Hidden Sanctuary, page 12
“Oh yeah,” I said, remembering how comfortable I’d been with him. “But your morning-after technique leaves a lot to be desired. Most women don’t have to ask to hold the bullets with breakfast.”
He chuckled. “I’ll work on that next time.”
“Already planning a next time?” I teased.
He pulled me close. “Oh yeah,” he whispered, echoing my earlier sentiment before kissing my mouth.
His lips were firm and familiar, and I could spend hours kissing him, but there wasn’t time for that. We pulled away at the same time. “Let’s go find Pauline,” he said, shoving his gun under the front seat.
I did the same with mine.
I wove my arm through his as we walked into the airport, my stomach doing summersaults. It wasn’t the fear of capture that made me nauseous. It was the airport itself.
I hate to fly. I do it, but generally require Valium to get me into the seat. Better living through chemistry, I thought, reminding myself that I was not getting on a plane.
We were here to catch Pauline. Not board.
The butterflies in my stomach tried to exit through my mouth anyway, and I swallowed hard, hoping that I looked more relaxed than I felt.
“We have to buy tickets to get through security,” Griffin said out of the side of his mouth as he led me to a counter. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
He smiled at the bored-looking ticket agent. “Two for Paris. The afternoon flight. First class.”
“IDs?” the agent asked, not batting an eye.
I dug in my backpack, retrieving my identification and praying that the woman behind the counter didn’t see my hands shaking. If the police were chasing us, there was bound to be some kind of bulletin at the airport.
Griffin appeared normal and calm. Not as if we were possible fugitives looking for a millionaire thief. I envied his ability to distance himself. We handed over our IDs, and I tensed, waiting for an alarm. Armed men.
Something.
But nothing happened.
“Luggage?” the ticket agent asked, her brown eyes widening when she finally looked at us. I couldn’t blame her for her shock. With our uncombed hair, sweaty skin and wrinkled clothes, we looked more like street people. Not the kind of individuals who bought first-class airline tickets.
At least I’m wearing a bra, I mused, trying to transform my semihysterical grin into something less suspicious. I settled for coughing into my hand.
“Not today.” Griffin slid his arm around my waist. “I’m taking my girl on a shopping spree.”
The agent handed us our papers. “Have a good flight.”
We walked away, tickets in hand.
“You okay?” Griffin whispered. “You looked a little pale back there.”
“I’m fine.” And I was, until I saw the security checkpoint.
“Be calm,” Griffin said. “We’re going shopping. Remember that.” He squeezed my hand and laughed as if I’d said something funny.
I giggled in response, but shut my mouth when it edged toward hysteria.
We’re shopping. Two people going shopping. I chanted the words like a prayer in my head.
We went through the metal detector without a hitch. Once again, I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps events were turning in our favor.
I was putting my shoes back on when something hard jammed into my side.
Flinching, I tried to pull away, but a firm hand grabbed my elbow. “Please come with us, Ms. Palmer. Quietly. We have a few questions.”
I looked down. The something hard wedged into my flesh was the barrel of a gun.
So much for our favor.
It wasn’t unlike a cop movie. The security room was small and stale, with a table and a few hardback, wooden chairs. Fluorescent lighting flickered overhead, making my eyes hurt. The mandatory glass-and-chrome wall clock remained mute and unmoving—stuck at 8:00 a.m.
They’d taken Griffin to another room without giving us a chance to talk to each other.
Not that I needed to speak with him. I knew Griffin. He’d never admit to anything. Not that there was anything to admit to. We’d been shot at and had defended ourselves.
But I didn’t plan to admit even that much.
What really pissed me off was the fact that Pauline was leaving, and Efra’s village was running out of time.
“Damn it,” I whispered, crossing my arms over my chest.
As if on queue, the door opened and Tan walked into the room. I tried not to look surprised. “Hello, Ms. Palmer.”
“Hello. I want a lawyer.”
He shook his head as if disappointed with my typical American request.
Bite me. It was all he was going to get.
Sitting down opposite me, he slid a folder across the table. “Open it.”
I glared at him, but uncrossed my arms and flipped it open. On top of a small stack of papers was an eight-by-ten of myself and Griffin, running down the street. “So?”
“Keep looking.”
I flipped through the photos. Me in the group of tourists. Griffin running. That must be after we split up.
Then nothing until the final one of us driving the stolen car down the street.
I breathed a sigh of relief and closed the folder. If this was all they had, we were safe. Not one of the photos showed us shooting at anyone. “I don’t get it. Why are you holding me and my friend?”
He pulled the file back. “Gertrude Palmer.”
Inside, I cringed at hearing my given name.
“You are from a good family,” Tan said, looking as cool and calm as Griffin. “The best education. Privileges. Servants. Why have you turned to a life of crime? Drugs?”
I leaned back, refusing to react. “What do you mean?”
“You assaulted a citizen.” He went to the bottom of the pile. “An Efra Binte Nur Um Fatima.”
He hesitated, waiting for a response to the accusation.
I wanted to scream at the obvious lie and ask him how he knew about Efra, but I took a deep breath and refused to accommodate him either way.
After a few seconds, he grunted and continued. “You are accused of striking her. Possibly killing her.”
I refused to let his accusation scare me. She wasn’t dead. I would know if she were. But he knew that we were friends, and there was no point in denying it.
Give him just enough. No more. “She was fine when I left her.”
“You know her, then?” Tan asked.
I nodded. “She’s a friend. You say she was assaulted. Will she be okay?”
“For now.” He closed the folder and lit a cigarette. “Tell me what happened.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. There was no way I was telling him anything. Not about Pauline. The tiles.
Anything.
“I hear otherwise,” he said, blowing smoke in my face.
I coughed. “What have you heard?”
He frowned. “I ask the questions. Not you. Now, tell me what you know.”
I told him the same thing. Again and again.
I think it was midafternoon or later when I glared at the broken clock. I’d denied knowing anything a hundred times and in a hundred different ways.
“One more time,” Tan said, lighting another cigarette in an endless chain of them. I coughed in the smoky air. “Tell me where you were when your friend Efra was assaulted.”
I rested my head on the table. “No. I’m done.” I tried to look at Tan’s wristwatch and failed. Though I didn’t know the time, it had to be close to Pauline’s departure. If she left, the location of the stolen tiles went with her.
“We are not done,” Tan said.
“Then tell me about Pauline,” I said.
I peeked up at Tan over my forearm. For a fleeting moment, his eyes widened in surprise. I hadn’t brought Pauline up until now, not sure of the consequences and not wanting to incriminate myself further in case she hadn’t bought the police, and this investigation was legitimate.
Now, I wanted to stop her, and if it took handing her over to the police, so be it.
“Why do you want to know about Mrs. Adriano?”
“She’s the one who assaulted Efra,” I said.
His surprise was genuine, and I wanted to kick myself for not speaking sooner. Perhaps he was on the level. “My cell phone’s in my backpack,” I said. “Call my assistant. He’ll take the phone to Efra. You can get the truth from her.”
Tam’s mouth thinned, and he stubbed the cigarette out on the table.
“I’ll be back,” he said, rising to leave the room. The lock on the door clicked.
I pulled the file back and opened it again, flipping through the pictures. Some weren’t too bad. There was one of us hand-in-hand that would be a great candid shot if I didn’t look scared as hell. Griffin looked confident and sexy. Bastard.
Tan came back and tossed me my backpack. “You are free to go.”
“Griffin?”
Tan lit another cigarette. “He is waiting for you.”
I edged by him and walked down the hall, glad to be free. Opening the door, I found myself next to the airport baggage claim. Griffin waited, arms crossed.
I ran to him, and he opened his arms. “You okay?” he asked, pulling me close.
I breathed him in, the butterflies finally disappearing. He cupped my cheek, checking for injuries. “They didn’t hurt you?”
“Not unless you count asking the same question repeatedly as torture,” I said. “How about you?”
“The guy lived, so it’s all good.”
I’d been so wrapped up in Pauline I hadn’t even thought about that. “But you still shot him. How did you get away with that?”
“The same way anyone around here does. Money talks.”
I huffed in frustration, and for the first time in a long time, I regretted that I’d severed ties with my wealthy parents.
Griffin pulled me to his side, wrapped his arm around my waist and led me toward the exit. “I told them where the car was, so we’ll be taking a taxi back to the hotel.”
His suite? “How about Pauline? We need to catch her before she gets on the plane.”
“No can do,” Griffin said, nodding toward a clock over the exit.
It read eighteen hundred hours. My heart sank.
She’d left over an hour ago.
And I had only four days left to retrieve the tiles.
Chapter 11
We boarded a plane for Paris the next morning. I wasn’t sure what bothered me more—flying or losing Pauline’s trail. I took the window seat and stared at the tarmac, wishing I was standing on it instead of sitting in a first-class seat, fighting the urge to panic and run screaming out the door.
“Are you okay?” Griffin asked, buckling himself in. “I’m fine. Why?” I flashed him a smile over my shoulder, trying to look sincere. It must have been too forced. Too bright. He frowned in response. I turned back to the window. It was easier to count the bags being loaded into our plane than face Griffin’s concern. I wasn’t used to him caring, and though I enjoyed his attention, it was still a bit disconcerting.
“You don’t like to fly, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Phobic?”
I shook my head again. “If it was a phobia, I wouldn’t even be on the plane,” I replied, wishing he’d shut up.
“You’re pale as a sheet.”
“Just leave—” I bit off the retort, reminding myself that it wasn’t Griffin’s fault I was scared. “It’s more like a healthy respect,” I finished in as calm a voice as I could manage.
It was a short flight. A few hours at most.
I could stand anything for a few hours.
“Do you want a drink? Something to relax you?”
“No thanks.” I shut my eyes, wishing my anxiety could be cured that easily. That a rum and Coke would fix everything.
But the reality was that nothing would ever make me like flying, because for me, flying was like being blind.
When the plane reached approximately twenty thousand feet, I lost contact with the earth beneath me. All contact.
I shuddered, knowing what was going to happen.
“Tru?”
“What?” I squeaked, peering at him through half-closed lashes.
He slid his hand on top of mine and squeezed my fingers. “We don’t have to fly. There are other modes of transportation.”
I smiled, genuinely this time, grateful for the kindness. And found myself wanting to tell him why I hated to fly. What I was.
For a long moment, we stared at each other, expectation in the air. The urge to blurt the truth grew stronger, but undercurrents of confusion and uncertainty stopped me.
I wasn’t sure how he fit into my life anymore. Certainly not as a coworker.
Lover? Boyfriend? Friend with benefits?
Our growing, changing relationship was confusing.
But I knew one thing. I wanted him to know me. Not Tru the businesswoman or Tru the tracker-of-lost-tiles.
But me. Tru, the dowser.
Confession is good for the soul, my mother’s voice whispered.
It was. Until you ended up in a sanitarium—put there by those who you thought loved you best.
I squashed the urge to declare my abilities. “I’ll be fine once we take off.”
He kissed my knuckles. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Besides, the trail is getting colder. This is the fastest way to get there.”
“Okay.” He accepted my answer without argument.
The engines of the plane whined, revving up to speed. I gripped the armrest with one hand and Griffin with the other.
“Sure about that drink? Or I could just knock you out,” he teased.
“Stop trying to make me laugh,” I said, my fear dissipating a little. “I can’t be scared when you make me laugh.”
“That’s the point.” He squeezed my hand again. “When we get airborne, I’ll wow you with some great knock-knock jokes.”
“Thanks.” I snorted in amusement, unable to stop myself.
“You’re welcome.”
The plane started to taxi, and I mentally held on to the earth beneath us. Normally, I don’t even notice the connection, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s like one of the five senses. They’re all so integrated that I never think of them.
Until one is taken away.
The plane gained speed, and I shut my eyes, keeping my breath steady and even.
Liftoff.
My breath hitched in my throat. Griffin’s thumb stroked my skin, and I exhaled. My connection to the earth grew weaker as we rose into the sky. I clutched my crystal necklace in my fist and intensified the connection, aware that Griffin was probably watching, and no longer caring if he did.
I concentrated, opening my mind.
There. My senses touched the ground. Rock. Water.
The earth. As comfortable as a blanket, and as necessary to me as breathing.
But not even my necklace could maintain the connection when faced with the force of man and his machines.
We rose higher, and at twenty thousand feet, the earth disappeared from my senses, and I was crippled.
When we began descent, relief washed through me, and by the time we landed, my sixth sense had returned, making me giddy. Chatty. Drunk.
An unfortunate side effect that was a combination of extreme relief and saturation of my dowser talent by my reconnection to the earth.
Worse, I knew what I was doing, and why, but couldn’t seem to stop myself.
“You sure you weren’t sneaking drinks in the restroom?” Griffin asked as we walked through the terminal, pulling wheeled overnight bags stuffed with clothes from his Cairo apartment.
“I didn’t leave the seat, you know that.” I laughed, reminding myself not to skip with delight. “I’m just glad to be on the ground. Don’t you love it?”
“The ground?”
“The ground. The trees.” Shut up!
My mouth kept going. “The water. Everything.” Shut up!
I clamped my jaw tight.
“I swear you’re drunk.” He took my elbow and steered me toward a door and the waiting taxis. Putting our bags in the trunk of one, he gave directions to the driver.
In French.
“Is there a language you don’t speak?” I asked, wishing I was more surprised at his additional skill. “I only speak one. I’d like to speak more but never found the time. Spanish—”
“Tru.” He placed a finger on my lips as the taxi left the terminal. “Please.”
I took a deep breath, realizing I was talking at breakneck speed, and reminded myself to get a grip.
“Where are we going?” I asked, concentrating on slowing my voice. My stomach growled, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten since last night. “I’m starving.”
“The Sheraton.”
“Do you have an apartment at this one, too?” I asked.
I took another breath…and the world fell into order in my head with the force of a hurricane. I was suddenly sober.
Finally.
“No, and what’s with the necklace?” He nodded toward me. “You haven’t let go since we left Cairo.”
“Oh.” I realized I was toying with the crystal, and let my hand drop.
He lifted the gem from my shirt, running his fingers over the edges. “Pretty. A gift?”
“No,” I said, glad my senses had cleared. Drunken Tru would have yanked it from his hand. “I found it.”
He let go and leaned back as the taxi buzzed toward the city. He didn’t ask more questions, and I didn’t offer an explanation.
What was I going to say? That when I was thirteen, I was walking on my parents’ estate, and there it was?
I say there it was, but in actuality, it was a foot below the ground. I dug it up. My unique connection to the earth telling me it was special.
“What comes after the hotel?” I asked. Last night, after a day of interrogation and the loss of missing Pauline, neither of us had felt like talking, and had gone to bed, lost in our own thoughts. Tired, frustrated and cross, I hadn’t even bothered to call Pete. Speaking to him in that state of mind would cause more trouble instead of setting his mind at ease.
“Same as before. I’ll use my contacts to see if we can find Pauline.”
