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.The ocean still had the power to soothe her, in the midst of the tumult her life had become.She headed back to the kitchen, picking up her medallion and dropping it over her head.The striped cotton shirt had a nice, clean slice through it, dotted with blood, and she dropped it into the trash with a belated shudder.Of course Carlos had known what he was doing.He would know what he was doing when he came after her again.She pulled on her loosest cotton sweater, wincing as it grazed her side, changed into her Nikes, and headed down toward the strand.There were only a few runners out at that hour, the usual assortment of dog-walkers, and even one or two handholding couples.Maddy averted her gaze, ignoring the shaft of pain that sliced through her, and started walking.She lost track of time, her long legs eating up the distance with a hurried, nervous stride that had little chance of calming her.She turned her options over and over in her mind, but none of them seemed the right answer.She could run, of course.Stephen had left her a small, rustic cabin in the mountains.Carlos would have a hard time finding her there.She could go to the police and hope against hope they’d be able to protect her.But Jake was right.Carlos played by different rules.Or she could turn to Jake.Jake who had lied to her, who had let her father die without her, who had let her spend six months mourning him while he was turning traitor to everything her father had believed in.Jake who only wanted the mythical map to a massacre.And how did that square up with his actions at Den Phui? He’d put his military career on the line in testifying about that other civilian massacre.Was he going to do it again, betraying Sam Lambert and Richard Feldman and all the Patronistas? The rebels had depended on the goodwill of the international press.This report would make them little better than Morosa’s murderers.The growling in her stomach finally brought her up short, and she realized with a start of pleased surprise that she was hungry.She hadn’t eaten anything much all day, and despite the fright and trauma her body was reasserting its need to be fed.The sun was sinking low over the Pacific, and it was time to be getting back to the tiny house and find something for dinner.She’d been out for almost two hours, and if that hadn’t brought her any answers, another hour wouldn’t either.There was no sign of the tell-tale Toyota as she climbed up the street toward her house.She wouldn’t have put it past him to reappear, but it seemed as if he’d taken her dismissal as definite.He’d told her to let him know when she’d changed her mind.How was she supposed to do that when she didn’t even know where he was? she thought irritably.San Pablo couldn’t afford a consulate in California, much as they needed one.Maybe he was over in West L.A.in the teeming neighborhood of San Pablo refugees.Much good he’d be to her over there, she thought with a grimace.The lights should have warned her.Later on she would blame Jake once more.She’d been too absorbed in thinking about him to notice that the darkened house she’d left now had the glow of electric lights: Even the unlocked front door didn’t tip her off.She assumed she’d been too disturbed to lock it properly.After all, Hermosa Beach had very little crime so security had never been an obsession with her.She walked in and stopped dead.The neat, clean lines of her small living room were suddenly blurred, and she sank back against the wall, a small whimper of horror breaking the silence.Carlos had been there.The place was totaled.Every sofa cushion slit, the books torn from the bookcases, the pictures smashed, dishes and glasses a pile of rubble on the floor.Even the spindly dining-room chairs had been splintered.It took her a moment to move.When she did it was stiffly, in a state of shock, as she picked her way over the torn books, the shards of glass, the piles of stuffing.The kitchen was worse.He’d emptied out the flour and sugar bins and hurled them around the tiny area.Every can was pulled out of the cupboards, the refrigerator was gutted, and the floor was swimming with spilled milk and wine and smashed Tab bottles.There was a strange, painful little murmuring, and Maddy realized it came from her own throat as she moved through the hall to her bedroom and stood there, staring in horror.Carlos had slashed through her clothes, emptied her dressers, smashed the mirrors, and trashed her closets.But worst of all was the bed.He’d ripped through the center of the bed, a deep slash, and then crossed it, like a crucifix.And somewhere he’d found something red, probably catsup from the refrigerator, and poured it all over the deep incision.Feathers were still floating in the air from the pillows, sticking to the red stuff, and suddenly Maddy’s stomach heaved.It wouldn’t have made any difference if she’d thrown up in the middle of her bedroom, she thought as she leaned over the toilet.Carlos had festooned the bathroom with her shampoo, but all and all it was the neatest room in the house.Unfortunately there wasn’t much in her stomach, and she sat back amid the rubble, shaking with reaction, wishing there was enough glassless space to curl into the fetal position.As it was, all she could do was huddle back against the wall, wrapping her arms around her long legs, and bury her head against her knees.She hadn’t even closed the front door, much less locked it
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