"Afraid so.
You
can tell me how glad you are to see me later; right now we're moving." He
released his arm lock about her neck, but when she tried to turn to face him,
he caught her right arm and pulled it up behind her back, not so high that she
was in pain, but high enough that she would be if he moved it even a fraction
of an inch higher. "Move!" he barked, thrusting her forward, and Jane
stumbled under the force of the motion, wrenching her arm and emitting an
involuntary cry.
"You're hurting me," she whimpered,
still dazed and trying to understand. "Grant, wait!"
"Cut the crap," he advised, kicking
open the door and shoving her out into the searing white sunlight. The
transport truck was sitting there, and he didn't hesitate. "Get in. We're
going for a ride." He opened the door and half-lifted, half-threw Jane
into the truck, sending her sprawling on the seat. She cried out, her soft cry
knifing through him, but he told himself not to be a fool; she didn't need anyone
to look after her. Like a cat, she always landed on her feet.
Jane scrambled to a sitting position, her dark
eyes full of tears as she stared at his battered, bloody face in both pain and
horror. She wanted to reassure him, tell him that it had all been an act, a
desperate gamble to save both their lives, but he didn't seem inclined to
listen. Surely he wouldn't so easily forget everything they'd shared,
everything they'd been to each other! Still, she couldn't give up. She'd lifted
her hand to reach out for him when a movement in the door beyond them caught
her eye, and she screamed a warning.
"Grant!"
He whirled, and as he did
Turego
lifted the rifle he held and fired. The explosive crack of sound split the air,
but still Jane heard, felt, sensed the grunt of pain that Grant gave as he
dropped to one knee and lifted the pistol.
Turego
lunged to one side, looking for cover, but the pistol spat fire, and a small
red flower bloomed high on
Turego's
right shoulder,
sending him tumbling back through the door. Jane heard someone screaming, but
the sound was high and far away. She lunged through the open door of the truck,
falling to her hands and knees on the hot, rocky ground. Grant was on his
knees, leaning against the running board of the truck, his right hand clamped
over his upper left arm, and bright red blood was dripping through his fingers.
He looked up at her, his golden eyes bright and burning with the fire of
battle, fierce even in his swollen and discolored face.
She went a little mad then. She grabbed him by
his undershirt and hauled him to his feet, using a strength she'd had no idea
she possessed. "Get in the truck!" she screamed, pushing him in the
door. "Damn it, get in the truck! Are you trying to get yourself
killed?"
He winced as the side of the seat smashed into
his bruised ribs; Jane was shoving at him and screaming like a banshee, tears
streaming down her face. "Would you shut up!" he yelled, painfully
pulling himself inside.
"Don't you tell me to shut up!" she
screamed, pushing him until he moved over. She slapped the tears from her
cheeks and climbed into the truck herself. "Get out of the way so I can
get this thing started!
Are there any keys? Where are the keys? Oh,
damn!" She dove headfirst under the steering wheel, feeling under the dash
and pulling wires out frantically.
"What're you doing?" Grant groaned,
his mind reeling with pain.
"I'm hot-wiring the truck!" she
sobbed.
"You're tearing the damned wiring
out!" If she was trying to disable their only transportation, she was
doing a good job of it. He started to yank her out from under the steering
wheel when suddenly she bounced out on her own, jamming the clutch in and
touching two wires together. The motor roared into life, and Jane slammed the
door on her side, shoved the truck into gear and let out on the clutch. The
truck lurched forward violently, throwing Grant against the door.
"Put it in low gear!" he yelled,
pulling himself into a sitting position and getting a tighter grip on the seat.
"I don't know where the low gear is! I
just took what I could find!" Swearing, he reached for the gear shift, the
pain in his wounded arm like a hot knife as he closed his hand over the knob.
There was nothing he could do about the pain, so he ignored it. "Put the
clutch in," he ordered. "I'll change gears. Jane, put the damned
clutch in!"
"Stop yelling at me!" she screamed,
jamming in the clutch. Grant put the truck in the proper gear and she let out
on the clutch; this time the truck moved more smoothly. She put her foot on the
gas pedal, shoving it to the floor, and slung the heavy truck around a corner,
sending its rear wheels sliding on the gravel.
"Turn right," Grant directed, and
she took the next right. The truck was lunging under her heavy urging, its
transmission groaning as she kept her foot down on the gas pedal.
"Change gears!"
"Change them yourself!"
"Put in the clutch!"
She put in the clutch, and he geared up.
"When I ten you, put in the clutch, and I'll change the gears,
understand?"
She was still crying, swiping at her face at
irregular intervals. Grant said, "Turn left," and she swung the truck
in a turn that sent a pickup dodging to the side of the road to avoid them. The
road took them out of town, but they were only a couple of miles out when Grant
said tersely, "Pull over." Jane didn't question him; she pulled over
to the side of the road and stopped the truck.
"Okay, get out." Again she obeyed
without question, jumping out and standing there awkwardly as he eased himself
to the ground. His left arm was streaked with blood, but from the look on his
face Jane knew that he wasn't about to stop. He shoved the pistol into his belt
and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
"Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"Back into town.
Your boyfriend won't expect us to double back on him. You can stop
crying," he added cruelly. "I didn't kill him."
"He's not my boyfriend!" Jane spat,
whirling on him.
"Sure looked like it from where I
was."
"I was trying to catch him off guard! One
of us had to stay free!"
"Save it," he advised, his tone
bored. "I bought your act once, but it won't sell again. Now, are you
going to walk?"
She decided that there was no use trying to
reason with him now. When he'd calmed down enough to listen, when she'd calmed
down enough to make a coherent explanation, then they'd get this settled. As
she turned away from him, she looked in the open door of the truck and caught a
glimpse of something shoved in the far corner of the floor. Her backpack! She
crawled up in the truck and leaned far over to drag the pack out from under the
seat; in the excitement, it had been totally overlooked and forgotten.
"Leave the damned thing!" Grant
snapped.
"I need it," she snapped in return.
She buckled it to her belt-loop again. He drew the pistol out of his belt and
Jane swallowed, her eyes growing enormous. Calmly he shot out one of the front
tires of the truck,
then
stuck the pistol back into
his belt.
"Why did you do that?" she
whispered, swallowing again.
"So it'll look as if we were forced to
abandon the truck." He caught her upper arm in a tight grip and pulled her
off the road. Whenever he heard an engine he forced her to the ground and they
lay still until the sound had faded. Her blouse, so white and pretty only an
hour or so before, became streaked with mud and torn in places where the thorns
caught it. She gave it a brief glance,
then
forgot
about it.
"When will
Turego
be after us again?" she panted.
"Soon.
Impatient already?"
Grinding her teeth together, she ignored him.
In twenty more minutes they approached the edge of the town again, and he
circled it widely. She wanted to ask him what he was looking for, but after the
way he'd just bitten her head off, she kept silent. She wanted to sit down to
wash his bruised face, and bandage the wound in his arm, but she could do none
of those things. He didn't want anything from her now.
Still, what else could she have done? There
was no way she could have known he was going to be able to escape. She'd had to
use the best plan she had at the time.
Finally they slipped into a ramshackle shed
behind an equally ramshackle house and collapsed on the ground in the
relatively cool interior. Grant winced as he inadvertently strained his left
arm, but when Jane started toward him, he gave her a cold glare that stopped
her in her tracks. She sank back to the ground and rested her forehead on her
drawn up knees. "What are we going to do now?"
"We're getting out of the country, any
way we can," he said flatly. "Your daddy hired me to bring you home,
and that's what I'm going to do. The sooner I turn you over to him, the
better."
After that Jane sat quietly, keeping her
forehead down on her knees and closing her eyes. A cold desolation was growing
inside her, filling her, thrusting aside anxiety and fear. What if she could
never convince him that she hadn't betrayed him? With the life he'd led, it was
probably something that he'd had to guard against constantly, so he wasn't even
surprised by betrayal. She would try again to reason with him, of course; until
he actually left her, she wouldn't stop trying. But… what if he wouldn't
listen? What would she do then? Somehow she just couldn't imagine her future
without Grant. The emotional distance between them now was agonizing, but she
could still lift her head and see him, take comfort in his physical proximity.
What would she do if he weren't there at all?
The heat and humidity began building, negating
the coolness of the shade offered by the old, open-sided shed, and in the
distance thunder rumbled as it announced the approach of the daily rain. A door
creaked loudly, and soon a stooped old woman, moving slowly, came around the
side of the house to a small pen where pigs had been grunting occasionally as
they lay in the mud and tried to escape the heat. Grant watched her, his eyes
alert, not a muscle moving. There wasn't any real danger that she would see
them; weeds and bushes grew out of control, over waist-high, between the house
and the shed, with only a faint little-used path leading to the shed. The pigs
squealed in loud enthusiasm when the old woman fed them, and after chatting
fondly to them for a moment she laboriously made her way back into the shack.
Jane hadn't moved a muscle, not opening her eyes even when the pigs had begun
celebrating the arrival of food. Grant looked at her, a faint puzzlement
creeping into the coldness of his eyes. It was unlike her to sit so quietly and
not investigate the noise. She knew it was the pigs, of course, but she hadn't
looked up to see what was making them squeal so loudly, or even when the old
woman had begun talking to them. She was normally as curious as a cat, poking
her nose into everything whether it concerned her or not. It was difficult to
tell, the way she had her head down, but he thought that she was pale; the few
freckles he could see stood out plainly.
An image flashed into his mind of
Turego
bending his head to press his mouth to Jane's, and
the way Jane had stood so quiescently to accept that kiss. Rage curled inside
him again, and his fists knotted. Damn her! How could she have let that slime
touch her
? .
The thunder moved closer, cracking loudly, and
the air carried the scent of rain. Wind began to swirl, darting through the
shed and bringing with it welcome coolness. The air was alive, almost shining with
the electrical energy it carried. The small creatures began to take shelter,
birds winging back and forth in an effort to find the most secure perch to wait
out the storm.
During the rain would be a good time to leave,
as everyone else would take shelter until it was over, but his body ached from
the beating he'd received, and his left arm was still sullenly oozing blood.
They were in no immediate danger here, so he was content to rest. Night would
be an even better time to move. The rain started, going from a sprinkle to a
deluge in less than a minute. The ground wasn't able to soak up that enormous
amount of water, and a small stream began to trickle through the shed. Grant
got up, stifling a groan as his stiff body protested, and found a seat on top
of a half-rotten vegetable crate. It gave a little, but held his weight. Jane
still hadn't moved. She didn't look up until the moisture began to dampen the
seat of her pants; then her head lifted and she realized that a river was
beginning to flow around her. She didn't look at Grant, though she moved away
from the water, shifting to the side. She sat with her back to him and resumed
her earlier posture, with her knees drawn up, her arms locked around her legs,
and her head bent down to rest on her knees.
Grant knew how to wait; patience was second
nature to him. He could hold a position all day long, if necessary, ignoring
physical discomfort as if it didn't exist. But the silence and lack of motion
in the shed began to grate on his nerves, because it wasn't what he'd learned
to expect from Jane. Was she planning something?
Eventually the rain stopped, and the steamy
heat began to build again. "Are we going to sit here all day?" Jane
finally asked fretfully, breaking her long silence.
"Might as well. I don't have anything
better to do. Do you?" She didn't answer that, or ask any more questions,
realizing that he wasn't in the mood to tell her anything. She was so hungry
that she was sick, but there wasn't any food in her pack, and she wasn't about
to complain to him. She dropped her head back to her knees and tried to seek
refuge in a nap; at least then she could forget how miserable she was.
She actually managed to sleep, and he woke her
at twilight, shaking her shoulder. "Let's go," he said, pulling her
to her feet. Jane's heart stopped because just for that moment his touch was
strong but gentle, and she had the crazy hope that he'd cooled down and come to
his senses white she was napping. But then he dropped her arm and stepped away
from her, his face hard, and the hope died. She followed him like a toy on a
string, right in his footsteps, stopping when he stopped, always the same
distance behind him. He went boldly into the center of town, walking down the
streets as if no one at all was looking for him, let alone a small army.
Several people looked at them oddly, but no one stopped them. Jane supposed
they did look strange: a tall blond man with a bruised, swollen face and a
rifle carried easily in one hand, followed by a woman with wild tangled hair,
dirty clothes and a backpack buckled to her belt and swinging against her legs
as she walked. Well, everything seemed strange to her, too. She felt as if they'd
gotten lost in a video game, with crazy neon images flashing at her. After a
moment she realized that the images were real; a street sign advertising a
cantina flashed its message in neon pink and blue.
What was he doing? They were attracting so much
notice that
Turego
would have to hear of it if he
asked any questions at all. For all Grant knew,
Turego
could have the local law enforcement looking for them under trumped-up charges;
Turego
certainly had enough authority to mobilize any
number of people in the search. It was as if Grant
wanted
Turego
to find them. He turned
down a side street and paused outside a small, dimly lit cantina. "Stay
close to me, and keep your mouth shut," he ordered tersely, and entered.
It was hot and smoky in the small bar, and the
strong odor of alcohol mixed with sweat permeated the air. Except for the
waitress, a harried looking girl, and two sultry prostitutes, there were no
other women there. Several men eyed Jane, speculation in their dark eyes, but
then they looked at Grant and turned back to their drinks, evidently deciding
that she wasn't worth the trouble. Grant found them space at a small table at
the back, deep in the shadows. After a while the waitress made it over to them,
and without asking Jane her preference, Grant ordered two tequilas. Jane
stopped the waitress. "Wait—do you have lime juice?" At the young
woman's nod, she heaved a sigh of relief. "A glass of lime juice, instead
of the tequila, please." Grant lit a cigarette, cupping his hands around
the flame. "Are you on the wagon or something?"
"I don't drink on an empty stomach."
"We'll get something to eat later. This
place doesn't run to food." She waited until their drinks were in front of
them before saying anything else to him. "Isn't it dangerous for us to be
here? Any of
Turego's
men could have seen us walking
down the street." His eyes were narrow slits as he stared at her through
the blue smoke of his cigarette. "Why should that worry you? Don't you
think he'd welcome you back with open arms?" Jane leaned forward, her own
eyes narrowed. "Listen to me. I had to buy time, and I did it the only way
I could think of. I'm sorry I didn't have time to explain it to you beforehand,
but I don't think
Turego
would have let me call 'time
out' and huddle with you! If he'd tied me up, too, there would have been no way
I could help you!"
"
Thanks,
honey,
but I can do without your sort of help," he drawled, touching his left
eye, which was puffy and red.
Anger seared her; she was innocent, and she
was tired of being treated like Benedict Arnold. She thought of pouring the
lime juice in his lap, but her stomach growled and revenge took a distant
second place to putting something in her empty stomach, even if it was just
fruit juice. She sat back in her chair and sipped, wanting to make the juice
last as long as possible.
The minutes crawled by, and Jane began to feel
a twitch between her shoulder blades. Every second they sat there increased the
danger, gave
Turego
a better chance of finding them.
The abandoned truck wouldn't fool him for long.
A man slipped into the chair beside her and
Jane
jumped,
her heart flying into her throat. He gave
her only a cursory glance before turning his attention to Grant. He was a
nondescript character, his clothing worn, his face covered by a couple of days'
growth of beard, and his smell of stale alcohol made Jane wrinkle her nose. But
then he said a few words to Grant, so quietly that she couldn't understand
them, and it all clicked into place.
Grant had advertised their presence not
because he wanted
Turego
to find them, but because he
wanted someone else to find them. It had been a gamble, but it had paid off. He
was no longer in the business, but he was known, and he'd trusted his
reputation to pull in a contact. This man was probably just a peripheral
character, but he would have his uses.
"I need transport," Grant said.
"Within the hour.
Can you manage it?"
"
Si
," the man said,
slowly nodding his head for emphasis.
"Good. Have it sitting behind the Blue
Pelican exactly one hour from now. Put the keys under the right seat, get out,
and walk away."
The man nodded again. "Good luck,
amigo."
That hard, lopsided smile curved Grant's lips.
"Thanks. I could use some about now." The man blended in with the
crowd, then was gone. Jane slowly twirled the glass of juice between her palms,
keeping her eyes on the table. "Now that you've made your contact, shouldn't
we get out of here?"
Grant lifted the tequila to his mouth, his
strong throat working as he swallowed the sharp tasting liquid.
"We'll wait a while longer."
No, it wouldn't do to follow the other man too
closely. George had always told her how important it was to make contact
without seeming to. The man had taken a chance by walking up to them so openly,
but then, Grant had taken a chance by making himself so available. It had
probably been clear that the situation was desperate, though Grant looked as if
he was thinking about nothing more important than going to sleep. He was
sprawled in his chair, his eyes half-closed, and if Jane hadn't noticed that he
kept his left hand on the rifle. She would have thought that he was totally
relaxed.
"Do you suppose we could find a
bathroom?" she asked, keeping her tone light.
"In here? I doubt it."
"Anywhere."
"Okay. Are you finished with that?"
He downed the rest of his tequila, and Jane did the same with her lime juice.
Her skin was crawling again; she felt that tingling on the back of her neck,
and it intensified as she stood up.
They threaded their way through the tangle of
feet and tables and chairs to the door, and as soon as they stepped outside
Jane said, "I think we were being watched."
"I know we were. That's why we're going
in the opposite direction of the Blue Pelican."