Besides, she was absolutely certain that no one had followed them. They were guaranteed a decent night’s sleep, and then she had to get them out of the country. With Peter’s murder, half of her sources had dried up. It was more than likely that someone at Third World Causes was linked up with their hunters—they’d been showing up far too regularly, just when she’d thought they were safe. She no longer knew whom to trust, and she wasn’t about to take chances when it wasn’t just her own life at stake.
She also wasn’t going to worry about it right now. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Right now she was going to collapse on that singularly uncomfortable little bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.
Peter’s blank, dead features suddenly shot into her mind, and a low, keening wail escaped from deep inside her. Quickly she shoved the wet washcloth into her mouth to try to stop the sounds of her sudden grief. And then she leaned against the rusting metal stall, beneath the steady beat of the hot shower, and wept.
She heard the sound of the key in the lock from a distance, hours later. Pulaski, she thought, not moving. The door opened, someone stepped inside and shut it behind him. She waited with sleep-drugged patience for the dim light to flood the room, but nothing happened. The figure moved stealthily across the room. Not to the television, which would have been Mack’s first move. Not to his own bed. But straight toward hers. It couldn’t be Pulaski.
She was suddenly alert, though she kept her body completely still, her breathing even. The small pool of light from the bathroom provided little illumination, and she didn’t dare move her head. When she made her move it had to be fast and accurate. Doubtless it would be her only chance.
Her muscles bunched, ready to spring, as the dark, menacing figure paused above her. The menace was tangible in the air, a threat of death and violence that all the wishful thinking in the world wouldn’t drive away. Why the hell had she left the gun on the dresser?
He bent over her. She could see the hand coming toward her through the shadows, holding something undoubtedly lethal. She held her breath, counted to five, and then spun around in the bed, leaping toward her attacker without another moment’s hesitation.
Ten seconds is a long time when you’re fighting for your life. It took twelve for Maggie to pin him flat on the floor, straddling him with her long legs, her knee at his vulnerable throat. She was barely breathing heavily. Unfortunately she couldn’t say the same for Pulaski.
He lay there gasping for breath. “Not that this isn’t erotic in a kinky sort of way,” he managed to gasp, “but do you suppose we could use the bed instead?”
Maggie scrambled off him immediately, her hands quickly running over him, assessing the damage. There was little, except perhaps to his pride.
But thank God Mack’s pride wasn’t of the overly macho variety. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She found her hands were shaking. Perceptive of him to have noticed, considering he was the one who’d been decked. “I’m fine. Why the hell did you sneak up on me like that? If I’d had the gun, I could have killed you.” Her voice was breathless and as shaky as her hands.
“Shoot first, ask questions later? I don’t think so, Maggie May.” He sat up, flexing his muscles a little gingerly. “I didn’t want to wake you if I could help it.”
“Then why didn’t you just get in your own bed and be quiet?” she demanded. “Why did you come and stare at me like you were a … a …”
“I was staring at you like a red-blooded, healthy American male, Maggie,” he drawled. “I wanted to see if you were sleeping in the raw.”
“As you can see, I wasn’t.” The lace bra and bikini panties weren’t much, but they were better than nothing. “What did you have in your hand?”
“Dinner,” he said, with his first touch of irritation.
“For you?”
“For you. I brought you a corned-beef sandwich from the diner across the way. From the smell of it, I expect it’s now decorating the wall.”
Slowly Maggie moved away from him, climbing back onto her bed with more than a trace of embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”
He rose from the floor, groaning audibly and with a melodramatic flair that should have reassured her. “I guess you are. You want me to get you another sandwich?”
“I don’t suppose you managed to come up with some Jack Daniel’s?”
Mack’s face split in a grin that lit the darkened room. “Someday you’ll learn not to underestimate me, Superwoman,” he replied. He retrieved a half-full bottle from the top of the television, switching it on before he turned back to her. As the sounds of Dallas filled the motel room Maggie took a good, healthy swig from the bottle.
“Did you drink this much already?” she questioned.
“Nope. I bought it from the owner of the Laundromat. Paid twenty bucks for it too.” He caught it from her hand and took an even healthier swig. “Worth every penny,” he said reverently.
“I suppose. You’d better ration it, though,” she warned, grabbing it back and matching his drink. “I don’t know how long we’ll be here.”
“Till tomorrow at ten.”
“What?” She wasn’t sure if she heard him correctly.
“I said we’ll be here till ten. At which point we will meet up with Jesse’s friend Sam, who will take us to Chico, who will pass us on to Lonesome Fred.”
“And who will Lonesome Fred pass us on to?”
“To Honduras, if all goes well. Lonesome Fred is a pilot. I gather it wouldn’t be wise to ask how he usually earns his living in this part of the country. Suffice it to say he’ll take any cargo anywhere, without the inconvenience of customs or rude questions. For a sizable sum of money, of course.”
“How sizable? With Peter dead my resources are limited.”
“I’ve got more than enough.” He dropped down on the bed opposite her. “You don’t approve of messing with smugglers?”
“I didn’t say that. Dopers got us into this mess, they may as well help us get out. You’ve been very efficient.” Her voice was flat.
“And you don’t like it.”
“Why shouldn’t I like it?”
He shrugged. “Maybe you like being Superwoman all by yourself. Maybe you don’t like anyone else saving the bacon.”
“You can save all the bacon you want, Pulaski,” she said wearily. “I’m going to sleep.” She crawled beneath the covers, pulling them over her head to shut out the blue light from the television set.
“That’s all right,” he said softly beside her. “You can save the bacon next time.”
With luck there wouldn’t be a next time, she thought, turning her face away from him. With luck they’d find Van Zandt’s rebel camp in Honduras and she could dump Mack back on him. The sooner that day came, the better.
She had to get away from him. He was having a terrible effect on her, challenging all her hard-won beliefs, seducing her with nothing more than those warm, laughing eyes of his.
He was probably right, she conceded, sinking down lower in the bed and shutting out the noise of the prime-time soap opera. She didn’t like having anyone else take care of things, not unless she asked them to in the first place. But it wasn’t overwhelming pride or the need to dominate. It was much more basic than that. If you had to rely on someone else for help, you were then in their debt and beholden to them. And if you had to rely on them, they would let you down, sooner or later, and break your heart. Far better to be beholden to no one, to be the one who made the decisions, who stayed in charge and kept things moving in the right direction.
She needed that control to feel safe within herself. And now Mack had taken it away from her, leaving her resentful, grateful, and unpleasantly helpless. Damn him.
She opened one eye, peering at him through the darkened room. He was stretched out on the twin bed, seemingly absorbed in J. R. Ewing, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s by his side, his shoes off and his shirt open. He was entirely at ease, and she was
lying there trying to recapture the blissful sleep she needed, feeling guilty and miserable.
He was right, she was wrong. He hadn’t taken control away from her. He’d just done what any sensible person in danger would do—take the opportunity when it was offered. He’d found transportation in a far shorter time than she would have managed it. Damn it, she’d be grateful, and ignore her feelings of uneasiness. And if the chance came again, she’d welcome his taking control, just to show she could do it.
With that noble resolution, she fell back into a much-needed sleep that not even the torments of the Ewing clan could interfere with.
* * *
It was pitch black. The darkness, like a velvet shroud, pressed around her, weighed her down, smothering her in its evil grip. She felt the bed beneath her shoulder blades, felt the cold sweat covering her body, and she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed, darkness all around her, holding her captive.
Desperately, she looked for light. There was none—all was blackness, stealing her breath, stealing her life, leaving her there helpless and alone on the bed. She could hear the air struggle in her lungs, feel her heart pounding so hard it shook the narrow bed. Tremors of panic swept over her, and she was cold, so cold, and so alone. Her mouth moved, but she could say nothing. She was alone with darkness and death, and a thousand hands were grabbing at her, pulling at her, pulling her down and down and down. …
She heard the scream from somewhere up above the pit she was sinking into. And then suddenly light flooded the room, and she was no longer alone in the darkness. Mack had grabbed her, wrapping himself around her, holding her shivering body tightly in a grip that was comfort and safety, his voice soothing, with meaningless, gentle words that were a litany of calm and quiet and clear white light.
Slowly the tremors faded from her body, slowly the tight, panicked muscles relaxed against him. A rasping, tearful sigh caught in her throat and then flowed from her, and she sank against him, against the strong body that was so warm.
His hands were tenderly brushing her tangled hair away from her tear-streaked face. “Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear.
Not quite trusting her voice, she nodded against him. She knew she should move away, say something light and amusing, laugh it off. But she couldn’t move; she could only huddle closer for warmth and comfort and hope this wasn’t as dangerous as the darkness and the death.
He made no move to let her go. If he was wearing anything at all, it was only those absurd Jockey shorts, but there was nothing sexual in his embrace. “I’m sorry,” he muttered against her hair. “I forgot about the damned light, tonight of all nights. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She tested her voice. It came out raw and rusty, a perfect twin to Mack’s ruined voice. “I’m sorry …” she whispered, but his hand moved and covered her mouth, gently.
“Shhh,” he said. “It was my fault. I knew you were afraid of the dark, but I didn’t know it was this bad. Like an idiot, I forgot.”
“It’s not usually this bad,” she said slowly, pressing her face against the warmth of his arm. “At one point I had it beaten entirely. It must have been Peter that set it off.”
His arm tightened imperceptibly. “Were you in love with him?”
She thought about it. Exhaustion had swept over her body in the wake of her panic, and she lay there, dreamy, comfortable. “No,” she murmured. “What we had between us was over, and had been for a while. But we did love each other, as good, dear friends. Damn them.”
“Damn who?”
“Whoever did that to him. Damn them to hell.” She buried her face against him, snuggling closer. Never had she felt so safe, so protected.
“Are you going to be all right?” She could feel his muscles tense beneath her hands, feel his tentative withdrawal.
She raised her tear-streaked face for a moment. “Don’t leave me,” she said, for the second time in her life, and she hated herself for her weakness.
But Pulaski didn’t take advantage of it. “I won’t,” he said simply, pulling her back against him. “Go to sleep, Maggie. Tomorrow you can be Superwoman again. Tonight you can ask for help.”
With the cocoon of Mack’s warm, strong body curled protectively around her, Maggie did as she was told.
eight
If Lonesome Fred was an unprepossessing sort of pilot, his twin-engine prop plane was even less encouraging. Both of them were beaten, battered, and had clearly seen better days. Lonesome Fred had a stubble of beard, mirrored sunglasses, and spoke in a laconic, stoned voice; his plane was decorated with decals, bullet holes, and the hardly reassuring painting of a mule on the fuselage.
She turned accusing eyes on Mack. “I can’t say much for your transportation,” she muttered under her breath as Lonesome Fred busied himself with a casual check of their flying machine.
He shrugged, his smile warm in the bright Texas sunlight. “What can I say? He assures me the plane flies like a dream and we’ll be in Honduras in a matter of hours. Given the worth of his usual cargo, I’d expect it to be reliable. Come on, Maggie, you know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. She’s probably got the cleanest engine this side of a factory.”
“I checked while you were busy giving Lonesome Fred his exorbitant fee. It’s absolutely filthy, gunked up with oil and crud, and we’re all going to die,” she said prosaically.
Mack grinned at her. “At least we’ll die together. Chin up, Maggie. We’ll be safe enough.”
“Sure we will,” she said in a gloomy voice. “I think I’ll walk.”
She wasn’t serious, but his sturdy hand beneath her elbow didn’t leave her much choice. “All aboard, Maggie May.” He pushed her up into the plane, shoving her butt with unnecessary force. She stumbled into one of the seats, grimacing at the smell of fuel and vegetation and stale beer. Mack took the seat behind her, leaning back with a casual air she envied.
The engines could have sounded smoother, but at least both were working. And despite Lonesome Fred’s unpromising demeanor, he seemed to know what he was doing once he climbed into the cockpit of the plane, his sweat-stained Stetson pushed back on his lined forehead, his mirrored sunglasses balanced above the grubby, weak chin. He was smoking as the plane took off, roaring down the runway and bouncing over potholes, and Maggie turned away to stare fixedly out the greasy window.
“I didn’t know you were afraid of flying, Maggie.”
“Along with being scared of the dark?” she snapped back. “I’m not a bundle of neuroses, Pulaski.”
“I didn’t say you were. Are you afraid of flying?” he persisted.
“No. I’m just a few hours short of getting my license. I’m afraid of death traps and strange pilots and … oh, my God.”
“What?”
“Lonesome Fred is smoking a joint the size of a cigar!”
Mack shrugged. “He says he flies better stoned.”
“Hey, passengers,” Fred’s sleepy voice issued from the pilot’s seat. “You guys know how to swim?”
“Why do you ask?” Maggie demanded in a dubious voice.
“I don’t carry parachutes. I figure it shows a lack of basic trust in my baby.” He patted the instrument panel and some of the ash fell from the thick joint. “So just in case we have any trouble, I like to fly over water.”
“Do you often have any trouble?” Maggie had to ask.
Lonesome Fred shrugged, and the plane lurched as it continued its unsteady ascent into the bright Texas sky. “Now and then,” he said dreamily. “Now and then.” And he began to whistle the theme song from The High and the Mighty.
“Great,” Maggie said, sinking back. “Pulaski, I’m too young to die.”
“Don’t worry, Maggie. He may not carry parachutes, but he has life preservers.”
Maggie sneered, leaned back in her seat, and tried to ignore the rough-sounding engines, the inane whistling from their stoned pilot, and the man behind her. She traded one set of worries for another. Jeffrey Van Zandt would be somewhe
re in Honduras, most likely near the border. Someone had mentioned a little town, and if she had a moment of peace and quiet it might come back to her. Though how helpful Van Zandt would end up being was always questionable, unless he thought they might have something to offer in return.
No, she was being too harsh. Van Zandt was the one who’d brought Pulaski to Third World Causes, Ltd. in the first place. He had responsibilities, and an interest in the outcome. Besides, he’d know better than anyone how deep the rebels were involved in drug smuggling. And how tolerant the U.S. Government was of that involvement.
What if they didn’t find Van Zandt? What if they ended up in a camp of rebels, all with a grudge against a man who’d seen more than he was supposed to have seen? A lot of people wanted Mack, and most of them wanted him dead. The CIA, the rebels, the Mafia, and now the Houston police. And the only chance they had of getting them all off their tail was to find out who was behind the drug deal and get him to call off his vultures.
That had to have been Peter’s plan. As far as Maggie could see, there was no way out of the mess Mack had unwittingly landed himself in without very careful negotiations and access to the source of power behind it all. Peter had had access, and had died because of it. Van Zandt would have knowledge and access, and if he failed them she didn’t know what else she could do. Except find some place to hole up with Mack until the heat died down.
Damn, she hated feeling so helpless. But Peter’s death had thrown everything in an uproar, and she had to face the fact—even with Van Zandt’s help her time with Mack was far from over. It was going to be a long time before she saw her mother’s swimming pool in Laurel Canyon.
Not that a few weeks with her mother was the answer to her need for peace and quiet. Sybil Bennett wasn’t a restful woman. Exuberant, loving, and imaginative, yes. Feckless, ruthlessly self-centered, and narcissistic, yes. But never restful.
And there was no way to tell who’d be in residence in the big white pseudo-Italian monstrosity of a house that Sybil had held onto through good times and bad. There’d be Queenie, of course, Sybil’s devoted maid cum housekeeper cum nanny. For as long as Maggie could remember Queenie had been there, her ample bosom ready to be cried upon, her common sense ready to be leaned upon. Whatever failings Sybil had as a mother, Queenie had more than made up for them.