Hidden Sins Page 4

  So Ethan had drawn the drapes over the open windows and hurried down the stairwell to the main floor of the warehouse. Through a one-way viewer he waited for her to arrive, timing her steps. When he heard her skid to a stop, trapped by the wall, he opened the massive steel door and dragged her inside.

  Now, as he cleaned the flesh seared by the bullet’s exit, Mara grimaced in her sleep.

  “Shh, everything will be fine, just rest,” he crooned. “I won’t let them get you.” She turned toward him, toward the comfort in his voice. Ethan stroked his hand across her forehead, which had grown clammy. “Ah, love. What happened to you?”

  When she murmured unintelligibly, he returned to his ministrations. After dousing the wound with iodine, he tilted her limp body to reach the entry point. There, the flesh was red and livid. He treated it with iodine and antiseptic and taped a bandage over the hole. It would leave the wound clean but not stitched closed, since closing it would increase the chance of infection.

  Ethan decided to wait until she awoke again to offer her medication. Her almost painfully gaunt form could have been the result of poor eating habits or a drug addiction, and he wouldn’t risk compounding a problem. Instead, he busied himself with cleaning up his nursing station and trying to ignore the woman sprawled across his bed. He had plenty of work to do, he reminded himself as he sank down onto his chair. Chi Development was expecting a preliminary report from him soon, and it had to be good if he wanted his funding to continue.

  And if he wanted to find the Yorba manuscript and statue that would make the need for funding irrelevant.

  He turned his head toward Mara again, wondering if she had any idea. Brow furrowed at the thought, Ethan retraced his plan, examined every conversation that had led him back to Kiev. He’d been careful to keep his own counsel, and had shared nothing of his pursuit with his colleagues or his employers. If he had to come back to Kiev, he was determined to look for the Reed gold—and the more important treasure that lay within one of the satchels, while he was at it.

  A search that was inextricably linked to the woman lying unconscious in his bed. It seemed too coincidental that she would reappear now.

  And damned inconvenient. Lesley was coming up on Friday. He’d returned to Kiev to lay ghosts to rest, and the most haunting one had made a surprise appearance. Then again, Mara always had damnable timing.

  As though she heard his thoughts, Mara cried out. Ethan shoved back from the desk and crossed the short distance to the bed. “Mara? Sweetheart, what’s wrong? What hurts?” Furious at himself for not conducting a more thorough exam, he whipped the blue sheet away from her restless form, which was now sheened with sweat.

  Trying to distance himself from the woman, Ethan focused on the body itself. He grabbed his shears from the desk and summarily cut away the frayed jogging pants, leaving only a pair of boy-cut briefs the color of ripe strawberries. The nicely rounded hips they covered tapered into strong, trim thighs and firmly molded calves. He leaned over her and ran careful hands along the sweat-dampened limbs. Finding nothing, he moved to check her other leg. When he angled the lamp toward her shin, he found a jagged tear.

  “What’s going on, Mara?” Moving the lamp closer, he knelt beside the wound, trying to figure out what had caused it. Unable to see much, he fumbled in his desk drawer for a magnifying glass. An examination of the cut revealed flecks of rust. Cursing beneath his breath, he carefully cleaned and bandaged the tear. Then he returned to the cabinet and removed an empty syringe. From the refrigerator, he collected a vial filled with a clear liquid. He filled the syringe with the fluid and gripped Mara’s arm.

  Pale brown eyes, nearly amber, fluttered open. Her sleepy gaze locked on the syringe in his hand. Ethan saw confusion change to shock and then to fear. Releasing her arm, he lifted his hands in a silent demonstration that he meant no harm.

  “It’s a tetanus shot, Mara. You’ve got a bullet wound and a cut on your leg. I think you may be at risk, so I want to give you a preventive dose.” With careful movements he raised the vial for her review. “Read the label. Tetanus antitoxin. That’s all it is, honey, I swear.”

  Mara’s eyes locked with his and he returned her appraisal steadily, without blinking. Finally, she nodded imperceptibly and her eyes shut once more. Before she reawakened, Ethan injected her with the tetanus shot.

  Finished with his doctoring, he unlaced the sneakers on her long legs. The sight of the incongruous Smurf socks, given the situation, brought a chuckle. He freed both feet and then restudied the unveiled flesh. Ostensibly, he checked only for other hidden injuries, but his breath shortened as he ran suddenly hypersensitive fingers over the smooth planes of her legs, under the supple curves of her thighs and hips. He felt a ridge of scar tissue but refused to look. What she did to her body didn’t matter to him. Not anymore.

  “You deal with naked bodies everyday, man. Get on with it,” he chided himself as his hands halted at the edge of the top now stained with her blood. He didn’t remind himself that those bodies were cold and frozen, not warm and soft under his touch.

  Beneath the worn fabric there was nothing but skin. Still, a second groan from Mara urged him into action. He lifted the hem of the top and drew it slowly up, revealing in tormenting inches the flat, nearly concave stomach. The long torso stretched up to taper into a slender waist. More rich brown skin was revealed to his mesmerized eyes, the surface unblemished by her adventures.

  He realized then that moving her arm farther was out of the question. Instead, he grabbed the shears from the table and sliced through the fabric. He peeled it away from her damp skin and the pert breasts she left unbound. Abruptly, Mara turned toward him. The movement pressed her nipple into the palm of his hand, and for a shattering instant he cupped the taut flesh in instinctive reaction. Appalled, Ethan released her and surged to his feet, chased by questions.

  She’d sleep for hours, he calculated as he moved across the room. At the door to the stairs, he glanced at her supine form. Lovely, he thought. And so dangerous to the life he was terribly close to having. Ethan paused, waiting for the spear of agony that had dimmed to an ache of betrayal over the years. The flutter of delight had him rushing down to his workshop.

  Surrounded by corpses, he restively searched for something to do—to take his mind off the hazard lying in his bed. When he lit upon the phone near his workstation, he released a breath of relief. He could check in with Davis Conroy. A conversation with the man chilled his blood every time, and he could do with a dose.

  He lifted the phone and quickly dialed his benefactor. “Ethan Stuart for Mr. Conroy.”

  On the other end a soothing soprano advised him to hold.

  Propping himself on the edge of the metal slab, Ethan shifted through his notes, preparing his report. He felt the tightening at his shoulders that accompanied every conversation he had with Conroy. As usual, he chalked it up to nerves and his feeling of duplicity. After all, he was using Conroy’s generosity to pursue his own interests.

  “Dr. Stuart? Davis Conroy. What have you got for me?”

  “I’ve completed my preliminary report.” Ethan scanned his precise writing. “I’ve reviewed the medical examiner reports and most of the bodies. With few exceptions, everyone buried on the site you uncovered died of natural causes in the last twenty-five years. I found no evidence of historical significance.”

  “What about the marks? I saw a few of them myself, Dr. Stuart, and I must say they gave me the willies. Do you know who made them?”

  Ethan demurred. “Not yet. With your permission, I’d like to stay on a few more weeks to research their origins. I might have a lead.”

  “Who?”

  “No one specific yet, Mr. Conroy, but in a town this size, fifty dead bodies would draw attention. Particularly given the ritual attached to burial. I should know more by the end of the week.” Ethan looked at the room. Fifty bodies that lay within a stone’s throw of Mara’s old homestead. He shuffled the papers into order and returned them t
o their appropriate, color-coded folder. “With your permission, of course.”

  “Certainly, Dr. Stuart.” A pause stretched over the line, then Conroy spoke again. “And you haven’t found a body that might have been buried more than twenty-five years ago?”

  Startled, Ethan nearly dropped the phone. He had found two bodies that he couldn’t reconcile, but he was reluctant to share that information with Conroy just yet. The tightness knotted into a throb of tension, and Ethan replied, “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No. But I thought I recalled from one of the city council resolutions that if the bodies were older than twenty-five years, we’d have to request more legislation. I would prefer to not involve the politicians more than necessary, Dr. Stuart.”

  Ethan didn’t quite buy the explanation, but his project benefited from the flimsy excuse. “I understand. But I don’t have anything conclusive yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  “Fine. Thanks for the update.” The call disconnected abruptly, and Ethan rubbed at his nape. He’d bought himself a week. Probably should get to work. Rising, he moved to the pile of bones he’d arranged the night before. A man, late seventies, healthy. With a shadow of black on the edge of his hip. A tattoo unlike any he’d ever seen before, until he’d gotten this assignment.

  Now he was surrounded by the dead and a set of symbols that had to mean something. If only he could figure out what. Perhaps the woman upstairs could offer a clue. Which, he decided balefully, dusting a solution onto the length of femur, was the most she had to give him. As he prepared for the examination, he firmly put Mara’s reappearance out of his mind and focused on the task before him. Step by step, he reminded himself. The simplest solution to a problem was uncovered step by step.

  When he nudged open the loft door in late afternoon, Mara was sprawled across the futon, sleeping fitfully. She’d kicked the blanket onto the floor, and the pillows were damp with sweat.

  “Damn it, you’ve gotten a fever,” he muttered as he pressed a hand to her forehead. Fevered heat seeped into his cool skin. He shouldn’t have left her alone, he chided himself. Quickly, he checked her bandages and drew the covers over her gaunt, restless form. She’d never been able to keep much weight on her, he remembered darkly.

  Out at the Reed compound, food had always been in short supply. Maybe that was why she’d learned to steal. Bitterness resurfaced, unbidden. If she’d ever bothered to trust him, he would have taken care of her. Of them.

  She hadn’t.

  Instead, she’d chosen to cheat. Years later, he still didn’t understand her choices. Between foster homes and trips to the orphanage, Ethan had gone his share of nights without dinner. But he’d never become a thief. He’d worked hard, driving himself in order to escape Kiev. It had been his heart’s only desire. Until Mara.

  He allowed himself to look at her again. By God, she was stunning. The time between them had sharpened once softer features, had turned gamine into striking. She’d cut her hair so that the mass of black coiled wildly around her face. Reaching out, he stroked the soaked curls away from her damp forehead.

  “Where have you been?” he whispered. “Why did you come back?” He lowered himself lightly to sit beside her on the narrow bed.

  Mara turned over in her sleep, body restless and anxious. Ethan watched the agitated motions, heard the garbled mumblings, but he did not move from his seat at her hip. He realized he must have been at work longer than he thought as twilight approached and cast an ethereal glow over Mara’s fidgety body, elongating and gilding her restive form. Nightmare or dream? he wondered.

  It doesn’t matter, Ethan reminded himself sternly. Using the instruments he’d left at her side, he slid the thermometer under her parched tongue. The readout hovered high, but not hospitalization level. Yet. Tipping her head up to give her water, he murmured, “Open up, Mara. You’re thirsty. It’s just water.”

  “Don’t come in here.” She pulled away from his supporting hand, eyes jerking wide. “Don’t let him find me. Call the Starburst. Tell them not to let him in.”

  Ethan lifted the cup away from her. “Not to let who in, Mara? Who are you hiding from?”

  “He’ll do it to me.” Suddenly, she focused on him, amber glittering wildly. “I saw what he did to her. He found Cassandra at the Lucky Lake. Made her take him. Don’t let him do me too.”

  The ferocity in her voice held Ethan immobile. Just as abruptly as she’d awakened, she drifted out again. “Mara? Mara?”

  At a loss, he slowly fed her the contents of the cup, careful not to let her choke. “Who’s after you, honey? What is the Lucky Lake? The Starburst?” He murmured the questions, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer until the fever broke.

  In her uneasy sleep, her hand sought out the warmth of his leg, then slipped terrifically lower. Ethan reared away and sprang to his feet. He wandered around the room, shifting books and CDs until they lined up perfectly along the edge of their shelves. The cracked plastic covers and steam-bloated pages didn’t disturb him.

  The contradiction made sense to him. Straight lines were a sign of order, of structure. But the contents were meant to be devoured hungrily, consumed by a ravenous mind. He crossed to his desk and sat heavily.

  Yes, he possessed a ravenous mind stubbornly bound to the earth. Learn about the world from the safety of a book. Disgusted, he booted up the computer. On the screen, a totem appeared, a replica of a twelve-inch figure composed of a priest at the base, holding a traditional sword and axe. Atop the priest a miniature figure of a bata drummer beat his instrument in the center panel, and a woman rose above the drummer, lifting Shango’s sacred stone axe above her head.

  “What’s that?” The question drifted from the bed, and Ethan turned.

  “You should sleep.” He resisted the urge to shut off the screen, but she probably wouldn’t remember seeing it. “You’re not well.”

  “I’ve seen that before. Somewhere.” On the bed, Mara struggled to sit up. “Where have I seen that?”

  Ethan rushed to her side and pressed her firmly down. “Mara, honey, you’ve been shot. You’ve got a slight fever and you seem to be exhausted. Please, sleep.”

  “You won’t let them get me?” The tremulous question carried an undercurrent of demand.

  As if anyone could, he thought. “I’ll take care of you. Sleep.”

  “Yes, you always do.”

  Ethan waited until her lids drifted down, then he returned to the image on the screen. This, as much as anything, had drawn him back to Kiev. A Shango priest in Benin whose writings on medicine and the preservation of the dead had made its way to America a century ago.

  A set of writings and a totem that had become part of an easterner’s prized collection—along with hundreds of gold coins cast under the reign of Queen Isabella. A chance for Ethan the pedestrian, he thought, to undertake a quest. First, though, he had to determine where to look.

  It was getting dark now, and he occupied himself by organizing his notes and transcribing his findings. Hands cramped from typing, he stood, turned on the light, moved into the kitchenette and snagged his abandoned cup of coffee. Pouring leftovers into the ceramic mug, he heated the tepid brew and took up post at the kitchen island. Watching his patient, Ethan brooded over the unlikely coincidence of Mara’s return at the precise moment he came close to finding the manuscript. Interrupted only by the murmured litany coming from the bed.

  Over and over again, the same refrain. Names he didn’t recognize and a fear he could fairly touch. Where had she been all these years? What had she done? How had she stayed alive, when her livelihood seemed to include armed gunmen eager for her blood? He drained the bitter dregs and stared into the empty recesses. Too tired to sleep, afraid to go downstairs and leave Mara, he decided he needed another cup. He straightened and turned to the coffeemaker.

  “Ethan?” Mara mumbled his name. Dropping the cup, he circled the island and hurried to her side.

  “I’m here. What is it?” He drew cl
oser, bending over the prone body. With a lean hand he brushed damp tendrils back from her forehead, testing automatically for fever. Beneath his touch the skin was clammy but cool. “What do you need?”

  “Don’t let him get me.” The anxious plea tumbled out and she struggled to sit up. “Don’t let him touch me.”

  “Who, honey? The men in the truck?” Ethan leaned in. “Who wants to hurt you?”

  “Him. I took his money. Can’t give him what he wants. Won’t.”

  She thrashed her head, and he caught her chin to hold her still. “What does he want, Mara?”

  “Me. Don’t let him have me.” She held his stricken look then faded into sleep. The blanket had fallen and the stark white bandage mocked his feeble efforts to protect her.

  After a quick check, he was certain there was no infection. No sinister poison to gnaw at the smooth cinnamon flesh. He rested his hand at her shoulder, stroking her into calm. Don’t let him have me.

  Her plea reverberated, and his traitorous brain quickly settled on a possibility. He rubbed at the permanent knot of pressure at his neck. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? The woman asleep in his bed was probably a prostitute.

  Flesh that she peddled to the highest bidder, mocked a bitter voice. Anyone but you.

  Ethan snatched his hand away. Still, the feel of her lingered on his fingertips. Faithless memory taunted him, but he couldn’t look away. Questions he’d sworn never to ask redoubled and burned in his brain.

  How had she been reduced to selling herself? Didn’t she know that he’d have come for her? That every night, in his dreams, he came for her? Saved her. Loved her so much better each time that she never ran away.

  No, he thought angrily. Not again. He’d spent more than a decade wallowing in recriminations and regret. No more. His life was nearly his own again. This trip back to Kiev was step one in the final stage. Soon he’d be rid of harsh memory and would no longer be tied to a place he loathed. In a month, maybe less, he would finally be free.