Moonrise, Page 2

  He smiled down at her, and perhaps it was meant to be reassuring. Annie wasn’t reassured. She didn’t know this man—she kept looking for McKinley beneath the stubble and the danger, beyond the tequila and the unexpected look of him. He had to be in there, somewhere.

  “Oh, I’ll help you, Annie,” he said softly. “You’ll get the answers to all those questions running about in your head. But I’m not sure you’ll like them.”

  “Liking has nothing to do with it. I’m not going to stop until I find out.”

  He looked down at her, and there was an odd expression in his eyes. “I know you won’t, Annie,” he said gently. “And I’m sorry about that.”

  He was going to have to do something about her. She knelt at his feet, all sweet-smelling innocence and trust, staring up at him. Her father’s age? Christ, he was thirty-nine years old. He’d done his job too damned well.

  She was right—he had known her for most of her life. Since she was seven years old and he’d arrived in her life as James McKinley, newly widowed and not long out of college. Ready to follow Winston Sutherland anywhere, do anything he wanted. Ready to expiate the sins that stained his soul. It was a life he’d lived for more than twenty years now. It had become second nature to him.

  He knew just how tenacious, how stubborn, how bright Annie Sutherland was. She wouldn’t let it go. Not until she learned the unpalatable truth, about all of them. A truth even James didn’t know completely.

  While Win had been alive he’d been able to shield her. Win had been good at that—he could string together a bunch of lies that could convince the most rabid conspiracy buff that everything was aboveboard. He’d had the advantage with Annie, of course. She’d loved him, trusted him. It wouldn’t occur to her to suspect her father of being anything other than the charming, slightly stuffy bureaucrat he’d appeared to be.

  But Win wasn’t around to cloud her mind anymore. And she’d inherited his brains, even if she’d never used them in the same arena. It would only be a matter of time before she began making some very dangerous enemies.

  It wasn’t his concern, he reminded himself. He was a dead man already—so what if Annie Sutherland was added to their list of victims?

  And he didn’t really give a damn if she blew the cover off the whole stinking mess. He’d lost any interest in right or wrong, the good guys or bad guys. He’d spent too much of his life meting out someone else’s justice. He no longer cared.

  He looked down at Anne. She probably had no idea of the thoughts racing through his brain, that no amount of tequila could deaden. He looked down at her slender, delicate throat, and thought about how much pressure he’d need to exert to break her neck. It would be simple, easy, no more than a flick of the wrist, and she and her questions would be no threat to anyone.

  She wasn’t a particularly beautiful woman—Winston had seen to that. She wore her brownish blond hair long and simple, her clothes were uninspired, her makeup minimal. She could have been stunning, but Winston was good at manipulating people. He’d wanted a daughter who was moderately attractive, intelligent, and outside the business. A glamorous beauty would have garnered too much attention, so Annie Sutherland’s perfect bone structure was hidden beneath a shaggy haircut and a self-deprecating style that was almost as effective as McKinley’s protective coloration, even if it wasn’t conscious.

  He looked down at her, and he wondered what she’d do if he put his hand behind her head and pulled her mouth toward his crotch.

  She probably didn’t know what to do with that mouth, he thought sourly. Win had scared off any but the most harmless of her lovers. Only his chosen one, Martin, was allowed to get close to her for any length of time. He never knew whether Win had destroyed their marriage in the end, or whether it had simply died a natural death. He told himself he’d never cared.

  In the end, James didn’t touch her, because he wasn’t certain what he’d do. There was no hurry. No one could approach this place without him knowing, and so far they’d done a piss-poor job of coming after him. Annie being there would up the ante, of course, but they’d already let her get this far. Unless Martin had been able to cover it up, but he’d be a fool to count on that.

  “Why didn’t you ask Martin for help?” he said suddenly. “Or did he turn you down?”

  “I wanted you,” she said.

  The words hung between them. He watched, with drunken amazement, as a faint sheen of color mottled her cheeks. She was actually blushing.

  “Annie,” he said, suddenly weary, “go to bed.”

  She glanced around. “Where?”

  “There’s a bed upstairs. Take it. I’ve had too much to drink tonight to deal with you. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to help me?”

  He rose, caught her arm, and hauled her up. She was slender, the white suit was wrinkled, but she still smelled like some faint, sexy perfume. Not the kind of perfume he would have chosen for her.

  “Maybe,” he said. “For the time being, get your butt upstairs and out of my sight.”

  She smiled at him then. Christ, he’d forgotten Annie Sutherland’s smile. It had been a long time since he’d seen it, an even longer time since it had been directed at him. It was still just as powerful.

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she said. She leaned over and hugged him, an exuberant, sexless hug, backing away before he could make a drunken swipe at her.

  “I didn’t say—”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, escaping up the narrow stairs. Not knowing how close that escape was.

  It was too damned small a house. The upstairs bedroom was nothing more than an open balcony. There was no door on his bedroom either.

  He knew, deep in his heart, what he was going to have to do, and all the tequila in the world couldn’t change things.

  He was either going to have to do his damnedest to convince sharp-eyed, quick-witted Annie Sutherland that her father was a harmless bureaucrat who’d died in a freak accident.

  Or he might have to kill her himself.

  Chapter Two

  Moonlight shone in the office window. It was late, very late, in Langley, Virginia, and the building was relatively quiet.

  “We’ve got a problem, sir.”

  “Define it.”

  “It’s McKinley, sir.”

  “That’s nothing new. We knew we were going to have to take him out sooner or later. He’s holed up in that rathole in Mexico—he’s not going any place without our being on him like flies on shit. He’s also gonna be damned hard to take if we go in after him. What’s the hurry?”

  “He’s not alone, sir.”

  “Shit. I should have known. A man with Mack’s abilities could sell himself to the highest bidder. People with his talents are always in demand. Who is it? The Iraqis? The IRA? The Red Brigade?”

  “Worse, sir. It’s Annie Sutherland.”

  There was a measured pause. “Shit. We’ll have to go in, then. We’ve been playing a waiting game, and time just ran out. You’ve got the men for the job?”

  “I thought I could handle it, sir.”

  “No way. Mack’s more than a match for any single operative I know, and this isn’t your area of expertise. You send a team of your best. We can’t afford to make mistakes on this one. He’s a goddamned killing machine. It’s bad enough we’ve got to lose him. I don’t want anyone else going down if we can help it.”

  “Yes, sir. What about Sutherland’s daughter?”

  “What about her? You know as well as I do that there’s no room for loose ends. For witnesses, for questions. Your people know how to handle these things.”

  “Yes, sir. When?”

  “How long’s she been there?”

  “My sources said she arrived on the island this afternoon and got to his place by dusk.”

  “Are you sure he hasn’t already solved half our problem? The last man sent in after him wound up dead. He’s not the kind of man
to wait around and ask questions. Maybe Annie Sutherland’s already floating on the tide.”

  “No, sir. The taxi driver has been in our pay for months. He says McKinley let her in.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long will it take you to get a team together? People you can trust? People without sentimental feelings about a coworker?”

  “Two or three days. Maybe four at the most.”

  “I want the job done by tomorrow night. We can’t afford to fuck around on this one, son. Your ass and mine depend on getting this right. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. It’ll be taken care of.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good man,” said the General, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s drink to that.”

  Annie lay in the narrow bed, sleepless, restless, listening for sounds of movement beneath her second-floor bedroom. She’d been a fool to come, she knew that. But then, she’d been telling herself that, nonstop, for the past three days, since she’d made up her mind to ask James McKinley for help.

  It wasn’t going to bring her father back. Nothing would, and this stupid quest was probably nothing more than an extreme case of denial. So what if the accident seemed uncharacteristically stupid and unlikely? Most accidents were.

  She’d gone through the first stages of mourning. The anger, the blind denial, the numb grief. It had been more than six months, just about time for her to pull up her socks and get on with her life.

  It was a good, rewarding life. She was healthy, young, and reasonably attractive. Even if her short-term marriage hadn’t worked out, the divorce had been amicable and civilized, and she and Martin were still friends. Even if her subsequent relationships had never given her exactly what she wanted, they’d been pleasant, mutually satisfying, casual.

  She had friends, good friends. She had a job she adored—school psychologist at the same exclusive Quaker school where she’d spent her childhood. She’d moved back to the house in Georgetown, full of memories, of course, but most of them happy ones. And she had enough money for the occasional luxury. More, in fact. She’d never quite realized how much money her father had actually had until she inherited it.

  The only thing missing in her comfortable life was love. There was no bringing her father back—maybe she ought to go out and buy a puppy, for God’s sake, instead of going on some brainless crusade. Maybe she ought to get married again.

  For the past three days coming here had seemed like the logical thing to do. The only thing to do. Go find McKinley. The man who knew the answers.

  She’d always thought that absurdly melodramatic of her father. Winston Sutherland hadn’t been above a streak of theatrics, of romanticizing things a bit, but that had only made Annie love him more.

  Now she wasn’t so certain her father had been exaggerating at all. The James McKinley she remembered was a sober businessman, whose only answers would have something to do with government contracts or the like.

  But the man she’d seen tonight was a different matter entirely.

  She’d half hoped she’d find him sitting in one of his charcoal gray suits, sipping coffee and looking avuncular, and she’d realize how foolish she’d been, to start imagining conspiracies and murder and cover-ups.

  But the dangerous creature she’d left in the kitchen of the tiny cottage had set all her alarm bells ringing. She’d meant to broach the subject of Win’s death gradually, casually. Instead she’d blurted it out, confronted by a stranger she’d known all her life.

  She shouldn’t have come, she knew it. As she lay in the bed, sweltering, she knew she had to apologize, and leave, first thing in the morning.

  If she had any sense at all.

  * * *

  She didn’t know he was watching her. James wasn’t the kind of man who made mistakes, and tonight was no exception, despite the amount of tequila he had drunk, despite the shock her appearance had given him.

  She lay in the narrow iron bed, her tawny hair spread out around her shoulders. She was wearing some sort of tank top, exposing her long, tanned arms, and the sheet lay tangled around her legs. It had taken her quite awhile to fall asleep, and he’d sat downstairs in absolute silence, drinking his tequila and listening to the sound of her breathing. The very sound of her heartbeat.

  And then, he’d come up the narrow stairs to stare at her while she slept. If he hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t have touched her hair, moving it away from her tanned neck. The feel it was silky, sliding through his fingers as he exposed her throat. He stared down at her, knowing how very easy it would be to exert just the right amount of pressure. She would die very quickly.

  He stepped back, shaken. Damn, he was getting too old for this. He’d had too much to drink, too much to think about. Killing someone wasn’t an issue to be debated. It was either orders followed, or instinct.

  But he was through listening to orders, and his instincts, at least as far as Annie Sutherland was concerned, were haywire. He needed to remind himself of the drill. Fall back upon habit if his brain wasn’t working right.

  He searched her bag soundlessly, methodically. She went in for silk and cotton underwear. Not too plain, not too saucy. Middle of the road, conservative. As Win had molded her.

  Her clothes were the same. Classic, conservative, and politically correct. He wondered what politics Win had imbued in her.

  There was no sign of a weapon, which didn’t surprise him. He’d already come to the conclusion that Annie Sutherland was exactly who and what she appeared to be.

  She’d brought her vitamins, enough to stock a health food store. She’d brought tranquilizers and sleeping pills, both prescription. She’d brought a box of condoms. He wondered idly who she was planning to fuck.

  He doubted if it was going to be him.

  He took her purse and carried it downstairs with him, emptying it out on the cluttered kitchen table. He poured himself another glass of tequila as he sat down to look through it.

  Traveler’s checks. Ten thousand dollars worth—quite a piece of change for a spur of the moment trip. But then, Win had left her an obscene amount of money. Obscene considering where it had come from. Credit cards, makeup, cash. And a couple of letters.

  He recognized the handwriting on both of them. He opened the one from Martin first. Martin Paulsen was the closest thing he had to a friend right now. Which wasn’t saying very much. He scanned the letter to Annie, taking in the details with lightning speed, unaffected by the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. She’d slept with Martin, her ex-husband, sometime in the not too distant past. It was over, though perhaps it could be rekindled. And Martin didn’t think there was anything suspicious about her father’s death. Most of all, he didn’t think McKinley would have anything to offer.

  Smart man, James thought with a stirring of gratitude. Unfortunately, Annie Sutherland hadn’t listened to his good advice. She was here. And they were both going to live to regret it. Though probably not for long, in either of their cases.

  He was avoiding the second letter. He knew Win’s handwriting as well as he knew his own, and he didn’t want to read it. He picked it up, despising his sudden sentimental weakness, and glanced at the date. March 28. Five days before he’d died.

  He would have known he was a dead man by then. Exactly what had he told Annie, to make her come after him? Had he guessed the truth, even in advance? Winston Sutherland had been almost supernaturally canny about such things. He probably would have known when and why. Chances were, he would have known who as well.

  He smoothed the crumpled letter for a moment. Then he pulled it open and read it.

  There was nothing the slightest bit suspicious at first glance. Just fatherly admonitions couched in Win’s slightly mocking graciousness. It didn’t necessarily sound like a man saying good-bye.

  But it was. Win had known he had been found out. His lucrative sideline exposed and his sentence passed down. He’d probably
known who would come for him.

  James’s eyes narrowed. I’m looking forward to the Irish blessing you’re embroidering for me, darling Annie, the letter said. When I see it I’ll think of you, and I’ll think of Jamey. He’s a good man. Go to him if you ever need help and I’m not around.

  It was all he could do not to crumple the paper. He folded it carefully, slipping it back into the envelope.

  And then he reached for the bottle of tequila.

  When Annie woke up, she was disoriented. The bed sagged beneath her, the sheets were tangled around her legs, and the smell of frying bacon mixed with the rich scent of coffee. In the distance she could hear someone humming under his breath.

  She felt exhausted, confused, hungover. She crawled out of bed, rummaged carelessly through her suitcase, and pulled out some clothes. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in disbelief.

  The tiny downstairs of the cottage was spotless. Gone were the dirty dishes she’d seen littering every available surface; gone were the stacks of newspapers and books, the clutter.

  Gone was the stranger as well. McKinley stood in the kitchen by the stove, poking the bacon, sipping a mug of coffee.

  He was showered, shaved, familiar again. He wasn’t wearing a gray suit this time, and his hair was still long, but it was wet from his shower and combed back, and his clothes were neatly pressed khaki.

  “There you are, sleepyhead,” he greeted her, his voice an affable rumble, laced with his hint of Texas accent. “I thought you were going to sleep all day.”

  For a moment she didn’t move, staring at him. In a way, this familiar James McKinley was even more startling.

  “You want some coffee?” he continued, smiling an easy smile.

  “Sure,” she said after a moment.

  “Take a seat. Breakfast is coming right up. Can’t start the day without a decent breakfast,” he said, turning away from her and whistling under his breath once more.

  She waited until she gulped down a half cup of strong black coffee. She waited until he sat down opposite her, with plates of cholesterol between them. “What’s going on, James?”