Willing Hostage (23 page)

“What company is it?”

“Enveco.”

“The Environmental Energy Corporation.” Leah thought of the credit card in her purse and the serene heron and … Sheila. “Hard to believe somehow.…”

“People that make up advertising slogans don't have nothing to do with the people that decide what to do. They're just hired from the outside to tell the public what they think it wants to hear.”

Still the low murmur of male voices on the other side of the wall, with an occasional heated outburst.

Leah resumed her seat by the fire and picked up the newspaper that Welker had left on the rock shelf. It was a copy of the Denver
Post
,
OIL SHALE SWINDLE RUMORED,
the headline read and below that,
ANOTHER RIP-OFF SUSPECTED
.…

The
Washington Post
reported today that widespread rumors of collusion between government and industry to defraud the American public in the leasing of public lands, rich in oil shale deposits, may have some basis in truth. Industry bidding on these lands fell off when studies showed the economic waste and geographic destruction involved in mining shale and when Arab-American relations eased. Rising tensions in the Middle East have revived interest in the bidding, sources say.
Post
reporters claim to have information suggesting the leak of bidding information so that a few of the larger oil companies can gain control of these lands.

When asked for comment, White House press secretary Norm Walters said, “Of course, we're looking into this. But I must say how disappointed I am in the
Washington Post
. After the fine work it did on the Watergate coverup, to insist upon raking the gutters for fresh scandal just to keep up its subscription lists … well, I'm just disappointed, that's all.”

“Instead of putting our dollars into research to harness the sun and wind,” says prominent environmentalist Dr. Paul W. Wingless, “… it looks as though we are once again being forced to decide whether to ruin the seas in offshore oil drilling or ruin the land in mining oil shale. Either way is suicidal and it will eventually be necessary to do both if we are to retain our reliance on an oil-based economy. And all because of major industries organized around the exploitation of a fast-depleting oil source. Shall we put off the dislocation and crisis of switching now when it is painful until later when it will be catastrophic?” asks Dr. Wingless.

“I can't make that kind of a decision,” Leah sputtered to a surprised Cal.

They both jumped when Brian burst into the room. “We've lost the goons. Can't see them anywhere. You seen anything?”

The guard flipped his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “No.”

“Well there's a window broken downstairs. Where's Joe?”

“Next door with Glade Wyndham and everybody else.”

“Wyndham? Who brought him in? We didn't see—”

“Came in by himself. Probably through your broken window. He's on the phone to Swords.…”

But Brian was on his way out, swearing softly.

Goodyear stretched and sharpened his claws on the couch. He disappeared into the kitchenette and it wasn't long before something crashed to the floor. The guard and his gun swung around.

“Take it easy. It's just the cat.” Leah didn't know who was more dangerous, the FBI or the goons. But she, too, was uneasy at the thought of Sheila's murderers in the building.

In the kitchenette, Leah found the wastebasket overturned and chicken bones all over the floor. Goodyear disappeared into the bathroom with what was left of a wing.

“Damn you, blimp, I'm tired of cleaning up floors!” But Leah was doing just that when the men returned.

“I don't like this, Swords or not,” Pete Bradshaw snapped.

“What's this, Joe? Have you got Leah working as cleaning woman now?”

Leah gave him a dirty look, threw the last handful of bones at the basket, and stood to wash her hands at the sink.

He reached around her to pick up the scotch bottle. “Stay cool,” he said under his breath and moved away.

“When do we leave?” Joe Welker asked.

“Tomorrow. And I go alone.” Glade took a tray of ice from the refrigerator.

“No deal, Wyndham,” Bradshaw said threateningly. At least he'd put his gun away.

“Glade, you can't expect us to let you go off alone. Be reasonable.” Welker reached into the cupboard for a glass. “And why wait till tomorrow?”

Leah went back to her chair by the fireplace, thoroughly sick of them all. What did he mean—stay cool?

“Okay, I'll take Leah and Goodyear Harper and go tonight. They're getting to seem like family anyway.”

“No deal,” Bradshaw said again. “They're on your side.”

“Goodyear is on Goodyear's side. Leah never knows what side she's on.” Glade sat on the arm of her chair. “Do you, Leah?”

She balled her fists, refusing to look at him.

“There, you see?” He laughed and the ice tinkled in his drink. “She'll be my hostage, to make sure there's no cross.”

“Who'll be our hostage?”

“You can keep Cal.”

Leah and Cal looked at each other in astonishment.

“You take Brian and Charlie with you, too. That way everybody's interests are covered,” Bradshaw said.

“Not in the same car. They follow behind. Leah and I haven't had a chance for a good talk in days.”

“We're not that stupid. You'd just lose them.”

“Any car you guys scare up will be well provided with a homing device, anyway.…”

“No deal.”

“Then no papers,” Glade said with flat finality.

“You can't take Miss Harper,” Welker said. “She's just out of the hospital.”

“That's your doing. Her ulcer behaves beautifully when she's with me. Do you want to go with me, Leah?”

Leah looked around the crowded room.… Joseph Welker had his Harper file, Bradley-Bradshaw had his Charlie. What other little surprises did they have? “I don't want to stay here.”

Brian appeared at the door. “Joe?”

“Are they in the building?”

“No sign of them anywhere. But I found this downstairs.” He held up a gun.

“I left it there. I lifted it off him this morning.” Glade nodded toward the guard at the drapes. “How many goons were there?”

“We saw two.”

“You'll find one about ten yards off the balcony to the right under a bush near two boulders about this high. The other one is under a white Ford at the back of the parking lot.” Glade reached down to sweep the Siamese off the floor with one hand. “I didn't get the license number.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that's where I left them.”

Welker got back to business. “How long will it take to get the papers?”

“Two, three days.”

“Days!”

“I had ten months to hide them, you know.”

“Then we all start tonight.”

“We don't all start. Leah and I go alone. Charlie and Brian follow in another car. That's my last offer. You can meet us at the end of the trip and I'll deliver.”

“Meet you where?”

“I'll call you here and let you know when we're halfway there.”

“How stupid do you expect us to be?” Pete Bradshaw unbuttoned his shirt. Now he looked like Peter Bradley once more.

Brian and Charlie came in wearing identical expressions. “What are we going to do with two stiffs, Joe?” Brian asked quietly.

Welker turned to Glade. “You killed them?”

Leah drew in her breath, felt blood rushing hot to her face.

“That was for Sheila, whoever
she
was.” Glade walked to the sink to refill his scotch while everyone in the room stared at him.

“See what happens,” Welker said to Bradshaw, finally breaking the long silence, “when you turn these creeps loose in the U.S.?”

“Good point, Joe, good point.” Glade raised his glass to Charlie and his voice turned low and silky, “What are we going to do about Leah's little ride under the helicopter, I wonder?”

Charlie's grin looked stuck.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Leah wore her blue jeans again. She sat in the front seat of the white Ford that had been sitting at the back of the parking lot with a body under it.

Glade Wyndham and Joseph Welker argued in low voices outside.

She rolled down her window and gulped at the freshness of night. She was tired but it felt good to be out of that stuffy crowded apartment. The bargaining had gone on forever. Welker had been loath to let Leah go. It must be after midnight.

Both backpacks sat propped against the backseat. Where was he taking her now? Why? And he'd murdered again … just when she'd begun to think he was more to her than a Jason or.…

Glade slid in beside her. Welker handed an envelope in through the door. “The rest when you deliver. And I'd better get that call or we'll turn every cop in the state out to find you.”

“Don't forget the cat.” Julie dumped Goodyear onto Glade's lap. He crawled to the seat between them and eyed Leah without love.

Glade started the engine and drove out of the parking lot onto the service road. Car lights flared across them from behind like searchlights as Brian and Charlie turned to follow.

“What am I doing here? You don't need me.” The lump in her throat was threatening to outdo the pain in her stomach.

“Well, I couldn't leave you with them, Leah. After what they'd already done to you. Use your head.”

“I suppose I'm safer with you?”

“I hope so. But there were at least four men in that car that took off and left Sheila in a Volkswagen about to explode.” He handed her the envelope. It was filled with crisp bills.

“So you can be bought.”

“That's to pay you back for the money I borrowed from your wallet this morning while you were in the bathroom.”

Leah put the envelope in her purse and took out a Kleenex. “What did you do?” she whispered. “Sneak up behind those men and stick a knife in their backs? Or crush their heads with rocks or put a silencer on that gun and—”

“Do you really want to know?” The deadly tone he'd used at Pair-O-Dice Cabins.

She turned away so that she couldn't see the look that went with that tone. “No.”

They rode in strained silence, except for Leah's little sniffs as she tried to stop weary tears. The service road came to the highway, the car still alight with the headlights close behind. Glade turned toward Steamboat Springs.

“Killing is wrong.” She stared straight ahead and saw nothing.

“Will you stop sniveling!” The car braked abruptly and Goodyear, who had been leaning over to sniff the radio dials on the dash, tumbled to the floor. “Getting killed isn't all that fun either. Ask Sheila.”

Just as Goodyear began his leap back to the seat, Glade accelerated and the cat was back on the floor. Leah picked him up.

“Let's stop arguing.” He glanced into the mirror on the windshield and pressed the gas pedal again. “We're upsetting the cat.”

“Upsetting the cat! What do you think I am? A little over two weeks ago I found my mother dead in her own blood. I came to Colorado to make a new start and I get beaten and tied to a bed, drug all over the great out-of-doors for days on end, hung from a helicopter and dunked in a frigid lake, have my entire life drug up and put in a file, my family harassed clear back in Chicago, end up in a hospital, and
let's not upset the cat
?”

Leah struck Glade on the side of the head.

The white Ford swerved into the other lane. The oncoming headlights blurred together as both cars screeched brakes. They missed each other by a breathless half inch and the white Ford swerved back onto its side of the road slowing so suddenly that the car behind braked with an answering screech.

Leah didn't know whether to cry or to shake. Finally, she did both and saw the night lights of Steamboat Springs' main thoroughfare through a mist.

“You know,” Glade said thoughtfully, “if you'd come loose like that more often, your ulcer might not bother you so much.” And he began to laugh, that rich, full laugh that Leah would hear in her dreams till the day she died.

She swung out again with such force that the Siamese flew into the back seat to escape the fracas. But Glade was ready for her and caught her wrist. Laughing harder, he turned the Ford around a corner so abruptly that Leah fell against him.

They were on a side street. Glade checked the rear-view mirror and swerved onto another street and she was thrown against the door.

They crossed the main thoroughfare again.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” Leah was thrown back against her tormentor. “Stop!” The car swerved and she was back on the door. “Glade!” The car slowed, turned another corner, speeded up.…

Leah closed her eyes. Glade was still laughing. She couldn't look at him or share his excitement. Goodyear landed suddenly on her shoulder, clinging with every toe-nail he owned.

The white Ford stopped. Leah opened her eyes.

“Grab the cat and your purse. I'll get the packs,” he ordered.

The overhead light came on as he opened his door, went out as he slammed it, came on again as he opened her door.

Leah stepped out on shaking legs, surprised to find her purse in her hand and the Siamese under her arm. “I am at the end of my rope, mentally, physically, emotionally.…” She found herself pushed down behind a smelly garbage can in an alley. “Not that you'd understand the emotionally and—”

“Be quiet, will you?”

“And I can't go traipsing after you up some mountain.”

He patted the top of her head. “From here on in, you can ride all the way.”

“But we're leaving the car—”

“I know. Come on, this way.” He took off at a run between two houses.

Somewhere a dog barked and then another. Goodyear hissed and tried to swivel out of her hold. “Wait. The cat.…” Leah slung her purse onto her shoulder by its strap and used both hands to subdue the animal.