Dark Ransom (18 page)

To save himself the
ingles
would have spoken, Agenor said grimly.

He would have taken the soldiers to the hidden landing strips in the

jungle, and to the secret camps of the
garimpeiros.
Now he was free

to warn his
compadres
on both sides, so the centre of their

operations would be changed, the war would drag on, and more

would be killed.

'But I couldn't stop him stealing the truck,' Charlie protested in her

own defence.

'Pedrinho could stop.' Agenor's face was reproachful. 'But because

you in truck,
senhorita,
he could not use gun.'

And there was no real answer to that, Charlie thought wearily.

The house was silent too, and seemed strangely deserted. The maids

weren't singing about their work today, and there was none of the

distant babble of laughter and talk from the kitchen that she'd

become accustomed to.

It's as if there's been a death, she thought, cold panic gripping her.

But there hasn't been, and I'm not even going to let myself consider

it as a possibility.

But she couldn't rid herself of the sense of guilt which was

oppressing her as she wandered from one room to another. She'd

allowed herself to ignore Philip's questionable behaviour, overlook

the obvious flaws in his character, oblivious to everything but her

need to escape from Riago and this loveless marriage he was

seeking to impose on her.

But that no longer seemed to matter—not now she had to face the

possibility that she could be his widow before she'd ever been his

wife.

She walked into Riago's room, and stood staring across at the bed. It

had been made during her absence, and the carefully smoothed

cover and pristine linen emitted a kind of chill.

She walked across and sat down on the bed, pressing a protective

hand to her abdomen. Ana Maria had touched her in the same way

only a little while ago, she remembered with a pang. Some of the

onlookers who'd crowded into the room had been clearly

scandalised by her familiarity with the
patrao's
bride, but Charlie

knew that the other girl, made percipient perhaps by the joy of her

own motherhood, had read her secret in her face, and was silently

sharing the knowledge of it with her.

It was wrong—all of it. Out of the casual passion of a night a child

would come who might never know his father.

It had been a farce from the beginning, she told herself. A comedy

of errors which had turned suddenly to melodrama, and now seemed

to be plunging towards tragedy.

She had thought that she'd already paid, with her body, the only

ransom that would be demanded of her. But Riago had gone after

her, believing her to be Philip's hostage, and this time he might be

the one to pay an even darker ransom—in blood.

She shuddered, hugging herself almost convulsively, as if that

would dam back the fear and the wretchedness.

'Send him back to me,' she whispered. 'Please send him back safely,

and I'll be his on whatever terms he chooses.'

She curled up on the bed, pressing her face into the pillow, seeking

some reminder of him—some lingering trace of the scent of his

skin, a breath of the cologne he sometimes used. But there was

nothing. No comfort for her.

She remained where she was, huddled up, like a small animal

seeking sanctuary, and, as the minutes turned into hours, at last she

fell asleep.

There were dreams in that sleep. Dreams of the green tunnel in the

forest, where dark-faced men waited with guns on their hips and

machetes in their hands. At the end of the tunnel she seemed to see

Riago, but when she tried to call his name and go to him Philip

Hughes appeared beside him, stepping between them, barring her

way, taunting her with the diamond pendant which dangled from his

fingers.

She saw them struggling together, the two figures receding and

becoming smaller, as if she were looking down the wrong end of a

telescope, so that when one fell she could not see which it was. She

began to run, her feet tangling in creepers and ferns, the branches of

unnamed trees slashing at her as she tried to push past them. And as

she ran the tiny tableau of the fallen man and his conqueror became

ever-smaller, and she knew she had to reach them before it

disappeared completely. The breath was labouring in her lungs, and

when she tried to scream no sound emerged.

She came awake very suddenly, her body soaked with sweat. She sat

up, still trembling from reaction, and saw, in the fading daylight,

Riago watching her from the doorway.

He was leaning heavily against one of the posts, deeply dishevelled,

a jacket draped awkwardly over one shoulder, his face haggard

with- weariness and strain.

For an endless moment they looked at each other in taut silence.

Then he said very quietly, 'Why did you come back?'

Slowly Charlie pushed her hair back from her face. She said, 'I—I

never really went away. Didn't they tell you? I got to the settlement,

and Ana Maria was having her baby—so I stayed.' She added,

swiftly and rather ridiculously, "They're going to call it Carlos—

after me.'

He moved a hand dismissively, grimacing as if he was in pain. 'You

left—you went with him, the
ingles'
That worthless one. Agenor's

contemptuous phrase seemed to hang in the air between them. Riago

went on, 'He stole the truck and took you with him.'

'That was the intention, yes.' She folded her arms across her breasts,

feeling suddenly cold.

'What was his name? You knew it, didn't you, Carlotta? You knew

him.' His eyes never left her face.

'Yes—in a way.' She swallowed. 'His name is Philip Hughes.' The

fact that Riago had used the past tense had not been lost on her. 'Tell

me— is he—is he...?'

'He is dead, yes. Shot.'

She ran her tongue over her dry lips. 'Did you kill him?'

He shook his head slowly. 'No, he was killed running towards a

plane. Someone on the aircraft killed him with a burst of machine-

gun fire. It seems, like the
garimpeiros,
they had no further use for

him.'

'I see.' She remembered the photograph of the smiling young man,

and his aunt's wistful pride, and tears tightened her throat.

His voice was gentle, but it seemed to come from a great distance.

'You told me once you had come here to find someone. Was it this

man— this
ingles?'

'Yes, but you don't understand -'

'What is there to understand?' Riago shrugged, his face twisting

momentarily.

'A great deal.' And how idiotic it all sounded in retrospect, she

thought bitterly. The Philip Hughes she'd hoped to find had been an

illusion—a figment of her imagination. How could she explain that

to the hard sceptical face of the man watching her from the

doorway? She made an effort. 'You see—I never really knew him at

all.'

'And yet, although he was clearly a liar and almost certainly a

criminal, you cared enough about him to try and help him to escape.

You cared enough to trust him with your life—and more?' How cold

he sounded. How remote.

'No. He was supposed to be helping me.' Her own voice was weary

with self-derision. 'Only it all went wrong. I should have seen he

was dangerous—not to be trusted—only, I suppose.

I wanted to... preserve the illusion a little bit longer.'

'Ah.' He smiled faintly. 'Illusions. Now those,
querida,
I can

understand. I have suffered from them myself, after all. But no

longer.' He paused, then said flatly, 'Tomorrow, when the boat

comes from Laragosa, I will send you back to the mission with

Padre Gaspar. He will see that you get safely to Manaus, or

wherever you wish to go-'

'You're sending me away?' Her voice cracked a little. 'But why?'

'Because, as you have said so often, I have no right to keep you

here.' His tone hardened. 'And, as you were prepared to leave with

another man, I do not think that even my household and family

would now consider I had any further obligation towards you.'

'But it wasn't like that.' Charlie scrambled up on to her knees.

'Riago—please listen...'

He shook his head. 'No, I've heard enough. This is indeed today's

world with all its greed and violence, so it is foolish to try and live

according to the traditions of the past. To try—as you say- to

preserve the illusion. So—you are set free.'

She said unevenly, 'Riago—please don't do this...'

'Is something wrong?' The tired voice bit. 'Are you afraid that I will

expect you to leave empty- handed? No,
carinha,
you need not fear.'

He held out his hand. 'This should cover the cost of your expenses

and any... inconvenience you might have suffered.'

She climbed slowly and stiffly down from the bed, and walked

towards him, searching desperately in his face for the smile in his

eyes, the softening of the firm mouth, which, almost unconsciously,

she'd come to expect when he saw her. But there was nothing.

She said, 'I don't want anything, Riago— except for you to listen to

me and believe me.'

'But you must take this. It is yours, after all. The gift I made to you.'

The outstretched hand unclenched, as if with an effort, and Charlie

saw the diamond glittering coldly in his palm. 'Captain Martinho

found it on the
ingles,''
he continued almost conversationally. 'I

suggest that if you give it away again, Carlotta, you find a worthier

object for your generosity.'

The last word was uttered with a kind of gasp, and as Charlie

watched, her lips parting in horror, Riago's knees began to buckle,

and he slid, almost in slow motion, down the door-post to the floor,

and lay there. The jacket slipped from his shoulder, and she saw

with shocked incredulity the dark red stain of blood spreading

across his shirt.

She began to shake her head from side to side in a kind of wild

negation, whispering his name as she did so.

It was only when Rosita, Pedrinho and the others arrived, crowding

into the doorway, that she realised she was screaming.

'Is bullet in shoulder,
senhorita.
We must take out.'

Charlie, huddled on one of the sofas in the
sala de estar,
stared up at

Agenor. They had given her coffee laced with
cachaga—
the fiery

local white rum—to drink, but it hadn't stopped her trembling, or

warmed the icy chill inside her. Perhaps nothing would ever again.

She'd watched them lifting Riago's limp body on to the bed, seen the

grey tinge underlying the bronze of his skin, and that dreadful stain-

growing, spreading...

And he'd said nothing, she thought wonderingly. No one had known

he'd been wounded.

She swallowed down the fear and nausea and tried to speak calmly.

'How can we? We're not doctors.'

Agenor shrugged. 'Pedrinho has take out bullet before—one, two

times, maybe. Rosita say bullet go bad in body—make fever.'

She could believe it in this environment, in this climate, where

infections, even from the smallest graze, could run rife without

treatment.

'We hurry,
senhorita,'
Agenor pressed her. 'Senhor Don Riago lose

much blood.'

She said huskily, 'Then—I suppose we'd better try.'

Riago's face looked shadowed against the snowy pillows. He was

muttering faintly, his body moving feebly and restlessly under the

covers. Charlie went over to the bed, and looked down at him, her

throat tightening.

Beside her, Agenor spoke in a low voice. 'It is bad,
senhorita.
He

say no to Pedrinho, also to Rosita, who has nursed him since baby.

All his life he fight—but no more.'

'We'll see about that,' Charlie said fiercely. 'Send everyone out

except Rosita and Pedrinho.'

While her instructions were being obeyed she sat down on the bed,

capturing Riago's hand in both hers.

She bent forward until her lips were almost grazing his ear, her

voice low and hurried. 'You're going to fight—do you hear me?

You're not going to give up. Too much depends on you for that, and

too many people. You say you want to send me away—well, you

can tell me that when you're well and strong again. Because, until

then, I'm staying—and I'm making the decisions.'

The dark eyes opened and stared at her without recognition.