Cloud Dust: RD-1 (R-D #1)(66)

Carol Dane owned a condo on Myrtle Beach. The transaction had taken place in written and e-mail correspondence two years earlier. A third, local attorney had taken care of everything else, and he had no idea that Carol Dane was fiction, just as Sarah Fox was.

"Everything you sent is in boxes, and the furniture is still wrapped in plastic," he admitted. "Since we didn't know what you wanted done with it."

"Are the washer and dryer hooked up and ready to go?"

"All the appliances should be ready for use."

"Then you've done a spectacular job," I smiled at him. "Thank you. Oh, one more thing—this is a writing retreat for me. I'd appreciate it if nobody knew I was here."

"You got it," he said, grinning back. "I'm just so excited that you're finally here."

"Me, too," I said.

I thought he might follow me into the elevator to the top floor where my condo was, but he didn't. I rode up the elevator, clutching my purse, the laptop bag and the manila envelope. I had to hold it together until I got inside my condo. Then I could cry as much as I wanted.

When I opened the door, boxes were everywhere. Yes, Carol Dane had ordered everything online I thought I might need, and left instructions for the deliveries to be left inside the condo. I just hadn't realized how much room those boxes would take. Some were stacked atop one another.

I shut the door behind me and locked it. I couldn't even sit on the sofa against the wall without pulling heavy, dusty plastic off it first. Somewhere in the boxes was a vacuum and cleaning supplies.

Those would have to wait. I headed straight for the bathroom, sat on the edge of a huge whirlpool tub and let the tears fall.

*

Maye

A sea of school-age children shuffled past me, few of them appreciating their surroundings as they were led through the Smithsonian's Natural History Museum. Weary teachers and a few parents listened as well as they could to the docents explaining what this article or that artifact actually was, all while carefully watching third and fourth-grade students poke, tease and giggle as they made their way past priceless treasures.

So far, none of them had been in a wheelchair. More were coming, however; the next group had been dropped off and were being herded into the building. Holding back a sigh, I watched as a sparring match occurred between two boys before a teacher broke it up. Deliberately I shut out their mental accusations that the other boy had started the fight.

The target wasn't in this group.

Stepping into an alcove and adjusting the camera strap around my neck, I waited for the next batch of children to arrive.

*

Ilya

"James, did she have any friends on the outside?" I asked. He and I sat in the kitchen, morosely consuming coffee. I watched as James picked at a bag of microwave popcorn, chewing kernels absently while he considered my question.

"Her old neighbors in Arlington," James shrugged. "She made cookies for them and watched their cats when they went out of town."

"Do you have access to a vehicle?"

"Yes," James offered a hesitant answer.

"Good. You drive. We will question these neighbors."

"But Colonel Hunter," he protested.

"Is busy," I said. "We will go. Immediately."

"I guess it's better than sitting here," he agreed.

Ten minutes later, we were driving through the gate at the villa in a small, black car that had an excuse for an engine in it. Someday, I intended to have my own transportation again. I had no idea at present when that day might come.

"Hello?" The word was a question, and failed to encompass a much larger statement—one that said I don't know you. While Eric Borden didn't appear frightened by James, he was terrified of me. We stood on Eric's porch, which was as narrow as the three-story house it fronted. It was nearly identical to the empty one next door—the one Corinne had called home for five years. I wished she'd chosen to go there; it would have made things easy.

She was much too smart for that.

"We were just wondering if you've seen Cori—Corinne, lately," James said. "We're old friends and having a hard time catching up with her."

"She's in France," Eric said, stepping back and attempting to shut the door. I laid a palm against the door, stopping its momentum.

"You have heard from her," I narrowed my eyes at Eric, watching as the fear in his eyes increased.

"I just, I, I," he swallowed with difficulty.

"Tell me," I demanded. "She is in danger, and anything you say may prove important."

*

"A storage unit?" James' voice was close to cracking as we studied the unit. It was large enough to hold a car and other belongings. Most of those things were now missing. Eric had a key to the lock, and his voice and his hands shook as he'd handed it over. We'd left him behind, trembling and gaping as we drove to Corinne's storage facility.

Only a few boxes and bags lined the back wall; things Corinne didn't want to take with her. I went through them as quickly and efficiently as possible. One box held old manuscripts. I barely paid attention to them as I rummaged for something that might be used to find Corinne.

"She didn't want us to know," James whispered. "So her neighbor did a lot of this for her, or she took a cab so we wouldn't trace her car. Damn."