Marina shifted to look behind her. A few feet above, the branches of another tree clashed with her tree’s. She could climb to the next one, and then maybe to another, and onto the roof of the Tibbetts’ house.
Something from below whistled past her and the bullet pinged into the flesh of the tree.
Marina moved. She scrambled up the branches until she could hoist herself to the other tree, then, arms and legs wrapped around the branch, she scooted down the sloping branch toward the trunk.
When she moved, she could see down to the ground and the figure below in her fenced-in back yard. There would be no help from the neighbors, thanks to the privacy fence she’d had installed for Boris.
The intruder looked up into the greenery that surrounded her, and although Marina was sure he couldn’t spy her, her heart kicked up a notch when he raised the gun. His aim was far off; still toward the other tree, but she didn’t waste any further time. She moved, and made her way carefully to another tree, this one on the other side of the fence, in the Tibbetts’ yard. One more shift … and she landed flat-footed on the sandpaper-rough shingles.
Deep breaths.
He couldn’t get to her now. And he couldn’t know where she was. Yet.
Marina clawed her way along the slanted roof, using her toes and flat-palmed hands to go up and over the peak, onto the other side. The Tibbetts had an attached garage, and Marina slid down onto its roof, then flattened herself. Peeping over the top of the garage angle, she looked out at the silent street. How could it be so quiet and empty on a Friday night?
She watched and waited to see if he would reappear somewhere below. Once she was sure she was safe and wouldn’t be overheard, she’d call MacNeil and tell him to get his ass back here. This was not part of the deal.
Marina remained on the Tibbetts’ garage roof for an hour before she felt safe enough to find another tree to use as a ladder. Nevertheless, when she dropped to the soft, sound-deafening grass, she slid along the side of the brick cottage, pressing back against the solid wall for support and protection.
Curving around the corner, she looked toward the street, alternately thankful and regretful that Dr. and Dr. Tibbetts were on an archeological dig in Peru instead of being here to see her slink through their cotoneasters and azaleas.
Digging her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, she dialed MacNeil’s number. When she’d programmed it in at his insistence the day before, she had no idea she’d ever have to use it.
“Gabe, it’s Marina,” she said as soon as he answered. From the sounds in the background, he was probably sitting outside at one of the bars on Main Street. “Someone just tried to break in my house. I’m guessing it has to do with this mess you’ve dragged me into, so I suggest you get me out of it and on my way to Myanmar.”
“Where are you now?”
She told him. “The guy’s gone, I think, but I’m going to cut through a few back yards and I’ll meet you two blocks away. I’m not going back to the house.” She gave him specific directions and hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, MacNeil pulled up at their meeting place, and as Marina yanked the car door open, she noticed he already had a weapon in his hand.
“You seen anyone?” he asked as she slammed the door. He was peering into the darkening street as if looking for the intruder.
“No. I’m sure he’s gone … but I didn’t want to take any chances. You’ve got that.” She eyed the gun.
“You could have one if you want.”
“No thanks. I’m going to be on my way and out of this mess before I could learn how to load it.”
“Well, obviously you’re unhurt and escaped unscathed. What happened?” He was talking to her, but looking around as he continued to crawl the Taurus down the street, turning the corner back onto her road.
Marina told him and had the satisfaction of seeing approval on his face when she described her escape route. Maybe now he’d stop looking at her like she was a bimbo. And she wasn’t even blonde.
“Did you get a good look at the guy? Anything familiar about him?”
“Nothing discriminating that would help identify him. He was about forty, I’d say, dark hair, olive complexion, nice face … no facial hair — average height — like I said, nothing discriminating. I’m sure I could give enough info to an artist for them to do a mockup. I could pick him out in a lineup, or from a photo, probably, but I was moving pretty quickly.”
“Out the bathroom window and through the trees like Tarzan. Good thing you listened to your instincts and slammed the door on him right away, or it would have been a different story.”
“The question is — was he trying to kill me or kidnap me? Or … was he looking for something?”
“That is the question.” MacNeil pulled the car into the driveway of Marina’s home, his gun at the ready and his eyes dark and sharp. “Stay here. I’ll go check things out.”
Marina hesitated for a moment, but decided that prudence was the best choice at this point. She wasn’t armed, she didn’t know how to shoot a gun, and there was no sense in being one of those silly females who ignore the suggestion of the cop to stay put when it made sense to stay put. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t just saved her own skin and needed to prove something. Nor was she Buffy Summers or Helen Ripley. Not by a long shot.
She did lock the doors, however, and slide over to the driver’s side of the car, where MacNeil had left the keys, just in case they — or she — needed to make a fast getaway.
He returned a few moments later and gestured for her to get out of the car. With trepidation for what kind of condition her little house might be in, Marina followed him up the walk and into the foyer, which was littered with glass. Other than that, a quick perusal of the house showed no other major damage. Clearly, the man wasn’t looking for anything other than Marina; or if he had been, he didn’t take the time to do a thorough search.
Marina felt the presence of the invasion like a pervading smell. She was more than ready to get on that plane and leave this mess behind.
The only place where things looked out of order was her office, and that was where Marina found a small card printed with an odd-looking symbol. It was lying on her chair, and it wasn’t hers. “Gabe.”
“This is what you have on your foot?” he asked, taking the card. The symbol was printed on one side, like a business card.
“Yes. My father has one too.”
“Do you know what it stands for — what it means? Did your father ever tell you?”
“Yes, he had one too. On his ankle. It represents something central to the people — their culture revolves around the worship of the entire earth as a whole being, a goddess. Gaia. It’s an image that represents her and her favor.” At least, that was how she remembered what Dad had told her.
“Earth worshippers?”
“Their view is that every natural being on this earth is part of one living, breathing thing: Gaia, or Mother Earth. Every tree, every animal, even every rock. The concept actually was promoted by a group of scientists in the Seventies. Have you ever heard of the Gaia Hypothesis?”
“No.”
Marina closed her laptop as she explained, shoving it into its case, coiling the power cord to follow. “A scientific theory based on that concept that the earth is one living organism — that it’s actually alive. And every part of it contributes, or detracts, from its health as a whole. The theory touts that Gaia, the earth, will correct itself as a bio-entity if it gets thrown out of balance; if something begins to skew its homeostasis.”
“I can see why I haven’t heard of that theory. It sounds like someone would have been laughed off the podium if they’d presented that theory at a lecture.”