The padlock rattled, and the door opened. It was the skinny man with the cane, holding a wad of limp looking clothing against his chest. Seth had called him Connor. He regarded her with cool, somber eyes. “Good morning,” he said.
“You didn't go with them?”
His face tightened. “The gimp gets baby-sitting duty.” He indicated his cane. “I'm not happy about it, either, so let's not discuss it, please.”
“Why didn't you just lock me up and go?” she asked. “I'd never get out of this room.”
“Exactly. Totally aside from the fact that two hit men attacked you last night. If, God forbid, all four of us should get wasted messing with those guys, you would die of dehydration in this room before anybody heard you yelling. We don't have any near neighbors.”
She swallowed hard, and looked away.
“Yeah, makes you think, doesn't it? Personally, I thought you'd already rolled your dice. You should take your chances with the rest of us. But Seth wouldn't hear of it.”
“He wouldn't?”
Connor's eyes flicked over her. “No” he repeated. “He wouldn't.”
He laid a pile of clothing on the dresser. “None of us live up here full time, so we don't have a lot of clothes here. I scrounged up some of Sean's stuff from when he was a kid. Don't know how they'll fit, but they ought to be better than your nightie.”
“Yes, I'm sure they will be,” she said gratefully.
“Come on downstairs once you're dressed, if you want. There's coffee ready, and food if you're hungry.”
“You're not going to lock me up?”
He leaned both hands on his cane and narrowed his sharp green eyes at her. “Are you going to do anything stupid?”
She shook her head. Despite the cane, she was no match for this man. With that hard, purposeful look on his face, he seemed almost as dangerous in his own way as Seth. AH of the McCloud brothers had given her that impression.
'Thank you for the clothes,” she said “I’LL be down shortly.”
The clothes on the dresser were a threadbare, motley assortment. The best of the lot was a pair of low-slung jeans that were tight in the hips, but had to be cuffed three times to find her feet. Rude antisocial slogans had been scribbled over them with blunt felt-tip markers. The only shirt without too many holes was a shrunken, threadbare black Megadeth T-shirt with the neck ripped out. It did not quite succeed in covering her navel, and stretched perilously tightly across her breasts.
There was a pair of high-top sneakers whose original color was impossible to determine, warped and yellowed with age. They were inches too long, as floppy as clown shoes, and rasped painfully against her sore feet, but she pulled the laces tight and was pathetically grateful for every stitch of the ragged getup.
There was a series of framed drawings and paintings on the wall of the stairway. She slowed down to look at them as she descended. Some were charcoal, some pen-and-ink, some watercolors. They were mostly landscapes, animals and trees. Their simplicity and power drew her in and made her think of the vast, silent mystery of Stone Island.
Connor did a double-take when she walked into the kitchen. “Jesus” he said, turning quickly. “Ah... oh, yeah. Coffee's in the machine, right there. Cups over the sink. Cream in the fridge. Bread on the counter, if you want toast. Butter, jam, peanut butter or cream cheese are your choices.”
She poured herself some coffee. “Those drawings on the stairs are beautiful,” she said. “Who's the artist?”
“Those were done by my younger brother, Kevin.”
She pulled a quart of half-and-half out of the refrigerator and dosed her coffee. “Is Kevin one of the brothers that I met last night?”
“No,” Connor said. “Kevin died ten years ago. Car accident.”
She stared at him, clutching the carton. The refrigerator swung open until it bounced against the wall, rattling the jars of condiments.
Connor gave it a gentle shove. It swung closed with a thud. “That's one of the many reasons we're helping Seth,” he said. “The McClouds know how it feels to lose a brother.”
She stared at the bread browning in the toaster oven. Her mouth was dry, and her appetite gone. “I'm sorry,” she said.
“Sit down,” Connor said. “Eat something. You're awfully pale.”
She forced down some toast with peanut butter at his urging, and he gave her a flannel-lined denim jacket, the sleeves of which came down five inches past her fingertips.
“I'm going to work here in the office. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay right where I can see you,” he said briskly. “There's a couch, and an afghan if you're cold. Books in the bookcase. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” She curled up on the couch and stared out the window. Connor was staring into the computer, absorbed, and she realized what he must be looking at.
“You've got X-Ray Specs software running on that computer, right? You're tracking the Corazon!” She leaped to her feet. “Can I—”
“Stay where you are and mind your business, please.” His eyes and voice were hard. “Try to relax.”
“Sure,” she whispered. Yeah, right. As if.
She dropped onto the couch, tucked her feet beneath her and stared out at the fog drifting through the pines. A rent in the clouds revealed a snowy mountain peak across the canyon, glowing a deep, sunrise pink. The shifting colors made her think of opals.
An ugly chill crawled up her spine. She thought of Seth's boat. Slipping the Dreamchaser into his inside jacket pocket. She had forgotten all about it. Seth had never known about it at all. He had no reason to think anyone had tampered with his jacket.
Oh, dear God. It was the necklace. It had to be. It was her fault that assassins had been chasing them, and finding them. She leaped up, her heart in her throat.
At that moment, gravel crunched under car tires in the driveway.
“Connor, I have to tell you something,” she began. “I—”
“Shhh.” He waved her down with a sharp motion of his hand and limped over to the window. 'This is weird,” he murmured. “I didn't know he knew about this place.”
“Who?”
“A guy I work with,” Connor peered out the window, perplexed. “Or work for, I should say, since he just got promoted. Go upstairs. Quick. He might come in for a cup of coffee. Stay up there until I tell you it's clear. And Raine?”
She turned back from the foot of the stairs. “Yes?”
“Do not make me regret letting you out of that room.”
She nodded and ran up the stairs for the attic. She edged towards the window that overlooked the porch roof. There was no curtain. Looking out meant risking being seen, and would infuriate Connor. The man was his colleague, for God's sake. His boss; surely not a threat to her.
But Ski Mask's bloodshot eyes and the blank, dead eyes of the motel assassin haunted her. She had learned to take nothing for granted in the past five days. Not looking out the window meant risking something decidedly worse than Connor McCloud's irritation.
She crept closer on tiptoe, keeping back in the shadows, but the men were too close to the porch. She had to get closer. The screen door slammed shut. Connor greeted the visitor. His voice was not particularly friendly, just neutral. Questioning. She could not hear what they said through the double-paned storm window.
The man responded, his voice deeper than Connor's baritone. Goose bumps rose up on her spine. She drew nearer. If he looked up, he would see her for sure. From this angle, she saw only that he was balding, somewhat heavy, bulked out in a black winter jacket. Glasses. Connor asked another inaudible question. He responded with a shrug.
Connor hesitated, then nodded. He said something else, probably inviting the man into the house, and turned around.