give me thirty minutes. I’ll change and meet you at the kitchen door.” She grabbed an ATV and drove fast toward her cottage at the farthest corner of the resort’s property. She had to hustle; it had been her idea to serve hors d’oeuvres to newly arrived guests. Invariably, the travelers were tired, hungry and crabby, and a prompt application of salmon cakes, tofu bites with chai tea crema, and prosciutto-wrapped artichokes never failed to put them in good humor. Kellen had implemented a successful strategy: a pain in the rear, but successful.
At her cottage, she jumped into her hospitality costume: like Birdie’s, a starched white button-up shirt and blue scarf, black slacks. Then she did as Xander advised; she looked around and took a moment to breathe.
She loved her cottage. Its rustic exterior blended well with the wildness of the coastline, its blue door gave it a shocking pop of color and the interior was pure Pacific Northwest: comfortable furniture, an efficiency kitchen and a bedroom loft that had sloped ceilings, gable seats and a bed so comfortable the resort sold them to enamored guests. The decor was a blend of Asian, Native American and local artists. After a day dealing with suppliers, staff and guests, she relished the coziness and the isolation.
Kellen reached the resort kitchen as Birdie pulled the van under the portico. She nipped into the kitchen. The pizzalike boxes waited for her on the counter; as she picked them up, she realized she’d interrupted a violent scene.
Chef Reinhart was shaking blood off his hand while Chef Norbert roared with laughter. The kitchen staff continued their work as if this madness was an everyday occurrence.
Kellen ducked out, placed the boxes in the van on the floor behind the driver’s seat and climbed in behind the wheel. “Chef Reinhart was bleeding, Chef Norbert was laughing and no one seemed to care.” Kellen put the van in gear and drove.
“I would never date a chef,” Birdie said. Which seemed like an odd thing to say, especially in a voice that ached with loneliness. During four years of deployment, Birdie had never been wounded. Then she came home, got married, and within two months, her husband, a Detroit police officer, was killed in the line of duty, ambushed outside their home. He had died in her arms.
“How’s it going?” Kellen asked gently. “Parents talking to you yet?”
“On the phone. My mom and my father-in-law, while my dad and my mother-in-law yell in the background.” Birdie’s parents and in-laws hadn’t wanted the new widow to take a job so far away, but she’d been looking for work when her husband died, job prospects in Detroit hadn’t improved and at Yearning Sands she could do what she’d been trained to do without the constant reminders of what she had lost. “I only remember at night.”
Kellen wanted to scoff at the idea of an eternal love. But although the welter of bitterness and pain tainted her marital memories, she knew most wives had never lived through hell, and no other woman had watched Gregory murder her cousin in her place…
* * *
The gas explosion sent a blast at Cecilia that lifted her, then slammed her into the ground. She lost consciousness, then came back, panicked. She smelled burning cloth. Burning flesh. Sweet Jesus, smoke drifted past her face.
Someone threw a coat over her head, blinding her, panicking her.
She fought.
Suddenly she was free. Her ears were roaring with some…sound.
A man leaned into her line of vision. He was shouting at her, gesturing toward his own head, then hers. She read his lips. “Lady, your hair was on fire!” She turned her head away from the direction of the house, coughed. Smoke clouded the air. A cab was parked haphazardly at the end of the drive where it met the road.
He was the cabbie. Not Gregory. The cabbie.
She lifted her head, looked toward the house.
Nothing was left but the foundation and burning pieces of wood, charred plaster and singed insulation dancing on the wind.
Off the cliff. Gone.
The roaring in Cecilia’s ears diminished. She could hear the cabbie’s voice now; she couldn’t yet distinguish the words, but he had his jacket in his hands, offering it to her, and he was averting his eyes and peeking at the same time.
She looked down at herself. Her linen slacks and cotton blouse had been shredded by the blast. Her panties and bra still covered her, but barely. Cecilia wrapped his jacket around herself. The arms were too long, and the hem barely reached her thighs.
Kellen was dead. Cecilia felt nothing but shock. Kellen, who had been so alive, so brave… How could she be dead?
And Gregory…was gone? Dead? Blown to bits? Cecilia felt shamed relief. And guilt. So much guilt.
The cabbie was still talking.
She could almost understand him. She stared, watching his lips.
“Are you hurt? You, uh, you were standing so close. You okay?”
She nodded. A lie. She wasn’t okay. Her lungs hurt. Her head hurt. She had blisters on her belly and blisters on her shoulders, and they burned like live coals. It didn’t matter. She was alive.
“I was called to pick up a passenger,” the cabbie said. “Saw the explosion. Was Mrs. Lykke in the house?”
Cecilia. The cabbie didn’t know she was Cecilia.
“I’m sorry, wow, what a tragedy, but the Lykkes always were a scary family with lots of ‘accidents.’” He did air quotes. “I should call this in. Right? Call the police?” He looked toward the main house. “Maybe not, though, because his mother and sister are coming to the site.”
Mother Sylvia Lykke and sister Erin raced toward the place where the house had been, and even from this distance, even with the ringing in her ears, Cecilia could hear them screaming.
In a panic, she said, “Drive me to the hotel.”
“But you want to stick around. You saw everything. Even more than me.” The cabbie was agog, thrilled at being on the front line of a breaking story. “The cops will want to talk to you. Get your testimony.”
“I want to go to the hotel.” Heart pounding in fear, she grabbed his arm, dug her fingers into his skin. “Take me to the hotel.”
“Right. You’re in shock. Let me help you—” He tried to support her.
She yanked herself away.
“Shock. Right. Don’t touch you. I’ll call, tell the cops I’m dropping you at the hotel. You can…do whatever you do for shock.”
“Lie down. Elevate the feet. Keep warm.” She had been a Girl Scout. She knew this stuff.
“Hospital!” The thought seemed to startle and thrill him. “Want me to take you to the hospital?”
“Hotel.”
“Right.” He hurried toward his vehicle. “I’ll get you down there, come back and give my testimony.”
Cecilia stumbled away, not from the explosion, but from Gregory’s family. The cabbie beat her to the taxi; he opened the back door. She slid in and huddled down on the seat, hiding from Sylvia and Erin, hiding from the events of the past hour.
The cabbie leaped into the driver’s seat.
“Go. Go!”
“Okay, lady! Hang on.” He started the car, pulled a U-turn and headed down the road.
She looked out the back window.
Sylvia stood immobile, staring at the crater where the house had been.
Erin stared after the taxi with a gaze both intelligent and vengeful.
The driver glanced at Cecilia in the rearview mirror. “Like I said when I dropped you off earlier, you’re a lot different from young Mrs. Lykke, poor thing. Word was, her in-laws hated her and her husband was out to beat her to death. I would never mistake the two of you.”
He really did think she was Kellen. Should she correct him?
She should correct him.
He kept talking. “I’ll drop you off and head back up there, see if I can do anything, but that house, it lifted right off the foundation and blew off the edge of the cliff. I’ve never seen anything like that. Knocked you ass-over-teakettle, too, bet you flew ten, fifteen feet. You must have cracked your skull a good one.”
Her neck ached. Her head hurt. “Yes,” she whispered. What would it hurt if he thought she was Kellen? If she could pretend to be Kellen for a little while, leave Greenleaf in a rush, she could get out without—
“Here they come. The cops!” The cabbie pulled over to the side of the road.
Sirens blasting, lights flashing, a fire engine raced past followed by the fire chief and two police cars.
Cecilia flinched. Yes, if she pretended to be Kellen for a few minutes at the hotel, she could escape without talking to the cops, without having to face Sylvia and Erin, who would tell her the explosion was her fault.
The cabbie pulled onto the road again, then back onto the shoulder while the county sheriff raced past. “They’re all going up for this one. Prominent family, huge tragedy. Say, are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital? You’re looking sick.”
“Hotel.” She felt like she’d been saying that for hours. “Faster.”
As he entered Greenleaf, he slowed to a crawl, complained about the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit, stopped in front of the hotel and opened the door for her. “You look bad, burned all over. Want me to get you in there?”
She shook her head. Which hurt. “Go back up to the Lykke estate and give your report.” Her lips felt cracked. The heat, she supposed.
“That’ll be eleven dollars…” He seemed to realize she didn’t have any money on her. “I’ll stop by and collect it later.”
“Yes.” She moved as fast as she could into the lobby empty of everyone except for two desk clerks talking excitedly. At the sight of her, their heads swiveled and they openly gawked.
Cecilia groped for Kellen’s key.
It was gone. Her whole pocket was gone, burned away.