Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [113]
I scanned the windows of the villa, but couldn’t tell where he’d gone. The other figure remained in the chair for a while, then resumed pacing. Up and down, up and down. Past the glass doors in short, fast steps. Then the shadow came closer to the drapes, and its outlines blurred. The drapes parted, and I stared at Ann Navarro.
Navarro stepped out onto the terrace, shutting the door behind her. She crossed to the wall where there was a space between the glass baffles and leaned forward, palms braced on top of it, head thrown back as she breathed the fresh night air. I scanned the rest of the house. Jaime’s window was dark now, no one moved in the other lighted frames. Navarro remained by the wall.
It was a chance that might never present itself again.
I slid back, rolled over, reached into my bag for the .45. Shoved it into the rear of my waistband, then went around the pongas on my hands and knees, heading up the beach toward the northern end of Fontes’s property. When I got there, I began to angle in gradually, keeping an eye on the terrace. Navarro still stood alone by the wall, illuminated by the outdoor lights, head hanging down now.
Looking at me?
I stopped, watched. No, she was merely relaxing tense neck muscles.
Rock protruded from the sand next to the terrace’s concrete foundation, and the land angled up along its side, where It was flanked by cacti. I moved slowly toward it, scanning the slope and beach, listening for the slightest sound or movement. When I reached the edge of the foundation, I glanced up at where Navarro stood. I could make out only the shape of her head, now turned toward the sea.
On hands and knees I began scaling the slope. The sand that overlaid the rock made it slow going. Hard to gain a foothold, a handhold. Hard to keep from sending a shower of telltale pebbles skittering down behind me. Finally I reached the place where the terrace wall butted into the hillside. The glass baffles didn’t quite meet the house; there was a two-foot space through which I could climb onto the terrace. I covered my hands with the long sleeves of Hy’s sweater, gritted my teeth, and moved into the thick stand of cactus.
Spines pierced my jeans. I covered my face with my sweater-swathed hands and peered between them. A barrel cactus took painful hold of my right arm; I moved my left hand to free it and suffered a painful swat. Finally I yanked the sleeve loose, tearing the wool and rustling the plants around me. Plunged forward and crouched by the wall.
No footsteps on the terrace. No call of inquiry.
After a bit I stood and peeked over the wall. Navarro was still looking out to sea; I was well outside her peripheral vision. I placed my hands on top of the wall and hoisted myself up. Rolled onto it and swung my legs over, ready to drop. Took the gun from my waistband. Slipped down to the terrace floor and stood with feet wide apart, gun extended in front of me.
Navarro’s head jerked. She started to turn.
“Don’t move,” I said softly, “and don’t make a sound.”
She froze.
“I have a gun aimed at your back. Step to your right until you touch the side wall.”
She moved as I’d told her, stiffly.
“Now step back this way.”
She backed up, eyes straight ahead. A cool woman, Navarro.
“Good,” I said, moving forward and patting her pockets for weapons.
“What do you want?” Her English was more heavily accented than I’d expected, although by no means broken or ungrammatical. Its strong Hispanic undertone was the reason Hy had taken her for a Mexican national when she’d called with the ransom demands.
“To give you some news—about Stan.”
“Stan! What—”
“It’s okay to turn around now. Do it slowly.”
She did, eyes moving swiftly from my face to the gun. Now lines of strain cut furrows beside her mouth and eyes; she looked years