Reap the Wind

  “Don’t do it,” she said huskily as she walked quickly into the house. “For God’s sake, don’t do it, Jonathan.”

  Two hours after Caitlin and Alex left the cottage they were on an Air France plane bound for Nice. As the plane taxied down the runway, Alex saw the headlines in the newspaper the stewardess had handed him:

  KRAKOW’S ANTITERRORIST TEAM BATTLE BLACK MEDINA AT LOUVRE

  Caitlin’s eyes were wide with fear as they met his own. “It happened only last night. The Black Medina has never struck twice in the same week. Maybe that flower was just a warning.” Her hands nervously clasped and unclasped the arms of her seat. “Maybe it was some kind of macabre joke.”

  Alex’s hand covered Caitlin’s. For a moment he thought she would pull away. Then, slowly, her hand turned and held tight to his own. For the first time since he had told her how he had deceived her, she had voluntarily touched him.

  He mustn’t read anything into it. She would probably have reached out to Satan himself at that moment. He gave her hand a squeeze, trying to impart warmth, comfort, anything to help her while he glanced down at the newspaper.

  Above the story was a picture of a smiling Krakow fighting his way toward the gateway to the Louvre through a crowd numbering in the hundreds. Alex smiled cynically as he saw the glazed expressions on the faces of the people in that crowd, the way they reached out to touch Krakow as if he were some kind of saint. Well, why not? He had kept his promise. The great hero had brought down, if not the entire Black Medina, at least the dangerous segment that had destroyed their beloved Saint-Antoine’s.

  He was the savior. All he had to do was reach out and they’d give him anything he wanted.

  A crown lies in the gutter, one need only stoop and pick it up.

  Who had said those words? Oh, yes, they were attributed to Napoleon during the—

  “My God!” He went rigid, his grasp tightened on the paper. Caitlin’s gaze flew to his face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ledford said his partner wanted to be Napoleon.”

  “So?”

  “It’s not Dalpré, it’s Krakow who wants to be Napoleon.”

  “Krakow is Ledford’s partner?”

  “I guessed wrong and it amused Ledford to let me wander down a blind alley. He even supplied me with bits of motivation and pieces of half-truths to authenticate it.”

  Alex quickly scanned the story as the jet became airborne. Krakow’s team hadn’t captured the terrorists, they’d only blown them away. According to the article, the terrorists had killed a guard in an attempt to destroy the Louvre as they had Saint-Antoine’s the previous week. Krakow’s team had been patrolling the Louvre to prevent just such a tragedy from occurring and had stopped the three terrorists before they could plant the explosives. Unfortunately, they had resisted arrest and two of the three perpetrators had been killed in the resulting gun battle. The third had escaped but had been wounded and was expected to be apprehended in the next few days.

  Caitlin was leaning forward to read over his shoulder. “But it doesn’t make sense. Krakow is—it’s not possible.” She gestured at the paper. “His people just killed two of the terrorists.”

  “Which automatically puts him above suspicion, elevates him to enormous popularity, and places him squarely in position to make the next move.”

  “What move?”

  “My guess is that he’ll use this attack on the Louvre to motivate a ‘reluctant’ change of his position in the Consolidation for a United Europe and accept that some central form of government is needed to control the terrorists.” He paused. “With himself at its head.”

  “It’s all guesswork. You can’t be sure of that.”

  “No, I can’t be sure.” But it felt right, as if a missing puzzle piece has slipped smoothly into place. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Krakow’s a childhood hero of my mother’s. She thought he would make everything . . .” Caitlin trailed off and looked blindly out the window. “God help us all.”

  Katrine sat at the kitchen table, her hands cradling the cup of freshly brewed espresso she had just finished preparing. She had made enough for Peter and Marisa, who often walked over from the village to chat with her in the evening, but they hadn’t arrived yet.

  She frowned critically down at her delicate fingers gripping the cup. This fingernail polish had a trifle too much beige for her fair complexion. After Peter and Marisa left for the evening she would go upstairs, remove it, and put on that lovely pink polish she had bought in Cannes the previous week. Nothing made a woman feel more feminine than pretty nails. She shuddered to think of Caitlin’s close-clipped, unpolished nails. Caitlin really had nicer hands than her own, and Katrine had always tried to persuade her there must be some way for her to work in the fields and still maintain—

  Lights in the sky.

  Katrine set her coffee cup down on the table, her gaze on the window over the sink. How peculiar. She pushed back her chair and wandered over to the sink, her gaze on the two strong beams on the horizon, piercing downward like giant stilts. The beams looked a little like the searchlights one could see lighting the sky during the Cannes Film Festival. Denis had once taken her to Cannes during the festival and it had been very exciting. All those fast cars, glittering jewels, and famous faces. Denis had looked so handsome in his tuxedo, and she had felt very sophisticated and glamorous herself.

  She frowned as she suddenly realized the lights couldn’t be from Cannes when one had to go over the hills to the cliff to catch sight of Cannes from Vasaro.

  “Madame Vasaro.”

  She jumped and looked over her shoulder to see a small, stocky man in denims and a frayed blue work shirt standing in the doorway. One of the new workers, she recognized. The Italian, Ferneo or Ferrazo or something. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you knock.”

  He smiled at her and she saw a dull metallic glitter as he moved his hand from its half-hidden position behind him. A flashlight?

  “I was just looking at those strange lights. Did Jacques send—”

  She never finished the sentence.

  Peter and Marisa had reached the crest of the hill leading to Vasaro, when Peter saw the helicopter land on the lawn in front of the manor house. A stream of men wearing dark clothing and ski masks poured from the craft’s depths like a Delta Force attacking an enemy outpost.

  “What is it?” Marisa’s hand clutched his arm. “What do they want?”

  “I don’t know.” But he was afraid he did know.

  A flash of fire streaked across the rose field, and the bushes burst into flames.

  “Flamethrowers. My God, they’re torching the fields!”

  Peter could see the men from the helicopter spreading out in all directions, the flamethrowers like fiery scepters spreading destruction wherever they touched.

  “Marisa, did you see—” Renée came running up the road from the village behind them. She stopped short, her voice dying to a whisper. “Mother of God, the fields. We have to save the fields.”

  “Stay where you are.” Peter grabbed Marisa’s hand. “Tell everyone to stay in the village and not go near—”

  An explosion rocked the ground, and Peter instinctively pushed both women to the dirt. His heart was pounding, hurting. Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Now would be a fine time to die, when Marisa needed him. Another explosion and then another. The outbuildings were being blown up one by one, stone and wood and debris blown to the heavens.

  “Katrine,” Marisa whispered. “Where’s Katrine?”

  “I’ll go after—” Peter raised his head from the dirt just as a glare lit the already-flaming landscape.

  Vasaro’s manor house that had stood for over four hundred years suddenly exploded in a flash of light.

  Marisa was on her feet and running down the hill toward Vasaro. “Katrine!”

  Nightmare. Peter saw Marisa’s slim form outlined like a paper doll against the fire-engulfed landscape. His heart pounded wildly, painfully, a
s he ran after her.

  She was falling!

  He hadn’t heard the bullet, but he could see the dark red splotch on her white shirt as her body twisted and fell.

  Oh, God, not Marisa.

  Not Marisa.

  Not Marisa.

  She was alive, moving, trying to crawl to the side of the road.

  A squat, muscular man whose face was vaguely familiar was running toward Marisa, a gun extended before him.

  “Don’t!” Peter felt as if he were moving in slow motion. He wouldn’t get there in time. Marisa would die.

  Peter hurled himself on top of Marisa’s body.

  He jerked as pain exploded inside him. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Lie still,” he muttered to Marisa. Something warm and salty filled his mouth. “Let him think we’re—”

  He stopped and lay limp and still.

  No more shots. Maybe he had gone away. Maybe Marisa was safe.

  He was dying. Funny, to think how careful he had always been. Proper rest, proper exercise, no stress, so that his heart wouldn’t give out on him. All for nothing.

  “Peter,” Marisa whispered. She was scooting slowly, painfully, from beneath his body. “The man’s gone.”

  She was covered with blood, but he didn’t know how much was hers and how much was his own. He should try to help her, bandage her, but he couldn’t seem to reach out to her. Renée had been on the hill. . . .

  “Renée . . . get to . . . Renée.”

  She didn’t move other than to draw closer to him. She wanted to help him.

  “No . . . live,” he muttered.

  “We’ll both live.” Her hand reached out and tightly gripped his own, her eyes glittering brightly in the glare of the fire. “Fight.”

  It was too late. Marisa didn’t understand. She was a warrior, like Andros, and warriors never fully understood. But they didn’t have to understand. It was the warrior’s duty only to protect and guard the Wind Dancer.

  The Wind Dancer? Where had that thought come from?

  Peter could feel the pain growing, exploding in his chest. He felt a moment of violent rejection. “Marisa!”

  “I’m here.”

  He didn’t want to leave Marisa.

  And he was afraid.

  Marisa was trying to sit up, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.

  The pain was worse and the fear was growing greater. He had to find a way to shut away the fear.

  He gazed up into Marisa’s eyes staring into his own with compassion and understanding. Beautiful, sad emerald eyes. No, that was the Wind Dancer again. But suddenly the two seemed to merge and become one, reaching out to him. His fear eased.

  A dominion without end, limitless flight, clouds lined with golden light.

  And more.

  Paradignes. The old man sitting with eyes closed in his high-backed throne chair.

  Paradignes’s eyes were opening, and the old man was looking at him. Why hadn’t Peter understood before?

  And he was no longer afraid.

  Vasaro was burning!

  Caitlin stared in disbelief as the two-seater rental car rounded the curve in the road.

  Fields, groves, vineyards—all were being devoured by flame. Great curling clouds of black smoke rose to the sky.

  “No!” She didn’t notice the raw scream that tore from her throat. “It’s not happening!”

  Alex jammed on the accelerator and tore down the road.

  “Alex . . .” They rounded the curve to see the manor house engulfed in fire. The north side of the stone house had been blown away, and all that remained was a broken shell that reminded Caitlin of pictures she had seen of London during the blitz. Flame licked out of the upper windows like obscene tongues. “My mother.”

  “I know. I’m hurrying.” The tops of the lemon and lime trees had caught fire, forming an arch of flame as Alex gunned the sports car up the curving driveway.

  “Mother.” Caitlin fumbled at the handle of the door as soon as the car stopped. “Mother’s in that house.”

  “Stay here out of the smoke. I’ll get her.” Alex jumped out of the car, tore up the steps, and threw open the front door.

  Death. Death was all around her. Vasaro was dying. The house was dying and death was still in that house, waiting for Alex. And he expected her to stay outside and wait?

  Caitlin flung open the car door. Heat and smoke blasted her lungs and flesh as she ran up the steps into the foyer. The smoke stung her eyes, seared her lungs. “Alex!”

  “Get out of here.” Alex’s voice from the back of the house. “I’m coming.”

  She stood in the hall, watching the flames march down the staircase from the second floor, devouring the Aubusson runner step by step with monstrous ferocity.

  Alex ran down the hall from the kitchen. The smoke was denser and Caitlin could only dimly see Alex’s strained face. Then she noticed Katrine’s slim body in his arms and she felt a profound rush of relief. Her mother must be unconscious from the smoke, but at least the flames hadn’t touched her.

  “Get in the car and head for the village,” Alex said hoarsely as he carried Katrine down the steps. “I’ll carry her across the lawn down to the road.”

  Caitlin shook her head as she stood on tiptoe to look over his shoulder to see her mother’s face. Alex was holding Katrine at an angle, half hiding her in the curve of his arms. “We’ll take her in the car. We have to get her to the doctor. The smoke . . .” Caitlin took a step closer. “We don’t have time to—” She stopped as she saw what Alex had been trying to hide from her.

  A small, bloody hole the width of her index finger punctured Katrine’s delicate temple.

  Caitlin’s gaze lifted to Alex’s pale face. “Alex.”

  “She’s dead,” Alex said.

  “She can’t be dead.” Didn’t he see that Katrine was just the same? Her lipstick was as fresh as if she had just put it on, and the nails of the hand hanging limp at her side were lacquered a frosted mocha shade. Caitlin took a step closer and touched Katrine’s beautifully coiffed hair. Not one hair out of place. Just the same as always. “Mother?”

  “Caitlin.” Alex’s voice was raw with agony.

  “Mother?”

  “We have to get out of here,” Alex said. “The fire . . .”

  Fire. Death. Katrine. Vasaro.

  Alex. But Alex wasn’t there in the fire. Alex wasn’t dead. She had to get him away from Vasaro before death took him too.

  She instinctively stumbled toward the Lamborghini in the driveway. Burning branches from the trees lining the driveway had fallen on the roof, and the white paint had melted into ugly splotches wherever they touched. What a pity, she thought numbly, Katrine would be upset. She loved the Lamborghini and took such pleasure in driving it.

  Caitlin opened the passenger door and collapsed on the passenger seat.

  “No.” Alex was beside her, his face contorted. “You’ll have to drive. I’ll carry her down to the road.”

  Then she understood what he was saying. This car was a two-seater, and so was the sports car they had rented at the airport to get them to Vasaro with all possible speed. There was no room for Katrine.

  No room anywhere in the world for Katrine any longer.

  She held out her arms. “I’ll hold her. She doesn’t weigh much.”

  Alex hesitated.

  “Give her to me.” Caitlin’s tone was suddenly fierce. “I’m strong. I can hold her.”

  Alex’s eyes were bright in his soot-stained face. “Yes, I know you’re strong.” Alex carefully laid Katrine’s small body across Caitlin’s lap, slammed the door shut, and ran around to the driver’s seat.

  Pain tore through Caitlin, blood bright, piercing to the depths of her as she saw the ragged bullet hole at close range.

  She reached out with a shaking hand and covered the ugly hole in Katrine’s temple with a silky strand of hair. Katrine would hate that ugliness to show.

  “All right?” Alex asked as he started th
e car.

  She didn’t hear him. Mother and child. When she was a baby, Katrine must have cradled Caitlin in just this protective way before her father had lured her away from Caitlin and Vasaro. Now the roles were reversed and she must hold and protect her mother on this last journey from her home.

  She cradled Katrine lovingly in her arms as Alex raced beneath the gauntlet of burning trees toward the road leading to the village.

  Fire!

  The flames were licking at her, devouring her. She couldn’t breathe.

  Katrine!

  Caitlin sat bolt upright, struggling to get away, struggling to get Katrine away before—

  “Easy.” Alex was sitting beside the bed, and his hand grabbed her own as he tried to keep her from throwing off the covers. He smelled of smoke, dark circles imprinted the flesh beneath his eyes, and he looked more haggard than she had ever seen him. “You’re safe. You’re at Renée’s house in the village.”

  She looked around dazedly, realizing she knew the room. The big double bed, the pale pink flowered wallpaper. She had given Renée the ivory and gold crucifix that hung on the wall across the room for a wedding present when she had married her Pierre.

  Memories flooded back to her, and she closed her eyes to shut them out. Safe. Perhaps she was safe, but nothing else in the world was either safe or sure any longer.

  “My mother . . .”

  “Don’t you remember? They’ve taken her to Grasse. I didn’t think you knew what was happening after we got here.”

  She had a vague memory of arriving at Renée’s house, of Marisa gently washing her and putting her to bed, but nothing else.

  She opened her eyes. “This is Renée and Pierre’s bed. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “They don’t need it. They’re out in the fields with the rest of the workers. Jacques is trying to salvage slips and cuttings from all the fields.”

  She doubted if anything could be saved. She shuddered as she remembered the blazing inferno of those fields. “Why did it happen? My mother never hurt anyone. Vasaro . . .”

  “I—don’t know.” Alex spoke haltingly. “They came by helicopter. Jacques said it was like a commando attack. They knew exactly where they were going and what they were going to do. Jacques saw one of the transient workers jump into the helicopter just before it took off, and the police think he cut the telephone lines and set it up.”