Chapter 7
“How’s Declan?” Ana snapped out the
question the minute she and Gates cleared the waiting room doors.
Callahan and Ferguson were already there, taking first
watch.
Callahan shook her head as she stood.
“It’s not looking good. Doc told me they had to shock him twice to
get him through. They just don’t know.” She shrugged, looking
bleak. “They said stuff like he’s not getting perfusion or
something. If he makes it, he may have some memory
loss.”
“I could use a little of that,”
Ferguson muttered.
“Shut up, Fergs.”
“We’re heading to Agency headquarters.”
Gates cut the incipient argument short. “They may have a lead. Let
everyone know as they come on watch. I’ll call you.” He pointed to
Ferguson. “Let you know what we find. You disseminate. Got
it?”
“Got it.”
Callahan looked mutinous, but stayed
silent.
Having to use the paddles to restart
the heart was never a good thing. Memory loss, even some tissue
damage could result, depending on how long the heart stayed
silent.
Leaving the pair to their now-silent
feud, Ana and Gates headed for the nurses’ station. Declan’s family
was flying in, but hadn’t arrived yet, so in lieu of family, Gates
felt they should be there.
“Will you let us see him?” They went
through the usual bullshit about being family. It only took one
call to the hospital administration to clear it, however. Dav’s
name changed all the rules.
Standing by the hospital bed in
critical care, Ana searched for her husband’s hand. Declan, usually
the jokester, the self-proclaimed “Energizer Bunny” of the crew,
lay still and silent in the bed. His cheek, chest and hands were
bandaged, monitors tracked him constantly, beeping their notices of
heart rate, blood pressure and oxygenation. The drip, drip, drip of
the blood and plasma infusing his system made a monotonous
undertone, barely heard, but vital.
“The round in the upper chest was the
worst.” Ana pointed to where the bandages were heaviest. “The
lacerations on his cheek, hands and back were from the window
glass.”
Gates struggled visibly with his
emotions, as grief and worry warred in his face. Ana squeezed the
hand she still held in silent support. After a moment, he cleared
his throat and asked, “Did the two waiters and the other guy, the
restaurant patron, make it?”
Ana shook her head, delivering the bad
news. “DOS.” Dead on scene.
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Ana heard
the pain and anger underlying the clichéd phrase.
They stood for a long time, just
holding hands. Ana thought of Declan as his vital, ebullient self.
He would hate to be here. When he woke up, she predicted he’d be
the worst patient ever. As they were ready to leave, Ana bent down
and kissed the young man’s cheek.
“I expect to see you dance at more
weddings, Declan. And play that stupid saxophone.” Declan had been
the life of the party at their wedding. No one had known he could
play anything other than the ladies, but he’d whipped out a sax and
joined the band.
Then he’d gotten thoroughly drunk, made
a play for Callahan. She’d refused, but he’d cajoled a song out of
her and together they’d sung old Irish ballads after Callahan had
tied on a few more drinks. Ana heard he’d slept it off alone, in
one of Dav’s best guest rooms, and been mortified the next day.
She’d also heard that the team had ragged him unmercifully. “We’ll
set you up with some voice lessons too. A present for getting
better,” she added.
She kissed his cheek again, and
straightened, flushing at the surprised look Gates wore.
“What?”
“Nothing. But you know he’ll take you
up on that. Be prepared.”
“Nah,” she said, squeezing Declan’s
bicep. “You’re too chicken, aren’t you, Dec? Sing? You? Ha! How
about I bet this husband of mine a hundred bucks that you won’t
take me up on the singing lessons, what do you say?” She didn’t
look at Gates, but knew he understood. They both knew Declan might
be able to hear them. Anything, anything at all, that got Dec to
focus on survival would be a good thing, even if it was singing
lessons.
“You’re on,” Gates said. He patted the
young man’s leg. “Go for it, Dec. I could use the hundred. Might
have to pay some bribes.”
With a last look at their deeply
sleeping comrade, they slipped out as quietly as they’d come
in.
In the car, heading for the Agency
office, Ana fought back tears.
“It’s hard. Seeing him like that,”
Gates voiced her feelings. She nodded.
She took a deep breath. She had to get
it together. As they pulled up to the guard gate at the Agency
office, she finally felt composed enough to speak.
Before he rolled down the window to
present their credentials, she put a hand on his arm to stop
him.
“I hope you win the bet.”
He smiled, said, “Me too,” and checked
them in.
“So, you are going down to Belize,
Niko? You will be seeing to this personally.” The older man’s
emphasis on “will,” made it an order rather than a request. “Ransom
is a good thing. Seeing your enemy die, that’s even better.” Dinner
had been brought in as they sat at the desk talking. The older man
gestured with his gleaming knife. “You haven’t tried the scallops.
They’re quite good.”
“Thank you.” Niko served himself some,
still uncertain of his place, his fit in the organization, or in
this man’s plans. He’d risen from occasional, distant hireling to
having dinner with the head of one of the most powerful, hidden
organizations in the world. It was akin to having dinner with a
hungry dragon. As long as the dragon liked the other items on the
table, you were safe. If not...
“These are good, as is everything else.
Thank you for dinner. And yes, I’m going down.” The ransom requests
had been sent. He was certain they’d be paid quickly. Once the
money was banked, he could finish everything. “Dav is my last loose
thread to tie up. My team’s good, but the end of this is on
me.”
The older man nodded, still
methodically cutting and eating steak and scallops. The elegant
table service was delicate china, something Niko’s mother might
have used. There was music in the background, and a tray of
froufrou desserts sat on a rolling cart next to the
table.
The opulent elegance, the calm pool of
comfort, was a contradiction to what he knew of the ruthless,
mysterious man who sat opposite him.
“Good. It is good to take on these
things yourself. One thing I’ve made a policy of.” The man leaned
back, dabbed at his cheek with a fine linen napkin. “I get my hands
dirty. My people know that I won’t send them to do something I
wouldn’t do, nor will I sit on high, letting them fall for
something while I keep my hands clean.” He smiled, a crooked,
unpleasant smile. “Besides, I like killing. It has such immediacy
to it.”
“Yes, it does.” What the hell else did
you say to something like that? When his mentor sat silent, Niko
added, “No matter what, though, Dav’s my deal, so I have to settle
that myself.”
The man nodded. “Wise. I have admired
the way you run your team. You’ve done good work for me, all of
you. I was glad I could help you with this last little thing. Are
you still determined to stay independent?”
“For now, sir,” Niko said, hoping the
gleam he saw was approval, not aversion. The earlier thought of the
dragon sprang back into his mind. The older man had repeatedly
urged Niko to come into “the fold” as he’d put it, and work
exclusively on his projects rather than staying freelance. Niko and
his team had decided it was too risky to go under someone’s banner,
especially someone as cloaked as this man was. Their profits for
working solo were handsome, and under their control. Being on the
payroll might not be.
The other, deciding factor, was that
Niko couldn’t read the old man. He knew his mentor had an ulterior
motive for helping him, but as deeply as he dug, he couldn’t figure
out what it was or why he, or Dav, were important to the old
man.
“Very well. You need to know that your
venture has had some unexpected benefits for me. With news breaking
of Dav’s kidnapping, stock in a number of his companies has
dropped, allowing me to buy in where I’d not owned before. Also,
several other ventures opened up for me. I’ve wired a token of my
appreciation into the usual account. Clear it through to your other
accounts before you leave, however.”
The dismissal was evident, and actually
welcome. The longer he sat, the more he felt the menace, the sheer
capacity for destruction inherent in his mentor. As hardened as he
was, it made him uneasy.
“Will do, sir. Thank you.” Niko rose
and started to extend a handshake. The gleam was back, so he
didn’t.
“I’ll be in touch,” the older man said,
turning back to his plate, and his wine.
With that threat hanging over him, Niko
left the dining room, and within the hour he was headed south. He
couldn’t wait to get to Belize. He’d been like a caged animal,
waiting for hours at the old man’s compound in Colorado for word
that everything had gone without a hitch. When he reconnected with
his team, got to Dav, he’d finish it. Finally, it would be
over.
A clean break. Sitting at dinner, he’d
made his decision. He’d thought to torture Dav, play some cat and
mouse. But he was just going to end it, quickly. The more he
thought of it, the more he realized that’s what he
wanted.
Needed.
He’d have the ransom money, the bonus
from the old man, and a clean break with the past.
And then, he was going to stay away
from his mentor for a while. A return to distant hireling might not
be a bad thing.
Watching young Niko go, the older man
decided it was time to implement some of his other plans. If Niko
were what he’d been looking for, the next forty-eight hours would
tell it.
“You know what to do?” he said to the
silent man waiting by the door. The room was darkening and the
dusty mountains of Colorado were gleaming gold and red with the
last rays of the fading day’s sun. Snow lay on the ground, but
spring was coming. Soon.
“Yessir,” the man replied, never moving
a muscle until he was so ordered.
“Then go.”
The morning sun woke them as it crossed
the floor and warmed their faces.
“Mmmm,” Carrie murmured, stretching
like a cat. She felt better than she had in a long time. Maybe the
best she’d ever felt. Odd to think that, since they were trapped in
a hole in the ground in some Central American country, naked as the
day they were born, with limited food and water and little prospect
of rescue. She said as much to Dav. “It should be criminal how good
you make me feel.”
“I assure you, I keep all my business
aboveboard, including my cell-bound liaisons.” He smiled, running a
long finger along her cheek, slipping a strand of hair behind her
ear. “No criminal activity whatsoever.”
His smile was slow and sensuous, and
just for her. It changed his lean, angular face from shuttered and
ascetic to warm and personal. She realized how much she enjoyed the
long planes of his jaw, and appreciated his lips when they curved
just that way.
Not for the first time she wished to be
an artist, a good one, who could capture a moment like this,
preserve it for all time. He was like a magnificent Greek statue
come to life, right in her arms. His shoulders were broad. She saw
scars and wanted to ask about them, but she thought she might know
their cause, given what he’d said about his father and brother.
Right now, she didn’t want that hard look to ice his dark eyes, so
she just brushed over them and moved on. His chest was sculpted and
strong. She ran her hands over the planes and ripples of it, loving
the rumble of pleasure he made. She felt it as much as heard
it.
“Mmm. How then, do you explain this?”
She ran her hands downward, enjoying the change in his eyes, the
intensity of his gaze. His body tensed, his strong, heavily muscled
leg hooked over hers, drawing her in. His hands cupped the back of
her neck, and he brought her to him, brushing her lips. It was a
shimmer of a kiss, a feather of desire that rippled over her whole
body. Instantly wet, instantly ready, she needed him with a
frightening intensity.
Pushing the swaddling coat aside, she
straddled him. This time she would control the pace. She wanted to
see him, see his face as they made love.
“Let me,” he began, but she put a
shushing finger to his lips. He took it gently in his strong white
teeth, nibbled. Delight ran through her, a quicksilver shiver, from
their erotic play.
“Shhh, I want to see you,” she
explained. “Watch you.” She got her first glimpse of how luscious
it was going to be, seeing his eyes droop half closed, with a gleam
of a smile playing over his mouth.
“Watch me, my flame? As I do this?” He
lifted his hips, rolling them slightly so that he moved within her,
setting every nerve afire.
“Ahhhh, that feels...”
“What? How?” he whispered. “Tell me
what you like, what pleases you.”
“It feels like heaven,” she managed as
he did it again. She leaned forward, her hair screening them in a
private curtain as she kissed him. Lifting her hips, she teased him
with her hips and tongue simultaneously.
The growl in his chest was feral and
hot. “Carrie, let me please you,” he groaned, and thrust upward to
meet her, seek her.
“You are, Dav.” She drew his hands to
her breasts. They were turgid and aroused before he touched them
but she couldn’t stop the moan of delight when he half raised to
flick his tongue over first one nipple, then the other. “Ohhhhh,
that feels like heaven too,” she managed.
The rolling of his hips and the flick
of his tongue were more than enough to send her flying. Dav
supported her as she climaxed. Desire and something more, something
deeper, reflected in his face as he continued to rock into her,
drawing out her orgasm.
“Now,” he said, “let me do
more.”
“No.” She recovered as well as she
could, gripping his wrists. “My turn,” she insisted.
“Mine.”
He muttered something in Greek, but lay
back, not relaxed, but not taking over either. Good.
Mimicking his pace, that slow roll of
the hips, had a marvelous effect. She saw the muscles clench in his
jaw, his readiness to pounce. She captured his hands in hers,
prevented him from taking over, flipping them and ending it with a
rush. She knew he still could, he was strong enough and they would
both enjoy it, but she wanted more.
It might be all she ever
got.
Running her tongue up the side of his
neck, she tasted him, male and aroused. Now it was his turn to move
with restless excitement beneath her ministering hands and tongue.
By the time she’d come again, she had brought him to a fever pitch.
His hands were everywhere, racing over her skin to ignite every
nerve, every sense.
As she rose over him, it was her turn
to watch as he took command, even from his position beneath her,
guiding her hips, lifting her as her climax turned her muscles to
water, urging her higher, faster.
“Again.” He used his velvet voice, that
deep resonant growl, to call her to more satisfaction, more
pleasure. “Come for me again, my heart. Yes,” he murmured. He must
have seen it in her face, because he continued to rock her as she
crested so powerfully that she brought him with her.
“Ahhhhh!” The shouted praise couldn’t
have come from her, could it? She had never ... She decided it
didn’t matter what she’d done before as she collapsed onto his
chest, throbbing and trembling with the intensity of the
release.
Their panting breath was loud in the
closed space, intimate, reflecting their shared experience. His
heart beat under her cheek, steadying now as their breathing
leveled too.
“You are a miracle, my flame.” He
kissed her hair, toying with the strands of it that trailed down
her back. He seemed fascinated by her hair. She loved the way he
called her his dark flame. When he said it, she felt invincible,
impossibly sexy and feminine. She felt powerful.
“I hate to say it,” she whispered, and
she very much did hate to speak of anything commonplace, hated to
break the golden cocoon of pleasure. “But I need to get up, go to
the bathroom, such as it is.”
“Of course,” Dav said, loosing her from
his capturing arm, and bracing himself on an elbow as she rose. She
knew he watched her as she slipped into her shoes and made her way
across the dusty floor. She felt his gaze caress her skin, and
shivered, aroused all over again by his watching her.
She knew the moment he turned away to
give her privacy. The room felt cooler, darker.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t provide a long
hot shower too,” he said, as he began to retrieve their clothes,
sort them into piles of his and hers.
“Don’t even talk about it,” she
groaned. “Really.” She desperately wanted a shower. Even a cup of
water and a washcloth would be a blessing but they dared not chance
wasting what little water they had. She dreaded the thought of
getting back into her wrinkled skirt and sweater.
As she watched him, she had to grin.
Their things were strewn everywhere, with no regard for how little
they had, or the conditions. He was having a hard time separating
her jacket from her sweater.
“I guess we really did rip each other’s
clothes off,” she said, pointing at the various items. “I think
that’s your shirt. Do you see my bra?”
Dav rose and once again a Greek god
came to mind. He could be the young, powerful Apollo, she decided,
though the more she looked, the more he reminded her of the statue
of Poseidon in Copenhagen harbor. His body was strongly muscled,
his hips narrow without seeming disproportionate. Broad shoulders
and bronzed skin made her want to touch, to taste, to
explore.
He held up her lacy demicup bra. “Had I
known you wore this under that quiet”—he hesitated—“I think the
word is demure? Yes?” he asked. When she nodded, he grinned and
continued. “That demure sweater, I might have suggested a different
place for lunch.”
She smiled as she came over and took
the bra, slipping into it with practiced ease, then did the same
with her panties, although she’d have preferred not to. Dav was
dressing as well.
“Ah, I believe I’ve done something
bad,” he murmured, lifting the sweater by the shoulders. Along the
asymmetrical neckline, where beads had studded the narrow band of
the collar, there was now a tear. The fabric drooped downward,
leaving the neckline exposed halfway down to the
midline.
“Oh, my.” She took the garment from
him, turning it to and fro. She pulled it over her head and the rip
caught on her breast, then dropped below it.
“Anywhere in the world but here,” he
said, his smile pained, “I would buy you a dozen to replace it. I’m
sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She grinned at the look on
his face, not really hearing the words as she tried not to look at
his magnificent body. She knew if she did, she’d want him even
more. As it was she was sore, wonderfully sore, in wonderful ways,
but she wasn’t sure how much more she could take in one
twenty-four-hour period.
“Here—” He bent down, lifted his dusty
undershirt. “Wear this. Much as I love your new look, darling,” he
drawled, mimicking her former gallery clerk, “it won’t do to show
too much skin.” He kept the smile on his face as she took the
shirt, but his eyes changed and she saw the pain
there.
“It’s okay. It’s what it is. We’re
alive and that’s what counts.” She turned the shirt around in her
hands, brushed off some of the dust. The cotton was heavy and soft.
Like everything he owned it was beautifully made, probably
incredibly expensive. She sneaked a look at the tag and
laughed.
“Dav, you rascal,” she
accused.
“What? Is there something wrong?” He
was all concern, moving quickly to her side. “Is it ripped as
well?” He took it from her, examined it. Puzzled, he handed it
back. “You don’t want to wear it?”
“It’s fine. It’s a Fruit of the
Loom.”
“A what?”
She laughed even more. Obviously the
words meant nothing to him. “A plain cotton
undershirt.”
Still puzzled, he pulled the collar,
checked the tag. “Yes, it is. I have many of them. My assistant
buys them in large packages.” He indicated the size of the
packaging with his hands. “Why? Is something wrong with
it?”
She shook her head. “Your shirt—” She
fingered the material. He’d slipped it on, but hadn’t buttoned it.
She really wanted to run her hands over his skin again, but
confined herself to the shirt and remembered to continue the
sentence. “Probably cost what, three hundred dollars?”
“A bit less,” he confessed. “My tailor
likes me.”
“Right. The T-shirts are maybe, what,
five or seven dollars apiece bought in bulk?” She let her hands
measure the same size he’d shown her.
“Ah, I understand now. You are a snob,
my flame,” he said, sweeping her into his arms with a laugh and
swinging her around. “Eh-la, you would prefer I wear silk
underneath as well?”
“No, no.” She giggled at his antics and
wiggled to be put down. Embarrassed, she ducked her head. “It’s
just that I had this thought in my head that here I’d be putting on
something dearly expensive in such a primitive circumstance....”
She trailed off when she saw he was still laughing at her. “Stop
laughing at me.” She punched his bicep lightly. “Okay, I’m a snob,
or I guess I should say that I thought you were. Satisfied?” The
last was muffled in the folds of the shirt as she pulled it over
her head.
“Evidently not,” he murmured as he
swooped in for a passionate kiss, banding her in his arms, the
crumpled hem of the T-shirt caught between them. “You look
beautiful in my shirt, Carrie.” He rested his forehead on hers, his
breathing quick and his body hard against her hips. “You simply
look beautiful. Anywhere. In anything.” And now the grin was back
in full. “Or nothing.”
“Thank you,” she said, holding him
close, running her hands up his back. She didn’t want to move, or
think. Why had she waited so long for this, for him? He’d been
there. He’d asked. She’d been the one to hold him at
bay.
“You are welcome, my flame. My shirt is
common, perhaps, but comfortable. It is good quality cotton and
heavy. I sweat a great deal.” He said it like it was a bad thing,
an embarrassment.
“Means your body’s healthy,” she said,
a little breathlessly because his body heat was exciting her again.
Much as she wanted to rip the shirt back off, and jump him again,
she was sore. And hungry.
“Perhaps, but what is the commercial?”
He lifted his head, closing his eyes to call the concept to him.
“Ah yes, never let them see you sweat?”
“Right. Well, I won’t get it any
dirtier or sweatier than it already is. How’s that?”
“That’s acceptable.” He said it with a
pompous, condescending air. “I accept those terms.”
“I’m hungry,” she said, just as her
stomach growled loudly as it had the day before.
“Then, my lady, we should eat. I
believe we have an amazing menu this morning,” he said with a
flourishing bow. The fact that he hadn’t yet put on pants or
fastened his shirt did nothing to detract from the elegance of the
bow.
“I think we wrinkled our picnic
blanket,” she said, pointing at the rumpled coat.
“I’ll fix that as soon as I find my
pants. Now, where could they be? So much clutter in this space, so
many things to search through. Too much mess for me to see them, I
guess. We are terrible housekeepers, you and I.”
She’d never seen him so light, making
fun of everything and laughing with her as if they had no cares.
Perhaps they didn’t. There were no meetings, no shipments to
manage, no temperamental artists to soothe.
Still laughing and bumping one another,
they found his pants, straightened the coat and got out the meager
supplies. Sitting with their backs to the wall, they
ate.
“You know, I keep thinking about the
carvings. They mean something, I know they do. If I could just
remember. Aaargh,” she growled in frustration. “That damn art
course was so long ago. I took this course on Mayan art,” she
explained when he questioned her angst. “I know I’ve seen some of
this”—she waved toward the walls—“before.”
“You are doing a great deal better than
I, Carrie.” He shook his head. “I’ve learned about art over the
years, but nothing compares to your encyclopedic knowledge of
obscure but brilliant artists.”
“Hmmm—” She turned her head to look at
him. “That really doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“But it was meant as one,” he insisted.
“I remember you told me once at one of the openings about that
flamboyant artist, Carusia, you’d shown at the gallery. You said
his work reminded you of a Matisse, but not just any Matisse, a
particular one. Within minutes, you’d remembered the name of the
painting and when and where it was painted. You even knew which
museum held it in trust. When that annoying man from La Jolla asked
you—” he continued, but she interrupted him with the man’s
name.
“Mr. Collingsworth.”
“Yes, him. You deconstructed Carusia’s
work, painting by painting, referencing the Matisse that I’m sure
only you could see in your head. We all nodded sagely, and
Collingsworth bobbed, of course, because when he moves, everything
bobs.” Dav demonstrated and she crowed with laughter.
“Yes, it does,” she snickered. “Just
like that.”
“Just so. I went home and looked the
painting up. It is indeed in the Louvre, as you mentioned.” He
chewed thoughtfully on a cracker before he spoke again. “I looked
at the photos of that painting for an hour. I saw everything you’d
described.” He met her embarrassed gaze. “Now, don’t be shy about
your brilliance. Never be shy about that. Too many women are.” He
reached out and tapped a finger on her nose, a gesture she’d seen
him use with his cousin, the elegant actress Sophia Contas. “It was
amazing.”
She absorbed the compliment for a
moment, remembering that opening and the odious Mr.
Collingsworth.
“I tried to buy it,” Dav broke the
silence, looking at her again. “The Matisse.”
“Buy it? But...” She often forgot just
how wealthy he was. He seldom made an issue of it, and now, looking
rumpled, dusty and with two days’ growth of beard rapidly shadowing
the lower half of his face, he looked nothing like the suave
billionaire she knew him to be.
“Even the Louvre has a price, love,” he
replied with a shrug.
It boggled the mind. Really. “Did they
sell it to you?”
“Not yet,” he said, and a predatory,
catlike smile curved his lips and crinkled his eyes. “I will wear
them down eventually.”
That kind of wealth was astounding to
her. She couldn’t fathom calling the Louvre, offering to buy
something from the collection, then waiting until they were ready
to deal. Such patience. No wonder he was worth
billions.
Thinking about his power made her think
about powerful men in general. The gods of commerce. Trade and
commerce.
Staring at the wall opposite where they
were sitting, her eye lit on a particular whorl in the pattern.
Wait...
“Hold this.” She passed him the canteen
she’d just picked up so she could scramble to her feet, hurry to
the wall. Following the pattern she’d seen, the glyph for water,
she traced it around the space, stepping over his legs when she got
to them and moving back almost to the beginning of the glyph. It
stopped though, three or four feet short of its
beginning.
“The serpent isn’t swallowing his
tail,” she muttered, stepping back to look for another glyph. She
found it high, near the ceiling. Pointing at it, to keep her place,
trying not to lose the rhythm of it, she traced it all the way to
the same juncture, three to four feet from where it
began.
“Carrie?” He heard the impatience in
his voice, tightly leashed, but there.
“It’s a pattern, a regular thing in
these ceremonial sites,” she explained. “The glyph begins—” She
pointed to the wall, reaching up to tap the fat whorl that began
one tracery. “The glyph ends.” She pivoted, her outstretched arm
showing the path of the wave. “But they’re supposed to connect. The
never-ending circle of the elements.”
He could see it, now that she pointed
it out. The ending line of the pattern curved back on itself, on
its back, then wriggled down the edge of the space. Other lines and
whorls and patterns flowed seamlessly across the blank space but
not the ones Carrie deemed to be the most important.
With his help, she searched the whole
wall. It took them most of the day, but they found the patterns for
water and metal and sun. They found at least one more pattern that
Carrie couldn’t identify that was a continuous line. It was like a
winding maze or an Escher drawing, fooling the eye again and
again.
All of the main, important lines
stopped four feet before they began again.
Hours passed, marked by the sun’s path
on the floor. They sat again, drinking to clear dusty throats,
brushing their hands off as best they could to save
water.
“I think the places where the pattern
stops, right there,” Carrie said, pointing to the area on the wall
where the patterns didn’t quite meet. “I think it’s important.” She
didn’t want to raise his hopes, or hers, but she couldn’t help but
blurt out her suspicions. “Dav, I think it’s a door. I can’t be
sure,” she temporized, “but it could be.”
“Where would it lead? Would it lead
out?” She heard the hope, quickly suppressed, rise in his voice.
“Or just to another chamber?”
“I have no idea. But it’s something,
it’s something.” Turning to him, she searched his face. “Isn’t it?
It’s something. Maybe something we can use to get ourselves out of
here.”
“Yes, it is. You’re brilliant, Carrie,”
he praised, reaching over to caress her cheek the way he had the
night before. He was looking at her with admiration, with approval
written all over him. It warmed her right to her soul. He was open
and smiling and her heart lurched.
Love was such an ass-kicker. How could
fate be so cruel to give her, finally, a man like this, a lover, a
friend, someone honorable and amazing? Why would love come now,
like a terrible nightmare in these conditions, when today might be
their last day?
He must have seen her thoughts in her
face. “What is it? Carrie?”
“Nothing, it’s just...” She choked on
the words. “We finally get together and you’re amazing and, and,
and—” She fought for control. Throwing up her hands, she let the
tears roll. “Here we are. Stuck. Probably going to die today, or
tomorrow. And here you are. Finally.”
“Oh, my flame,” he said, pulling her
into his arms. “Hush now. We’ll find a way. We will,” he insisted
when she shook her head, the gesture lost as she pressed into his
chest, wishing the haven of his arms offered more hope. “Carrie?
Carrie, listen to me.”
He forced her away, not to arm’s
length, but enough so she had to look at him. Face
him.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes.” What did he want? She felt angry
now. Didn’t he see how hopeless it all was?
“Look over there.” He pointed to the
wall they’d been examining. “You found that. Life and hope, you
said, yes?”
Dav stood up, moved to the space where
the patterns stopped, stretching to graze his hands over the wall,
starting at the top and moving over it to the bottom.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding the edges. If it is a door,
and the patterns are stopping in this space, there will be edges.
Come help me.”
She struggled to her feet and complied,
listlessly following his movements. “What are we
doing?”
He grinned at her, his face a mask of
dust and sweat. “Where there is a door, there is a doorknob, isn’t
there? At least in Greece there is. I may be just a poor, young
Greek businessman, but even I know that.”
“You’re a funny guy, Davros
Gianikopolis.” She poked at his bicep again, an excuse to touch
him. “Very funny.”
“I try, I really do. Now, shall we look
for our doorknob?”
Finding her resolve, and feeling a
surge of hope, she nodded. “Absolutely.”