Dark Time: Mortal Path (11 page)

Jake Stackman was already there. There was no mistaking the red polo shirt and dark, curly hair Randy had told her to look for. She went to his table and he half rose to greet her.

She had to admit Randy was right. He was hot. He had a powerful physical presence, very fit, with broad shoulders tapering to a tight abdomen and lean waist. His hair was as black as hers, naturally curly and a little in need of a haircut, and he had intense blue eyes. His face was ruggedly handsome but not movie-star gorgeous. A small scar on his chin added a dash of intrigue. In her professional opinion, the scar was from a serrated blade, and she would bet it wasn’t an accident while eating with a steak knife.

This guy couldn’t possibly have any trouble finding dates. Maybe he’s got ’em stacked in the
freezer in his basement.

At the last minute, Randy had warned her to be careful in case Jake turned out to be a wacko sex-freak serial killer, not that she’d detected any hints of that, of course.

“I can handle myself. You don’t have to worry.”

“I know…it’s just, you know, there’s
CSI
and all the shit in the newspapers, and I don’t want some
old lady walking her dog to find your body in an alley.”

“No body in the alley,” Maliha said, thinking of the delicate touch of Nando’s spirit as it gathered
around her body, gaining strength. “I promise.”

“Marsha Winters?”

“Yes.” She put her hand out to shake, something not all women did, but she thought it would start them off on an equal basis. After all, he hadn’t fully stood up when she came to the table. He gave her hand a hearty shake, and in return, he skipped coming around to push in her chair.

So we’ve established he’s not a gentleman and I’m not a lady.

“I’m Jake Stackman,” he said. “To get it over with right away, I’m an agent of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and I don’t care if or what you smoke.”

“Okay.” She sat quietly.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what you do?”

“Is this an interrogation, Agent Stackman?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Because I’m hungry and it smells good in here. Predator senses prey, something like that.”

He was smiling, and it made his eyes light up.

“What would you like? I’m buying.”

This was where most men expected their date to demur and order a salad and a diet soda, claiming they’re watching their figure.

“We’re here for the Italian beef, aren’t we? I’ll have a Big Al with hot sauce, an order of fries, and a vanilla milk shake.”

The smile got bigger. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

He brought the food to the table and they dug in. His order was the same. Not much was said until 36 z 138

2009-08-25 02:50

Maliha leaned back, slurped up the last of her shake, and patted her tummy.

“I’m a novelist,” she said, “to answer your earlier question.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re
that
Marsha Winters? Pulp-fiction queen?”

“Guilty. Ever been on a blind date before?”

His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what answer she wanted to hear. “Nope. I’ll bet you’re as surprised to be here as I am.”

“I’ve been subjected to a few of these things before. The trick is, there have to be specific points when we can walk away without penalty.”

“Escape ramps from the highway.”

She was pleased that he got it. “One of them was when we first saw each other, and the next one’s right now. If either of us wants to stop now, we can take the off ramp. The bill’s paid”—she gestured toward her plate—“and that’s that. I report back to Randy that you were a nice man but we didn’t have much in common.”

“No phone numbers exchanged.”

“We’d regret having put on expensive lingerie. Well, one of us would.”

She’d been waiting for him to check her out. Unlike most men, so far he’d kept his gaze on her face, but the lingerie remark triggered the visual assessment. He took his time with it, letting her see the appreciation on his face.

No shy boy here.

“Ready for the off ramp?” she asked. Neither of them moved. “Okay. Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Thirty-two years old. Nonsmoker, social drinker. I’m devoted to my job. This is the first real date I’ve been on in a year, mostly due to the job. I like cats and classical music. I dread long walks on the beach and I fucking never walk in the rain. Is that enough?”

“Good start. I’m a nonsmoker, social drinker. I’m more of a leopard person myself, and I’ve loved classical music, well, a long time.”

Back when it was just music and hadn’t become classical yet.

“What about the beaches and rain?”

“I’ve had my fill of rain. Beaches are a different story. No long walks, but I’ve been known to pick up men in skimpy swimsuits and fuck their brains out all night.”

Jake’s eyes blinked as he processed this. “What beaches? I’ll be there.”

Another good answer.

Two hours later, the diner had cleared out after lunch, but Jake and Maliha were still sitting there.

His hand rested familiarly over hers on the table. Their conversation was low and cozy, creating a sphere of personal space with room for two.

“When will I see you again?” Jake asked.

“If we stay here long enough, we can just order dinner.”

“I’m game, but I have some work to do. How about dinner around seven? At my place?”

“I need to make a trip out of town for a few days. How about Friday at eight?”

He took out one of his business cards and wrote his address on the back. “Shall I pick you up?”

“Do I look like I’ve fallen?”

He laughed and smiled. “I only mention it because my neighborhood isn’t what you’re used to, being a famous novelist.”

“So I’ll beat off the muggers with my books. I’ll be fine.”

They both rose from the table, and Maliha came around to stand next to him, leaving the next move up to him.

He gently tilted her face up and kissed her. The touch of his lips thrilled her. He put his arms around her and pulled her to him. She rested there comfortably, their bodies in full contact, with her cheek against his chest. He bent toward her ear, and she thought he was going to whisper something sweet.

“You taste like hot sauce,” he said. “I just missed all the off ramps for this date.”

A customer came in, and they broke apart.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the man said. “I like watching.”

Out on the sidewalk, he kissed her again, lightly, as if to seal some private arrangement between them.

37 z 138

2009-08-25 02:50

Best Italian beef I’ve ever had.

W
atcher saw her arrive in a taxi at the building she lived in. He was familiar with taxis—driven by arrogant men who rarely bothered to talk in the local language, except when they stuck their hands out to be paid extra for mediocre service.

He always made it a point to learn some of the local language, even when it twisted his tongue and made his head ache to do it.

She said good night to the door guard. He smiled at her in a way that set Watcher on edge.

It had been easy to get her address. He followed her home to find out the building. Waylaying a cleaning woman on her way home, he half bribed, half threatened her to find out Marsha’s room number and provide it to him. The next day she did, and he paid her two hundred dollars in case he needed to use her again.

Moving around to the back of the building, he waited until a delivery truck arrived. When the driver went inside carrying boxes, Watcher grabbed a few boxes from the open end of the truck and took the same path. Inside there was a man at a desk who barely looked up when Watcher came in.

“Better catch up,” the man said. “Your partner’s gone up in the freight elevator already.”

“Thanks. I’ll hurry.”

Watcher did hurry, at least until he got around the corner out of sight from the desk. He located the elevator and left the boxes there. The driver would wonder who had done him a favor, but probably wouldn’t question it. There were many servants in the building.

Watcher found the fire stairs, almost never used in a tall building with elevators. He jogged to the thirty-ninth floor, enjoying the exercise, and sat down to wait.

At 3 A.M., he cracked open the fire door and made sure no one was in the hall. Once at her doorway, he was inside in less than thirty seconds. Watcher was skilled with his hands in small ways, as well as in large, murderous ones.

He stood in the dark, filling his lungs with her scent.

“No need to rush.” He liked the sound of his whispered voice bouncing softly off her walls.

He used a flashlight to examine the room and take in every detail. He was capable of assessing a scene quickly, spotting enemies or vulnerable places. It was a native skill honed by years of necessity. He saw it all: the dented cushion on the chair that held the shape of her ass, the blank, dusty face of a TV

hardly ever used, the spoon she’d left on the counter after stirring her morning coffee. A barbarian drink.

Tea was the only hot drink that passed his lips.

The spoon on the counter had probably touched her lips. He picked it up and pressed it to his mouth, licking it.

She would be his. She was
already
his, but the time had not come to take her.

Watcher’s thoughts grew hot. He hurried toward the bedroom.

No need to rush.

She was a capable warrior, and he was in her home den. He had to be careful. Moving with the stealth granted to him, he slid toward the dark form on the bed. He knelt at the bedside and remained there, unmoving, for fifteen minutes to make sure he hadn’t disturbed her. While killing her as she abruptly awakened held a certain appeal, he had other plans for this night.

As his eyes grew adjusted to the dark, the faint glow of a nightlight in the open closet allowed him to see her form in detail. Lying on her back, she’d tossed aside her cover, exposing most of her body. She slept almost naked, with delicate underwear covering the mound between her legs. Her breasts were exquisite, and he longed to take them into his powerful hands. Her scent was powerful this close, the intoxicating odor of the wild, primal creature that she was—the one who belonged to him.

He felt the swelling in his sweatpants and slipped them down. With one hand he began to pleasure himself, and with the other he circled his fingertips on one of her nipples and then the other. She moaned a 38 z 138

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little and shifted, but didn’t wake. He did it again and again, light as a feather, and was rewarded with the sight of her nipples responding to his touch.

His hand traveled like a puff of air across her belly and reached the band of her underwear. His fingertips slipped under the band and felt the soft mat of her hair. Inches more, where warmth rose from her and her womanly scent flowed like water from a spring, only inches more to the prize, but he gently pulled his hand back. Even through his sensual intoxication, he knew that touching her there, pressing his fingers inside, would waken her and she’d go for the gleaming knife on the table by the bed. He’d have to kill her quickly and quietly, and that was no good. He wanted his time with her in a place where screaming didn’t matter.

Instead he put his hand softly on the outside of her underwear, covering what belonged to him and what, when the time came, he would not touch so gently.

His arousal couldn’t wait any longer. Watcher rose from her bedside and slipped out of the bedroom.

He sat on the shape of her ass on the chair and gave himself over to sensation.

In the staircase, he waited until she left in the morning. To his amazement, a man left her apartment soon after she did.

There had been no man there when he entered at 3 A.M. He was sure of it. No man’s odor had mixed with hers.

One coffee cup. One spoon.

Someone had arrived after he left, then.
Who lets himself in at that time and leaves after she does in
the morning? A lover.

His thoughts filled with anger. He took the risk of reentering her place to check. There was no man’s smell in her bedroom, no smell of sex on her sheets. In a spare room, he found a suitcase and a computer.

Not a lover, then. A lover could not have resisted joining her, the way she looked on the bed.

Before he left, he plucked her worn panties from the hamper. Then it was back to discipline. Back to waiting.

Peru, Present Time

M
anco Miguel Serrano sat back on his haunches, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his dusty, sweat-streaked face. He wore a wide-brimmed hat with a cloth hanging down in the back to cover his neck. The cloth had started out wet for coolness, but after four hours in the desert sun, it was as dry and stiff as a board. A hot wind swept across the site where he worked, tossing sand and dirt in his face.

Manco was working near the village of Caral, Peru, about 120 miles north of Lima and twelve miles in from the Pacific coast. He was an archaeologist, lured there by the prospect of working on an ancient Peruvian mound-building culture that was turning out to be the cradle of civilization in the Americas, as Mesopotamia was for Southwest Asia, the Nile River Valley was for Egypt, and the Yellow River Valley was for China. The existence of the mounds had been known since 1905, but because there was no gold, no flashy artifacts, no writing, and no pottery, the remote site didn’t attract attention. Recent study led to the discovery that some settlements were as old as 2,600 B.C.E., overlapping with the period of ancient Sumer.

Manco was looking for carved, human-shaped figurines in a small group of houses excavated to reveal several levels of “floor,” indicating that the site had been used for homes. On his knees for hours at a time, Manco poked through a carefully marked grid with a small trowel, a whiskbroom, and a small brush. He loved it. What kept him going in the heat, with his knees aching, was the idea that the next small trowel of dirt he shifted might reveal an artifact—something shaped by human hands over 4,500 years ago.