Girl In The Water Part 7

The jaguar was here for her again. And again, he would let her go. Yet she'd still be trapped. Just as she hadn't been truly safe in the village after her mother's death. The jaguar had let her go, but then Daniela ended up in Senhora Rosa's clutches.

Not this time.

Not again.

She worked silently and carefully, her fingers like the delicate legs of the water bugs as they ran across the shallow ponds without disturbing the surface. She nearly worked the belt free when a large hand closed around her wrist.

Slowly, she turned to face the man who captured her. His dark gaze burned into hers in the dim moonlight.

"If you run, I will find you. Do you understand?"

Her heart beat in her throat. "Sim, senhor."

The jaguar would let her go. But only when he was ready.

Ian Ian dreamt of Linda and the twins under water, Connor and Colin screaming, "Daddy!"

He startled awake drenched in sweat, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was. The bamboo walls, palm thatch ceiling, and oppressive humidity brought him to Brazilian reality.

Connor and Colin couldn't have screamed, he told himself. They had been too young to speak. And too young to know who was at fault for not protecting them, letting them go into that river. The father who hadn't come when he was needed.

The air and the room around Ian felt like a wet, dark weight, like it could drown him-not like a river, but a slow sinking in thick swamp water. His head pounded.

Next to him, Daniela was still sleeping.

He took in the small, curled-up heap she made in the bed. With tear streaks all over her face, she looked about sixteen. He felt like a d.i.c.k.

He untied himself from her and fastened her to the bamboo footboard. He tucked the gun into his waistband, then hurried off to p.i.s.s, hurried back, half expecting to find the bed empty, but she was still there, now sitting.

He leaned against the doorjamb, didn't step any closer.

"You can unbuckle that now." He nodded toward his belt.

And then what?

He needed a shot of something. Jameson's would be good-a couple of shots, actually. He shoved his shaky hands into his pockets. h.e.l.l, he'd settle for some rotgut tequila, if Finch had only stocked some.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he told Daniela again, because judging by the tight set of her slim shoulders, it bore repeating.

She nodded but didn't relax.

"Why don't you use the bathroom, then we'll see about breakfast."

The promise of food seemed to galvanize her, and she sprang into action, confirming his suspicions that she'd gone without food in the past. Better and better.

He padded to the kitchen barefoot, found eggs in the ancient fridge and some coconut oil, used the pan on the stove to make scrambled eggs. When he heard her behind him, he turned.

She was staring as if he had a tap-dancing monkey on his head.

He had no idea what was wrong now, so he pointed at the table. "Sit."

He put the eggs on the table. Half a dozen forks sat in a cup on the counter. He grabbed two. He didn't feel like hunting around for plates. He grabbed a lone flatbread from a plastic bag, then carried everything over.

He hadn't had breakfast with someone at a kitchen table in two years. h.e.l.l, this was probably the first time he'd have breakfast in the past two years that hadn't come from a bottle.

For a second, he thought of Linda and the twins, the last breakfast they'd had together before he'd s.h.i.+pped out. Linda had been crying, begging him to stay.

"You'll be fine," he'd said. "I'll be back before you know it."

But it hadn't been fine. What happened after he'd left was so far from fine, he didn't have a word for it.

His head pounded harder. He had to squeeze his eyes shut as he stood, because movement made the pain worse. There had to be a place somewhere in the neighborhood that sold liquor. Tequila was the same word in every language, right? Somebody would point him in the right direction.

But as he cautiously opened his eyes so he could leave, his gaze fell on Daniela. She was squirming on her seat, chewing her bottom lip.

"What's wrong?" He spoke quietly, but each word was like a cannon shot in his head anyway.

She immediately stilled. "Nothing, Senhor Slaney."

She could control her actions but couldn't hide the worry in her large green eyes. Worry tinged with fear.

He silently cursed, sat back down, then handed her one of the forks. "Just Ian. Dig in."

He waited until she hesitantly did go for the food, because he had a fair idea that otherwise, she'd hold out for leftovers. He hated that she expected him to treat her like a dog. Had Finch? Dammit, he didn't want to think that about his friend.

He wanted to ask her about the day Finch died, but he didn't want to scare her out of her wits by starting with murder, so he asked, "So, you always lived around here?"

And was glad he did, because her shoulders did relax a little as she told him about her mother, Ana, and her village, then the trip with Pedro down the river.

Of course, then, the more she said, the more Ian wished he hadn't asked.

Pedro. A f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d who'd sold her to some wh.o.r.ehouse, apparently. Ian hoped he might run into the man while he was here. He seriously wanted to punch something, and Pedro's face would be as satisfying a choice as he could imagine.

Then Daniela told him about Rosa bringing her to Santana and giving her to Finch, and by that time, Ian's stomach was flooded with acid, so he gave up on breakfast.

If Finch was alive, Ian might have strangled his friend himself, even if Daniela had nothing but praise for him, and told Ian how happy she'd been, how Finch had never even beaten her and fed her every day.

Because Ian couldn't handle the praise, he said, "Tell me how he was killed."

And then they were suddenly at murder.

Daniela paled. "I don't know, Senhor Ian. I came home, and he was dead."

She'd told him as much yesterday. He needed more. "You didn't see anybody?"

"A man came to the door the day before. And he watched the house the day before that."

"Did you tell Finch?"

"Sim, Senhor Ian."

"What did Finch say?"

"He said I should go away for a few days." She hung her head. "But I came back in the night," she muttered, tucking in her neck as if expecting to be punished for the disobedience. "Senhor Finch was dead."

Ian pushed for details and got more than he bargained for when she gave him a full description. Slivers of bamboo under the fingernails. And a cut-off ear.

Tortured. Christ. Finch had been twenty-seven. Too d.a.m.n young to die, and even with all the stupid things he'd done in his life, he hadn't deserved to die like that.

Dark fury choked Ian. The desperate need for a drink pounded in his head, using it for a punching bag. Left hook, right hook, uppercut. He squinted against the sunlight pouring in the windows. "What did the man who came to the door look like?"

"He was a goat man," she said, touching her chin.

"He had a goatee?"

"Yes, like a goat's, dark. And big ears that held up his hat."

Not much to go on.

"Anything else? Scar on his face? Limp? Anything I could find him by?"

"A scar on his nose." She drew a line straight across the bridge with her finger.

"What did he wear? Poor clothes, rich clothes, a uniform?" A uniform would be helpful. A uniform would be an actual lead.

"Rich clothes, senhor," Daniela said. "A white suit with a white hat." And then she added, "Once, a man in a white suit came to visit one of the girls at Senhora Rosa's house. Senhora Rosa said he was an important man. He worked for the police."

But not a cop, if he didn't have a uniform. Maybe he'd been a detective. Or higher. The police commissioner. Ian considered that for a few seconds before he asked, "What happened to Finch's body?"

She shrank again.

Ian made a point to relax his body language. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs in front of him, and gentled his voice. "I'm not going to be angry."

Still, several seconds ticked by before she said with reluctance, "I buried Senhor Finch, like my mother. I just..." She swallowed hard, wouldn't look at him. "I couldn't find a log to carve out."

Ian stared. He pictured her struggling to drag Finch down to the river on a sheet, then rolling him into the black water.

d.a.m.ned if Ian knew how to feel about that.

Not mad at her, though. She did what she had to for survival, and Ian was glad that she'd done it. If she'd gone to the police, they would have either locked her up for the murder or taken her back to Rosa. He was glad that she'd had this past month here, without anyone to abuse her.

He kept asking questions, repeated some he'd already asked, but she didn't have much new information to add.

The best Ian could figure was that whoever had been after Finch in Rio had found him here in Santana and killed him.

Daniela finished her food and immediately jumped up to clean the table.

Ian stood too. The food had knocked his headache back a little.

All right, what's next?

Maybe he could talk to the neighbors. Maybe someone had seen more, seen the man come into the house the night of the murder. Or more than one man. Hard to see how one guy could have taken down Finch.

Before he could think more about that, Daniela was in front of him, her hands tightly clasped together, her eyes downcast. The table was already clean. "Please don't send me back to Rosa, Senhor Ian."

The quiet desperation in her voice made acid claw at his stomach lining. He needed a shot of whiskey, the sooner the better.

"You go back to Rosa over my dead body," he said through gritted teeth.

But she only stood still with her head down, nothing but hopelessness and misery in the set of her slim shoulders. Maybe she didn't believe him.

Why the h.e.l.l would she believe him? When the h.e.l.l had anyone done right by her before, dammit?

He worked to tamp down his rising fury so it wouldn't come through his voice. "Where would you like to go?"

"Please let me stay with you." She folded herself smaller. "I won't be any trouble. You won't even notice me."

Christ, he couldn't stand to see anyone like this.

"All right. If you want to stay, you can stay."

She was the only one who could positively identify Goat Man, anyway. "But I don't want you begging in front of me, or anyone else. Do you understand? This is where it ends, Daniela. You're starting over."

Her head snapped up, an equal measure of confusion and relief on her beautiful face. "I can stay with you?"

"You can. In your room," he added.

Relief won, and the next second, she was kissing his hand, grabbing it so tightly, he could barely get away from her.

"None of that either."

She dropped his hand immediately. "Yes, Senhor Ian."

"Call me just Ian."

She flashed a cautious smile, the first he'd seen on her. "Yes, Senhor Ian."

He sighed. What the h.e.l.l, they could work on that.

"We're going to take a walk around town, see if you can spot this Goat Man," he said.

"I will." She couldn't promise fast enough.

The top of her head didn't quite reach his shoulder. Her straight black hair hung down to her waist. She had large eyes and a small nose, a mouth that someday might grow into generous. Small hips, small b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Before we go..." He cleared his throat. "Can you do something to make yourself look older? Put your hair in a bun or something."