This Side of Heaven

stranger, by his incredible physical condition, the absolute perfection of his darkly tanned body and by the length of his inky black hair. Even at this distance she could tell he wasn't some long-haired youth. He was obviously a man in his prime. The shoulder-length hair gave him a roguish quality, as if he were a buccaneer. No, she thought, as if he were an ancient warrior.

The conquistador? Cyn couldn't stop the image from flashing through her mind. Since childhood, when she'd first heard the legend, she had visualized the ancient war­rior and his maiden. And now this man, this stranger on her beach, brought to life the haunting story of tragic love and a prophecy that the present would one day heal the wounds of the past.

Cyn gazed out across the horizon, noting that the morn­ing sun was just beginning to ascend into the sky. She glanced back and saw the stranger run into the ocean, the surging tide covering his bronzed body in an aqueous ca­ress as his powerful arms and legs glided through the water.

Who was this man, she wondered? And what was he do­ing on her beach? The nearest neighbor was over a mile away. All the land past her family's cottage and the old building across the road were part of a state park. Perhaps that was it. Maybe this man had ran along the beach for miles and somehow ended up taking a morning swim near her home.

Time seemed to stand still for Cyn as she watched the stranger swimming, coming out of the ocean, walking along the beach. Then time began again when he suddenly turned and looked at her. He stood yards away, the sun bright be­hind him, but she could tell that he was staring at her. She had the oddest feeling that he wanted her to come to him. She stared at him for endless moments, until he turned and ran back up the beach. It took every ounce of her will­power not to follow him, not to run after him, not to call out.

Her whole body trembled, inside and out. When she went back into the cottage, she began to wonder if she'd imag­ined the stranger, if all the mental stress she had endured recently was causing her to have delusions.

Well, whoever he was, real or imaginary, it didn't mat­ter. She'd never see him again. The last thing on earth she needed at this particular time in her life was a man. * * *

Nate sat on the huge tan leather sofa in his den, the only room in his new residence he'd bothered to fix up. Once things were settled with Ryker, he'd get rid of this musty old house and return to his place in St. Augustine. With his feet propped up on an old trunk and a beer in his hand, Nate felt relaxed for the first time that day. A second ran on the beach after lunch and another rigorous swim in the ocean had helped ease the constant tension with which he lived these days.

She hadn't been outside on her patio or on the beach when he'd gone out the second time. He'd noticed that a white minivan was parked around on the north side of the cottage and assumed it was hers. That meant she was still here, still too close for comfort, still in danger if Ryker showed up sooner than expected.

Whoever she was, she was beautiful, Nate thought. He couldn't erase the memory of her standing on the patio, the early morning breeze whipping her blond hair around her face, molding her thin cotton slacks to her rounded hips and legs. Although he'd sensed her presence when he'd been running, he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge her un­til he'd come out of the ocean and faced her. He had stood there staring at her like some lovesick teenager, as if he'd been struck deaf and dumb by the very sight of her. Hell, he'd seen gorgeous women before, he'd even had his share of lovely ladies, but there was something about this partic­ular woman. Something that sent a surge of both fear and longing through him. The longing he understood. The fear puzzled him.

He had wanted to speak to her, to ask who she was and how long she'd be staying at the cottage. But he'd just stood there staring at her while she stared back at him. After what had seemed like an eternity, he'd turned and run away. If he'd stayed another minute, he'd have been on her patio, taking her in his arms. His body had been hard with need.

Nate laughed, a mirthless grant. If he'd gone toward her, she probably would have ran into the house screaming her head off. If he'd gotten near her, he would have frightened her to death. After all, he was a stranger, a big, Hispanic-looking man with hair nearly to his shoulders. Hell, he was surprised she hadn't already called the police.

The insistent ring of the telephone jarred Nate from his thoughts. Before answering, he knew the caller had to be one of two people. John Mason or Nick Romero. They were the only two people on earth who knew where Nathan Ra­fael Hodges was.

'Yeah?' Nate asked when he set his beer down and picked up the phone sitting on the enormous Jacobean ta­ble behind the sofa.

'I need to see you,' Nick Romero said.

'Maybe you should come here. See if anyone follows you. Let Ryker know where I am and get this thing over with.'

'Meet me in Jacksonville. Tonight,' Romero said. 'We know where Ryker is, where he's been and who he's work­ing for.'

'You boys have been busy.'

'The CIA kept track of him before he entered the coun­try. Our man Ryker has made some powerful friends in Colombia.'

'You could give me the information over the phone,' Nate said as he ran one big hand up and down the moist beer can he'd placed beside the phone.

'Probably, but I think we should talk, face to face.'

'When and where?'

'Let's make it an early night,' Romero said. 'How about nine o'clock at a bar called the Brazen Hussy?'

'I know the place.' Nate recalled the sleazy bar where scantily clad ladies of the night and streetwise punk drug pushers mixed and mingled with the clientele. 'Wise choice. Nobody's going to notice two more shady characters in a place like that.'

Romero laughed. 'Yeah, that's us, a couple of shady characters.'

'Hey, Romero.'

'Huh?'

'Have you done something about protection for John and his family?' Nate knew that Nick Romero would have to call in a few favors to get any type of protection for John and Laurel Mason and their son, Johnny. But there was no way to be sure that once Ryker found out about Nate's business association and friendship with the Masons that they would be safe. Nate had distanced himself from the Masons, hoping to protect them, but there was always the chance that Ryker would harm Nate's friends regardless of the circumstances. Ryker would do anything to see Nate sweat, to prolong the torture.

'I'm working on it. It's just a matter of time.'

Nate could hear the hesitation in his old friend's voice, and instinctively knew that there was more. Something Romero didn't want to talk about. 'What is it?'

'I've got to ask you something,' Romero said. 'But I don't want an answer right now. Think about it and tell me tonight.'

'What?'

'Do you know a man named Ramon Carranza?'

'Carranza?'

'Think about it, Nate. This Carranza has been showing a definite interest in you.'

'Who is he?' Nate asked, certain he'd heard the name before. Where or when, he wasn't sure.

'We'll discuss it tonight. The Brazen Hussy. Nine,' Romero said and hung up.

Nate replaced the receiver, picked up his beer and walked across the room. The whole den was filled with knives. Elaborate display cases covered the walls, the desk and the tables. Nate reached down on the wide pine table by the windows, picked up a small wood-and-glass case and opened it. He lifted a sinew-sewn hide sheath into his big hand, then removed the Apache scalping knife with its sinew-wrapped handle.

What does this guy Carranza have to do with Ryker? Nate asked himself. What ungodly secret has Nick Romero un­earthed? * * *

Cyn pushed the bits of lettuce and tomato around in the salad bowl. She had tried to convince herself that she didn't really want any of the chocolate-marshmallow ice cream she'd picked up at the store less than an hour ago. After all, she'd made it through the entire trial without reverting back to her old habit of using food as a crutch. But, with each bite she took, the nutritious veggies with which she'd con­cocted her enormous salad tasted more and more like card­board.