Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [90]
Who knows? I thought. You really can’t tell anymore what people will do.
The fresh drinks arrived; Mourning reached eagerly for hers. The conversation went on—in Spanish now, I thought—punctuated by headshakes, gestures of acceptance and protest, and some table pounding on Salazar’s part. Mourning remained withdrawn from it, huddled in her chair, expression growing glassy. Navarro and Salazar appeared to be arguing bitterly; Fontes watched them with his cool, analytical stare.
My eyes ached from straining to see through the scope. I took a moment to rest them. It was cold now. I had no idea what time it was; my watch had mysteriously stopped, its luminous dial claiming it was only five-eleven. It seemed I’d been on this beach for countless hours. My back hurt from lying flat and tensed; my neck ached from craning it at an awkward angle; I was pretty sure a splinter from the ponga had worked its way through my jeans and into my ass. I rolled over, looked up at a brilliant scattering of stars. The sound of voices from the riverbed was now underscored by the strains of a world-weary guitar. It made me feel lonely. Lost.
In a sense I was lost. Had lost touch with the man I’d traveled all this way to find. Hy—his face, his body, his very essence—had become vague to me, obscured by a tangle of people and relationships and intrigues and crimes that really had very little to do with either of us. I felt as if I’d started along a straight corridor and somehow made a wrong turn into a maze. Too much more of this bumping my nose against its walls and I’d lose touch with everything that mattered….
Movement up on the terrace. Doggedly I hunched over the camera again. Fontes and Salazar were standing. Salazar said something to Mourning and, when she didn’t respond, reached down and jerked her to her feet. She stood, limp and spineless. Salazar took hold of her shoulders and turned her toward the door.
A man came through it, followed closely by Salazar’s body-guard, Jaime. The man was stocky and walked in a shambling gait; his clothing and mop of dark blond curls were disheveled. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, several days’ growth of beard, and a numb, bewildered expression. When he saw the others on the terrace, he stopped. Jaime shoved him forward and he stumbled, then stood facing them, shaking his head.
I pressed the camera’s shutter.
Ann Navarro’s expression went quickly from shock to chagrin. She looked from the man to Fontes, mouth turning down. Fontes gave her a long, measured look of triumph.
Diane Mourning cried out as she recognized her husband. Timothy stumbled toward her, but she stepped back, face horror-stricken, putting out both hands, as if to fend him off.
I pressed the shutter again.
Movement behind me. A step on sand so soft that it had cushioned the others. A hand across my mouth before I could roll over or reach for the gun. A voice, low and so close to my ear that I felt moist, warm breath.
“See anything interesting, McCone? ”
Shock flooded me. I wrenched away, twisted around.
Looked up into the grimly humorous eyes of my missing lover.
Twenty-Two
I stared at him in shock, unable to believe he’d turned up alive and whole on this remote strip of sand. My lips were parted, but I couldn’t speak.
Hy nudged me aside, lay flat, and put his eye to the camera’s viewfinder. I flopped back on the sand, landed hard, as if I’d lost my equilibrium.
“Son of a bitch! ” Hy whispered.
I wasn’t sure which of the things transpiring up there on the terrace so fascinated him, nor did I care. Still disoriented and struggling to comprehend this startling turn of events, I tugged at his elbow. He swatted my hand away, and I saw that the left sleeve of his dirty T-shirt had been ripped out and his upper arm sported a bandage.
“You’re hurt!”
“Ssh! Flesh wound, that’s all. I’ve got