Ice Blue. Anne StuartЧитать онлайн книгу.
there was no sign of him anywhere. The pillows on the sofa looked untouched, so either he hadn’t slept there or he was very neat. It was dark outside, with a light rain falling, and her best guess was that it was late afternoon, and Takashi O’Brien was nowhere to be found.
She didn’t hesitate, sprinting across the living room in her bare feet and grabbing her shoes, which were set neatly by the door. His weren’t there, which meant he was gone, or so she hoped. But how far away was he, and for how long?
She opened the front door, peering out into the rain. She had no earthly idea where she should go. She could always make it out onto the street and see if she could find a cop, though L.A.’s finest were never there when you needed them. She could try to hitchhike, but that might be even worse than getting kidnapped by the Shirosama. Maybe she could just walk until she found a pay phone that had survived urban blight. Better than trying to find the main building of this rambling hotel complex. She didn’t want to risk running into Takashi O’Brien.
She hadn’t spent much time in Little Tokyo, but if it was anything like Chinatown it would be relatively safe, well-lit and well-preserved. Unfortunately, the True Realization Fellowship had their headquarters somewhere within this relatively small neighborhood, and the last thing she wanted was to run into one of them.
But she couldn’t stay here and do nothing. The more she thought about it the less likely her rescuer’s story seemed. How had he found her in the first place? How had he managed to save her without being seen by the Shirosama’s men? And why in the world would anybody want to harm her? While Lianne and Ralph Lovitz were about as powerful and wealthy as anyone in L.A. society, most people had no idea of her connection to them. She herself had nothing of value—apart from an obscure Japanese bowl that was now ostensibly out of her reach.
No, scratch that. She’d foolishly told her rescuer that it wasn’t the real one. Which meant he needed her to find it, and chances were he could be just as lethal as her mother’s guru. More so, in fact. The True Realization Fellowship simply wanted her; as far as she knew they didn’t actually want to harm her. But her companion had killed. And he sounded as if he had no objection to killing again if need be.
She couldn’t afford to hesitate. She took off down the winding drive, keeping as close to the carefully planted vegetation as she could, skirting the other bungalows until she made it to the front entrance, guarded by the bright red Japanese torii gate. The city traffic was heavy, as always, but she crossed at the first intersection, heading toward the row of tiny shops and restaurants. Someone would either let her use the house phone or tell her where a pay phone was.
The one asset she still had with her was her brain—she’d memorized her phone card numbers. She could call Micah at the museum—he was probably wondering where the hell she was—and get him to pick her up, bring her passport and even front her some money and drive her car over. She had a second set of keys in her desk, and with any luck the Volvo was still sitting in the parking lot up in the Santa Monica Mountains.
She had no luck until the third restaurant, a tiny noodle shop, and by that time she was thoroughly soaked. The woman at the counter didn’t understand much English, but with a combination of pantomime and pleading Summer got what she wanted—a pay phone at the back of restaurant, just off the kitchen.
She was ready to faint with hunger—the smells were making her crazy—but she had no money. She’d simply have to wait. At least Micah answered his private phone line immediately, and after a few panicked questions he settled down to write a list, and promised to meet her as soon as he could get there, probably an hour, given that it was raining and rush hour. She had to be satisfied with that.
She didn’t think she was going to be able to explain to the proprietor that in an hour she’d have more than enough money to buy everything on the menu; their initial exchange had been difficult enough and the old lady had been reluctant. Summer ducked back behind the wall, into the shadows. People were coming in and out of the shop, the flow of Japanese and English incomprehensible from her spot, the smell of the food a torment that she had no choice but to endure till rescue came. She was so busy concentrating on the front of the shop that she didn’t hear the kitchen door open, and then it was too late.
“What’s up?” The cook was no more than a teenager, with several piercings, bleached hair and a friendly expression on his face. He sounded as if he’d grown up in the Valley, so at least with him the language difference wouldn’t be a factor.
“I’m waiting for someone,” Summer said. “Do you mind if I stay back here?”
“My mom would bust a gut if she caught you,” he said cheerfully, and Summer’s growling stomach tightened. “But she stays out by the counter—she doesn’t trust anyone except me, and that’s only sometimes. Go on in the kitchen. You can wait there.”
“Thank you!” Summer breathed. Being near all that food was going to be an even greater torment, but at least she’d be safely out of sight for the time being.
The kitchen, really nothing more than a prep table and a couple of huge stoves, was a mass of steam and smells, and Summer found a stool in a corner, as far away from temptation as she could manage. When the kid came back in he took one look at her, grinned and said, “You hungry?”
Pride demanded she say no, but after the last twenty-four hours pride had no place in her life. “Starving,” she said. “I have no money, but my friend is coming and he’ll pay …”
“No problem,” the kid said, dishing up a simmering bowl of noodles and squid and handing it to her, plus a pair of chopsticks. Summer didn’t hesitate. She’d spent her life trying to avoid tentacles, but at that moment she’d eat a live cow.
Her newest savior busied himself dishing up noodles, refilling her own bowl once she’d emptied it, this time with chicken, thank God. He made several trips in and out of the dining room, and Summer ate until she couldn’t move, then leaned back against the kitchen wall, feeling more human and hopeful than she had since this whole nightmare had begun. It had been close to an hour since she’d called. Micah should be there anytime, and she needed to be on the lookout for him.
The kid came back into the kitchen with a tray full of empty bowls, setting it by the sink, and she was just about to offer to work on the dishes when the door opened again.
“I’m sorry,” the teen said, sounding truly regretful, as two white-robed brethren headed toward her.
Her first, instinctive thought was she shouldn’t have eaten the squid—she wanted to throw it up right then and there. But that was only fleeting; she was learning to be fast on her feet, and she moved, heading toward the stove as the two men closed in on her.
There were two huge vats of boiling water on the burners, heavier than she’d expected, but she was desperate. Summer pulled them to the floor, jumping ahead of the scalding water, which hit her pursuers. She knocked the kid aside as she sprinted out of the kitchen, howls of pain following her.
It was full dark now, the rain still falling heavily, and she heard the woman behind the counter let loose a shrill string of invectives as Summer ran out onto the sidewalk. A little boiling water wouldn’t slow the brethren down for long—she’d heard rumors of the kind of training they went through—and she knew she had to move fast. The streets were crowded with people, enough to slow her down, not enough to hide her, but she wove her way through them quickly, keeping her head down while she tried to look for the familiar shape of her old green Volvo. Micah should have been here by now. With any luck he’d show up in time for her to jump in the passenger’s seat and take off. Micah drove so fast he’d lost his license three times; once he arrived, no one would be able to catch up with them. He just needed to get there.
She thought she saw a flash of white out of the corner of her eye, and she sped up, moving as fast as she could. People didn’t tend to wear white in January, even in L.A., and there were at least three white-garbed forms behind her, closing in. She didn’t dare take the time to look back, just kept heading blindly forward as they got closer. She could try running—she would if she had to—but she was already feeling sick to her stomach. They couldn’t