White Mountain (8 page)

“All right…Isabella, you have a deal.”

“This way,” she said, and led the way into the kitchen, flipping a switch as she entered.

Suddenly the room was bathed in light, and Jack was struck anew by her beauty.
 
Her hair was thick and straight and black, and her eyes were the color of dark caramel.
 
When she smiled, her eyebrows arced in an impish manner.
 
But she was thin—almost too thin—and when she began to take food from the refrigerator to make his sandwich, he wanted to tell her to make one for herself, as well.
 
Instead he made himself remember why he’d come and began a quiet but pointed questioning that would have made his supervisor proud.

“So, you said earlier that you were at a funeral.
 
I hope it wasn’t family.”

Her posture stiffened, and then she paused in the act of putting mayonnaise onto the bread.
 
When she answered, he had to strain to hear the words.

“Yes, actually, it was.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

She reached back into the refrigerator, took out a platter of meat and chose two of the leanest slices of ham, then laid them on the bread.

“Thank you.
 
Do you like cheese?” she asked.

He knew she was trying to change the subject but he was unwilling to let it go.

“Yes, please.”
 
His mind was racing, trying to think of a way to keep their conversation going.
 
He remembered what the desk clerk had told him about the place.
 
Maybe that would work.
 
“So, have you always lived in Montana?”

She nodded.

“This is quite a place.
 
Did you build it?”

She turned.
 
“No, it’s quite old, actually.
 
My father bought it over thirty years ago.
 
It’s been in the family ever since.
 
I was born here.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“So you are following your father’s footsteps into the hotel business.”

Her chin trembled, and at that moment he hated himself for continuing with the charade.
 
To his intense relief, she answered without any more coercion.

“The hotel was only a sideling,” she said softly.
 
“My father was a doctor.
 
He and Uncle David and Uncle Jasper founded the White Mountain Fertility Clinic in Braden.”

Jack quickly picked up on her use of past tense.

“Your father is no longer living?”

Isabella bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying.
 
She had to get used to talking about this.
 
It was now a hard fact of her life.

“No. He died a little over a week ago.”

“So it was his memorial service today?”

Isabella shook her head as her eyes filled with tears.
 
“No, today was for my Uncle Frank.
 
He was on vacation.
 
Someone killed him.”
 
She took a quick breath and then turned around.

“I’m very sorry,” Jack said.
 
“That’s got to be tough…losing two members of your family so close together.”

“Yes.
 
Thank you.”

There was a long moment of silence as she completed the sandwich.
 
He watched without comment, noting the methodical movements of her hands as she cut the sandwich at an angle, creating two triangular halves.
 
Then she placed it on a plate, added pickles, olives and a handful of chips, and set it on a tray.
 
Without wasted motion, she laid a white linen napkin beside the plate, then took a glass from the cabinet and turned to him, the glass held lightly in her hand.
 
But there was nothing casual about the look she gave him.
 
He felt pierced through by her stare.

“What would you like to drink?”

“What do you have?” he asked.

“This is a hotel.
 
You can have pretty much anything you want.”

“Any soft drink will do.”

She took a can of cola from the refrigerator, added some ice to his glass, and then put them on the tray before handing it to him.

“Here is your food.
 
I hope it will hold you until morning.
 
We begin serving breakfast at six o’clock.”

Jack nodded and smiled.
 
“It looks great.
 
Thank you for going to so much trouble.”

Isabella folded her hands in front of her and tilted her head to one side.
 
For a moment Jack had a vision of a certain teacher who used to chastise him for being tardy when he was a child.

“You’re welcome,” she said.
 
“Have a good night.”

He’d been dismissed.
 
Without a reason to linger longer, he picked up the tray and started out of the room.
 
He was almost to the door when she spoke.

“Forgive my emotional outburst,” she said softly.
 
“The wound is still so fresh.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, then looked at the tension on her face.
 
“Will you be all right?
 
I mean…I’d be happy to wait and walk you through the lobby.”

The offer was unexpected, and because it was, it was the much more precious.

“No, but thank you just the same, Mr.….”

“Dolan, Jack Dolan.”

She tilted her head in the other direction, as if fitting the name to the man, then nodded, as if to herself.

“Good night, Jack Dolan.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Good night, Miss Abbott.”

She turned her back on him to pour a serving of milk in a pan and set it on a burner to heat.
 
At that point he remembered that she’d told him she’d been unable to sleep.

As he started up the stairs with his tray, he glanced at the portrait.
 
The resemblance between mother and daughter was uncanny.
 
No wonder he’d thought she was a ghost.
 
He glanced down at the tray full of food and grimaced.
 
If he ate all of this, he would be sleepless, too.
 
And even if he slept, he suspected his sleep would not be dreamless—not after the encounter he’d just had.

He shook his head and tore his gaze from the painting.

Ghosts indeed.

Vasili Rostov stood with binoculars held close to his face, watching as the downstairs lights went out inside the hotel in the valley below.
 
He watched until a light appeared at a second floor window before he dropped the binoculars onto his backpack and crawled into his sleeping bag.
 
Whatever had been going on downstairs was obviously over.

He cursed softly in Russian taking comfort in the familiar roll of the words on his tongue.
 
Before they’d pulled him out of his anonymous existence, he had been able to convince himself that he was still as good as ever and that age had no bearing on his abilities.
 
But now that he’d been on the move going on two weeks, he had to admit he was getting too old for this work.
 
He missed his bed and his easy chair, where the cushions sank in all the right spots.
 
And he missed his vodka.
 
He always had a couple of shots before going to bed.
 
Since he’d come to Montana, he’d been forced to endure cold camps and dried foods.
 
The novelty of being back “on the job” was wearing thin.
 
Couple that with a continuous urge to forget everything he’d been sent to do and get lost in America, as Vaclav Waller had done, and Vasili Rostov was an unhappy man.

He looked back down the mountain at the roof of the sprawling three-story hotel and grimaced.
 
He needed to find a way to get inside without anyone knowing.
 
It was the only place he knew to start looking for answers.
 
But how to do that without arousing suspicion was, at the moment, beyond him.

The night sky was clear and cool, but despite the beauty of the stars, he would rather have been in a bed and under a roof.
 
A pack of coyotes began to howl on a nearby hillside.
 
He jerked in reflex and reached for his gun, cursing the fact that the only place to offer rooms on this forsaken bit of earth was the hotel below.

At the present time there was only one paying guest at Abbott House, a man who’d arrived earlier in the afternoon.
 
Vasili had considered the wisdom of staying there himself and then discarded the notion.
 
Since Frank Walton had known within seconds of their meeting who he was, Rostov couldn’t afford a repeat of that debacle.

And he couldn’t help thinking that if it hadn’t been for Waller, all of this would be over.
 
If only they had told him more about why they wanted Waller back, he might have foreseen Waller’s drastic behavior and been able to prevent it.
 
The very fact that the old man had been willing to die rather than let himself become Rostov’s prisoner was highly suspicious.
 
Then he tossed the thought aside.
 
Maybe he had opted to die now rather than being tortured later for information he wasn’t willing to give.

Rostov sighed and closed his eyes.
 
If he’d learned one thing from living through the disintegration of the Soviet Republic, it was that there was no need for rehashing the past.

He shifted nervously within his sleeping bag and considered making a fire, then discarded the thought.
 
The last thing he needed was for someone to get curious about a camper’s fire and come snooping around.

Another series of yips told him that the coyotes were on the move now, running in the opposite direction to his camp.
 
With a sigh of satisfaction, he crossed his hands across his chest, then patted the gun lying on his belly one last time before falling asleep

Southern Italy—3:00 a.m.

Three men moved across the small town square, taking care to stay in the shadows.
 
This wasn’t the first time they’d set out to steal, but it was the first time they had agreed to rob God.
 
Although the night was cool, a small man called Paulo was sweating profusely.
 
He imagined the Devil’s hand tightening around his throat with every step that took them closer to the small village church.

“We will die for this sin,” he murmured.

Antonio, who was the eldest and the leader of the group, turned quickly and shoved Paulo roughly against the wall.

“Silence,” he hissed.

Francesco, who was Paulo’s cousin, tended to agree with his kin, but he was afraid of Antonio and rarely argued.

Hoping to soothe his cousin’s fears, Francesco gave Paulo a wink.

“Think of the money we are going to make on this one job.
 
It’s more than we made all last year.”

But Paulo would not be appeased.

“Dead men have no need for money,” he said.

Antonio glared at the pair.
 
“Then get out!
 
I will do this job myself.
 
I
have no need for cowards.”

Neither one of them had the gumption to anger a man who had killed his own father, and so Francesco smiled, trying to ease the tension.

“Paulo will be fine, my friend, have no fear.”

“I’m not the one who’s afraid,” Antonio said.
 
“So do we go?”

Reluctantly, the other two nodded, then followed him into the church.
 
The massive double doors squeaked on ancient hinges as Antonio pushed them inward.
 
Paulo flinched, then stopped just inside the doorway, again overwhelmed by the impact of what they were about to do.

“Quickly, quickly,” Antonio muttered, and shoved them forward.

Paulo genuflected in the aisle and muttered a prayer for forgiveness before moving toward a faint glow of light above the altar at the front of the church.

“There it is,” Antonio said.
 
“Francesco, you’ve got the glass cutter.
 
Paulo, you help him.
 
I’ll keep watch.
 
And if you don’t want a dead priest on you conscience, too, then get busy.”

Paulo crossed himself one more time, muttering as he followed his cousin up a series of steps toward what appeared to be an oblong box made almost entirely of glass.
 
The dimensions were about two feet wide, no more than four feet long and two feet deep.
 
A niche had been chiseled out of the thick stone walls where the glass box now lay.
 
Francesco leaned forward, peering intently at the brass plaque mounted beneath.