She Can Kill Page 8

  Until today.

  “She changes when he’s around or when he sends her a text or calls. Her body goes all tense. She gets jumpy. She tries to hide it, but she’s afraid of him. The girls are too.” Lucia dropped her hand to her lap. She cast him a sly glance. “If you married Sarah, she wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore, and you wouldn’t have to worry about me. It would be perfect.”

  “You have it all figured out.” Cristan laughed. But his daughter was correct on one matter. If Sarah was his wife, she wouldn’t ever have to worry about Troy again. “Mr. Mitchell isn’t around when you babysit, right?”

  Lucia shook her head. “No. Never.”

  “Good. If he ever shows up, you call me immediately.” Cristan put his hand on the door handle. “Let’s go inside. It’s getting cold out here.”

  He did not like sitting still, spotlighted in the dark like targets. From the woods, a sniper would have a clear shot at them. He drove around the side of the house and pushed the button on the visor. The garage was under the house. The second half of the subterranean space was basement. The floor plan provided a quick exit, if necessary. The door rolled up, and he parked inside next to a Range Rover. Leaving a vehicle in the open invited tampering and incendiary devices.

  “OK, but promise me you’ll think about it.” Lucia got out of the car. Her voice echoed in the cement-and-stone space.

  Cristan followed her up the steps. He unlocked the door that led to the kitchen. “Think about what?”

  “Dating Sarah,” Lucia said, her voice heavy with exasperation.

  “All right. I promise.” Cristan would not forget that idea for a second.

  They went through the kitchen into the foyer. He opened the hall closet and checked the security system panel. Lucia dropped her pack at her feet and waited at the foot of the steps for his all clear. When she visited friends, did she wonder why other families didn’t go through the same obsessive safety checks? The rows of green lights assured him the house was secure.

  Hanging up his coat, he leaned out of the closet. Lucia stood in the hallway. Cristan wasn’t much of a decorator, and they hadn’t stayed in a house long enough to get comfortable. But when they’d moved here, Lucia had been very disconnected and depressed. He’d hung a few pictures of her in the hallway to make her feel at home. Now she stood in front of a framed baby picture on the wall, a snapshot of Eva holding their daughter at her first birthday party. Cristan had grabbed it and a few other mementos when he’d returned to the Buenos Aires apartment to retrieve their passports. Lucia raised a hand and touched the glass over her mother’s face. “I don’t think she’d mind if you dated. If she loved you, she’d want you to be happy.”

  You didn’t know your mother very well. Cristan didn’t express his disagreement, but he doubted Eva would willingly relinquish him, even in death. For a Vargas, love, control, and possession were closely intertwined.

  Lucia tossed her jacket over the newel post. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” Lucia hefted her backpack onto one shoulder and headed upstairs.

  Despite the green lights and his own assurances that tonight’s incident was a random event, he walked the interior of his home. The damp rubber soles of his shoes squeaked on the wide, oak planks as he checked every window and door and searched each closet, nook, and cranny from the third floor to the basement. While he toured the interior, he also checked the locations of his hidden weapons.

  Today’s robbery had been an accident. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But as he slid his hand along the top of his medicine cabinet to feel for the knife taped there, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that everything had changed.

  He finished his weaponry tour, then he went back to the basement and pulled the go-bags from their hiding place behind a false wall of shelves. There were two backpacks containing the bare essentials, one each for him and Lucia. Another larger bag held additional supplies. What they would take would depend on the circumstances. Cristan updated the contents of the bags each season. There were smaller emergency kits in each of the cars as well.

  He hefted the two backpacks to a scarred, wooden worktable and unzipped them. Then he began the painstaking itemizing process. He wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, and he’d feel more secure knowing that at any moment, they were ready to roll. He unfolded the master list and began checking supplies: AK-47, 9mm, ammunition . . .

  As he reviewed his inventory, he thought about the years in which he used such weapons regularly, and how it all began.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They say you always remember your first. First kiss. First love.

  First murder.

  But how many people can say they experienced those three things all in the same night?

  Cristan remembered so clearly; the rush of images nearly stole his breath. Eva was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, though at thirteen and coming from a life on the street, he didn’t have many comparisons. If he closed his eyes right now, he could see her just the way she’d looked that evening.

  He’d been standing in the doorway of his small room in a building behind the house, the scent of warm, wet grass in his nose, the first strains of party music drifting across the lawn, a sharp spark of suspicion in his mind. Why was he here? Nothing was free. Franco Vargas wasn’t a do-gooder prone to random acts of kindness. He was a gunrunner, not that Christopher had an issue with lawlessness. The only laws he respected were those of survival. A month before, in Buenos Aires, Franco had approached Christopher on the street and offered him money to deliver a message and bring back the response. Orphaned and homeless, Christopher had jumped at the opportunity. But when the task had been complete, Franco had offered him a job and brought him back to his estancia. Surely, a man like Franco would want something in exchange for this new life, payment of some sort.

  Across twenty meters of grass and the lighted expanse of a swimming pool, she walked out of the house onto the patio. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose attested to her Spanish blood. Dark hair tumbled down her back in a sable wave. A white sundress showed off long, tan legs that ended in flat sandals. She looked cool and fresh in the Argentine summer night.

  He’d washed after finishing his chores in the barn, but that night, heat hovered in a steamy layer over the pampas. A fresh trickle of sweat dripped between his shoulder blades. No matter. He could never be good enough for her. That must be Franco’s oldest daughter, Eva. Franco might have opened his home, but no doubt his daughter would be off-limits.

  The soft strums of guitar music floated from the house at her back. A patio door opened, and a voice called, “Eva.”

  She turned and went inside, and Christopher remembered how to breathe.

  Christopher had learned several important lessons since his arrival. Franco was the indisputable head of the Vargas household. If he brought a stray teenage boy home from Buenos Aires, no one asked questions. Without so much as a shrug, the staff had prepared a room and scrounged up some clothing. Christopher adjusted his belt. The pants were still too large for his hollowed waist, but the cook pledged that condition would be temporary.

  He’d spent the first week waiting for Franco to come to his senses and send him back. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, he’d been fed, clothed, and given chores, as if he belonged. Learning to care for the sleek horses was more pleasure than work. He wasn’t sure why, after years of backslapping him, fate had decided to play nice, but he knew how to live in the moment. This evening, instead of curling up on a cardboard pallet in an abandoned warehouse, he was preparing to attend a homecoming celebration for Franco’s daughters, home on vacation from boarding school.

  He had only faint recollections of family gatherings, from before his parents had become victims of Argentina’s Dirty War. From a cupboard under the stairs, six-year-old Christopher had watched the soldiers drag his parents from the house in the middle of the nigh
t. Like thirty thousand other people suspected of being dissidents, they’d simply disappeared. With no family, Christopher had been on his own.

  Shaking off the memory, he watched as guests arrived and people flowed onto the patio. He left his small room, his insecurities trampled by his need to see her again. The smell of grilling meat drifted over the lawn as he crossed to the main house. He spotted Franco’s bulky frame standing by the pool. Surviving on the streets, Christopher had learned how to be invisible, an essential skill for a thief. He skirted the guests, his eyes sweeping the small groups of people for the only one he wanted to see.

  Where was she?

  A young girl, a smaller and childish version of Eva, waved at him. The sister. Her yellow dress bounced as she skipped over to him. She dipped her chin and gave him a shy smile. “I’m Maria. I’m nine.”

  “I’m Christopher.”

  “I know.” Her grin showed a missing tooth. “Papa told us about you.”

  Heat seared Christopher’s cheeks. He was the poor orphan boy.

  She leaned close and whispered, “Don’t be embarrassed. Papa says Argentina has too many orphans, and you’re not the first he’s brought home.”

  That explained the staff’s ready response. Gratitude welled in Christopher’s chest, and he vowed to earn his keep.

  She smiled and looked up through her lashes at him. “Do you want some food? Cook makes the best empanadas.”

  Though Christopher was tempted to stuff his face once again, the habit of filling one’s stomach at every opportunity ingrained, he resisted. The girl in white tugged at his attention. He wanted to find her.

  “Where is your sister?” he asked.

  Her smiled faded. “I saw her walking toward the barn.”

  “Thank you.” Christopher turned away. The music quieted as he moved away from the house, and he could hear insects in the deep grass of the pasture. She wasn’t in the barn. Walking through, he scanned the fence line and spied a slim figure on the other side of the barnyard, her white dress glowing ethereally in the moonlight. She leaned on the fence, watching the horses graze in the pasture beyond. At his approach, she turned and smiled at him, and his heart stumbled.

  “I’m Christopher.” He rested his forearms on the top rail.

  “I know,” she said without looking at him. “And I suspect you know who I am as well.”

  “Why aren’t you at your party?” he asked.

  She made a disgusted sound. “I have no time for such foolishness. I don’t even want to go back to school. I want to stay here. But Papa insists. He promised Mama before she died.”

  Christopher studied her profile. He’d been told she was the same age as him, but the grave purpose in her eyes made her seem older. Perhaps, like him, she hadn’t been a child in a long time.

  His gaze swept the dark forms of horses grazing in the pasture. Above, stars glittered in an ink-blue sky. “I can’t blame you for not wanting to leave here.”

  She glanced sideways. Consideration drew her brows together. “I suppose this is heaven for you.”

  “Yes.” His feelings were a jumbled mess he couldn’t explain with words. He looked away, but the darkness didn’t supply any answers.

  “Do you like to talk about the past, Christopher?”

  “No,” he said honestly.

  “Good. Neither do I.” She turned back to the horses. “That one is my favorite.”

  “The bay gelding?”

  “Yes. He can follow the ball as well as most riders.”

  Christopher drank in the sound of her voice as she described each animal and its merits on the polo field. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before she pushed away from the fence. “I had better make an appearance at my party. I don’t want to offend Papa.”

  They turned to walk away when a soft scuffle caught his attention.

  “No. Stop,” a small voice cried from the barn.

  In unison, they moved toward the dark building, their footsteps silent on the packed earth. In the shadow of the doorway, they paused. Christopher waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. He saw a dark shadow and a brighter, smaller form.

  Shoes scuffed. Fabric rustled.

  “Please,” a child’s muffled voice pleaded.

  Eva stiffened. She reached for a switch on the wall. Light brightened the aisle, revealing an older man and Maria. The man was at least twenty-five. His body pressed Maria against the wall. Her patent leather shoes kicked, seeking traction. His head swiveled, and he saw them.

  Christopher lunged forward. Though smaller and lighter, he’d learned to fight to survive. He used surprise to his advantage, kicking the man in the back of the knee and punching the man in the kidney. The man dropped to his knees, and Christopher yanked Maria behind him. She sobbed quietly into the back of his shirt.

  He turned to Eva. “You’d better get your father.”

  But she wasn’t running for help. She raised a shovel over her head. Rage contorted her features. She swung. The shovel hit the man’s skull with a dull, metallic thunk.

  It wasn’t the violence or the blood or the death that made the deepest impression on Christopher. He’d seen death before, and a man who preyed on children deserved the worst of fates. It was the gleam of angry satisfaction on Eva’s face that branded itself into his heart. With her fierce eyes and white dress, she could have been an avenging angel. Her gaze met his, and he realized her beauty was the least important of her qualities. In a world filled with selfishness, deception, and greed, there was nothing more compelling than loyalty.

  “We protect our own,” she said.

  “I understand.” And he envied their bond.

  “Good.” She prodded the man’s body with her toe. He lolled, dead and limp. With a nod, she tugged Maria out from behind Christopher’s back and pointed at the dead man. “You never have to fear him again.”

  Maria’s breath hitched over and over as she fought for control. “I-I-came to the barn to s-spy on you.”

  “This is not your fault.” Eva smoothed the wrinkles from her sister’s dress. “Go back to the party. Act as if nothing has happened.” When Maria continued to cry, Eva dried her sister’s eyes with gentle thumbs. “You must be strong. If Juan’s boss finds out what happened, there will be retribution.”

  Maria’s head snapped around. Her gaze locked with her older sister’s. Understanding passed between them. With a final sniff, Maria pulled her emotions in with a huge lungful of air. Her chin rose and she nodded. “I can do it.”

  “Good girl,” Eva said. “If anyone asks why you are sad, just tell them you are missing Mama.”

  With a solemn nod, Maria left the barn.

  “Help me hide him.” Eva bent and took hold of the man’s ankle.

  Christopher took the other foot. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Juan Menendez. He’s a lieutenant in a local militia. His boss is one of our best clients.”

  Together they dragged the body down the aisle. They hid him behind a cabinet in the wash stall.

  “Now what?” Christopher asked.

  “We get Nicolas. He will know how to make the death look like an accident. It won’t be difficult. Everyone knows how much Juan likes his tequila and cocaine.” Brushing the dirt from her hands, she rose onto her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

  Heat filled Christopher. At that moment, he would have done anything for her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sarah turned off the engine of the minivan and stared up at her childhood home. The old Cape Cod, with its peeling paint and torn window screen, looked depressed. A beat-up sedan sat in the cracked, stained driveway. Thursdays were slow at the inn, and she’d finished early. Troy wouldn’t bring the girls home for a couple of hours. Now was a good time to check on her father, though her visits home were getting harder and h
arder.

  She reached across the console and lifted the takeout container from the passenger seat, some lasagna left over from the inn’s lunch menu. Her father didn’t answer the doorbell, but then she hadn’t expected a greeting. She used her key and went inside.

  The smell hit her like a slap, a combination of rotten food and mustiness. Covering her nose and mouth with one hand, she walked through the dingy living room. The wide bay window couldn’t let in enough light to offset the shroud of depression that smothered the house. She found the source of the odor in the kitchen: a sink full of dirty dishes and an almost empty quart of milk left to sour on the counter.

  Worried, she deposited the takeout on the table and opened a window. “Dad?”

  Apprehension raised goose bumps on her arms as she approached the den. Wooden blinds over the three windows blocked the daylight, and the light from the twenty-year-old console TV flickered over the room. Her father lay in his recliner. She walked closer, dread gathering in her belly, her eyes focused on his thin chest. At the first rise and fall of his ribcage, she exhaled in relief.

  He wasn’t dead, just drunk.

  Ironically, the realization weakened her legs. Her father had been drinking himself to death since her mother died seven years ago. It was only a matter of time until he got his wish.

  The darkness closed in on her, and her lungs constricted. She went to the windows and started opening blinds, letting the sunlight pour into the room. Dust floated from the wooden slats.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Blinking, her father struggled to bring the recliner upright.

  Ignoring him, Sarah opened the last blind, then fought with the window lock until it gave. She pushed up the sash. Cold, fresh air flooded the room, and Sarah inhaled. “I bought you some food.”