Wrestling with her had recharged the pain in his chest. He knew he couldn’t take many more painful little episodes like this. If she wanted it to be physical, it was going to get very physical next time. She’d wear him down a little at a time if he let her.
“You work here in the house?” he said.
She gripped the edge of the island with both hands. “Part-time. I set my own hours, sometimes here, sometimes at the office.”
“Doing what?” Her fingernails were short and without polish. He scrutinized the web of her right thumb but could not detect the little callus that the women he worked with displayed. It was the tell-tale mark from the recoil, and anybody with soft hands who spent any time on the range would show it.
“I’m a database analyst,” she said.
“Freelance?”
“No, I’m an employee. I just prefer to work here sometimes. I can concentrate better; there are a lot of distractions in the office, and I hate the traffic. I go in a couple of days a week for meetings.”
“How many more phone calls like that am I going to have to listen to today?”
She looked at him but said nothing.
“Answer me.”
“Probably none. Stan’s obnoxious but he won’t be calling back.”
“Is that your gear in that room I was in?”
“Yes, I’m sorry about the mess. It’s the only bed downstairs.”
“No need to apologize. I should be grateful you didn’t leave me in the barn, right?” He stood and motioned her up. “Let’s go. I’m sure you can explain that equipment if it’s really yours.”
He followed her into the room where he’d slept. Suzanna flipped the lights on and he was able to examine the wall unit adjacent to the desk and opposite the open daybed. One end of the shelves held the bank of modems with the lights he’d noticed when he’d awoken in the dark room.
The gear was arranged vertically in a tidy, built-in array that looked like a complex parallel series — one he recognized as a high-speed polling multiplexer. He knew about one of the uses of such a set-up; it facilitated quick strike access to data bases by polling open ports for authorized users who had logged on then left their connections unattended. This setup looked tight and professional.
“Who do you work for?” he said, anticipating that she would feed him a cover.
“Sun West. It’s an insurance company.”
He studied the modems. “What do you do exactly?”
She followed his gaze, “I don’t use all of those. I’m a database admin and I do the ad hoc database analysis for the underwriters.”
“Explain.”
“I’m not sure how much of this you’ll understand.”
“Try me.”
“Okay.” She sounded doubtful. “Let’s say the underwriters want to evaluate some business that the sales group is going after . . . a lot of insurance is sold as a package. A salesman gets inside a company to sell, let’s say, executive life insurance. But the company wants to bundle their insurance, so they’ll only switch if we can give them, you know, fire and theft and workers comp, product liability, malpractice. So, of course, the salesman wants this deal and he’s saying ‘no problem’ all the way.”
She looked at him, questioningly, then continued, “But depending on the business profile, the underwriters may not want to take on the whole thing. Insurance is what we do, we can’t survive without new business, but the underwriters need facts, statistics, industry averages to justify high premiums. If they’re smart,” — she made a face — “and some of them are, they want the facts before they decide how to price it. Sometimes, they’re already in a war with the sales department and they just want some quick statistics to support their position.”
He couldn’t find anything obviously wrong with what she was saying. She was doing it well, he almost believed her. “So Stan. What about him?”
“He used to be a salesman. He made a lot of money closing questionable deals. Now he’s in underwriting. There’s no fanatic like a converted fanatic.”
She appeared almost ready to smile at him, once again disarmingly unafraid and confident. He felt drained. The bed looked good. He hoped she’d just keep talking in that nice, even voice. And so what if it was pure bullshit, as long as it kept her busy so he could think and maybe get the fire in his chest to die down so he could rest.
She went to the desk and began to sort through the papers strewn across it. “If you’re worried about more phone calls, I could finish this.”
Now, what? Did she want to check in with somebody? It could be so easy, a matter of dialing one number. She wouldn’t even have to say anything, the call itself could be a code. So the modems were out. But if she wanted to continue this charade by pretending to work, fine. He needed to get horizontal before he passed out.
“How long will it take you to drive to those places you mapped out?”
She turned from the papers, frowning. “Between thirty-five and forty-five minutes, depending on traffic.”
He pinned the papers against the desk with the flat of his hand and leaned over her, trapping her in the chair.
“I want to leave this house at three forty-five, and I mean that exactly. So you will be dressed and ready to go at that time. Wear something nice, like you would to any wedding. Understand?”
She nodded.
“In the meantime you can work if you want to, just stay local. No connecting.”
He straightened and undid the snap inside the front of the trousers. “And you are going to have to do a little recovery work on my clothes.” The pants were coming off when he glanced at her face. “Did you cut the jacket?”
“Just your shirt,” she said.
“Put it back together,” he said. The bed was as cold as he remembered.
She evaluated his trousers. They were muddy, damp, and misshapen.
“Sponge them,” he said, “and steam them. The jacket, too.”
She stood up.
He sighed, “Don’t make me chase you. That would be unpleasant.”
She crossed to the closet and reached up for a blanket from the high shelf. She shook it out and over him in one motion.
“Turn those off,” he said, pointing to the comm tower, then watched as the lights winked out. She went to the desk and flipped on the computer. When she was engaged in sifting through the papers, he transferred the transparent phone cable from his right hand to his left. He shortened it until it was snug and took a wrap around his hand under the blanket.
Despite himself he was lulled by the warmth of the blanket and the constant, reassuring sounds from the desk. She pushed back the heavy hair before each period of typing, and scanned the papers with a pencil that she tapped at random while she thought. It was a pretty fair imitation of every tech he’d ever observed, and he waited, unconvinced, for the little act to break.
She was punching the keypad with the phone in her hand before the click of the receiver being lifted registered with him. He yanked the cable, and the set flew off the desk, bounced against the wall and hit the floor jangling.
She whirled to face him as the receiver was torn out of her hand. He glared at her with a murderous fury, ready to wrap the cable in his hand around her neck. The reborn agony in his chest held him to the bed.
“Are you crazy?” she said. “I was just calling the data center.” She raised her hands. “Calm down. I won’t do it again.”
“Next time that will be you down there,” he choked. His racing heart pounded the pain in his chest, cramps rippled through his gut, holding him down.
She scooped the set up and put it on a shelf, out of reach. Then she sat down abruptly, looked down at her hands and then apprehensively at him over her shoulder.
“Work, if that’s what you want to do,” he gasped between breaths. The red haze was closing in, blurring his vision.
Like the earlier dreams, this one did not take him completely and he lay drifting in a state of arrested vigilance. His mistrust of this woman who said her name was Suzanna was like a thorn in the throbbing hole in his chest, so it was a surprise when Angel appeared in the dream. He accepted the sight of her wearily.
He watched the Brazilian embrace Angel, saw the man’s swarthy face clearly as he kissed her possessively, his fingers busy with her blouse. Angel’s lover had been the chief executive officer of a major Brazilian bank, a man who had dedicated sixty years to personal indulgence, growing more affluent, more corrupt, and more arrogant every day. Angel carried the hypodermic in a wrist holster, and he observed her skill with reluctant admiration as the needle appeared and was plunged into the rolls of fat over the man’s belt.
“One of these days you’re going to put that stuff right into his kidneys,” he’d said, when the banker’s bulky body lay sprawled across the bed.
Angel smiled. “But not today,” she said coolly. “For today, he will just sleep for a few hours.”
“And when he wakes up?”
“I’ll know everything he knows,” Angel replied, working on the buttons. She smiled, noting his attention.
“Don’t you think he might wonder what he’s missed?” he asked, angry at Angel’s smug attitude.
She smiled again and came to him, using one hand to pull him down to her lips. “In his dreams,” she purred, “he is always with me, and missing nothing.” She smiled again, unperturbed by his disgusted rejection of her taste mingled with that of the Brazilian. “All men are the same, you just don’t know it yet.” Her English was accented, an imitation of the native Portuguese population. He knew it was artificial, but it lent her voice a potent appeal.
Her voice resonated through the dream, pulling him down into the images.
“The ones who are interested in you,” he’d replied bitterly.
Angel laughed aloud at that. “Yes,” she’d said, “like you.”
* * * *
He awoke to the sun in his eyes. Startled and blinded, plucked from the dreamlike images by a touch, he thrust out his arm instinctively.
Someone was bending over him. Female. A hand grazed his forehead. His hand caught her over the ribcage. He grabbed a handful of material, holding her off, the image of Angel’s hypodermic fixed in his mind.
Suzanna cried out, alarmed, and pulled back. The material was damp and hot under his hand. When he twisted to avoid the shaft of sunlight, he saw that her face was glowing with perspiration. The T-shirt she wore was soaked in a V at the neck and slippery over her midriff, making his grip ineffectual against her wiry strength. Half-conscious, torn between Angel and reality, nothing mattered but the threat of a syringe. He twisted the thin shirt, forcing her across his legs, pinning one hand beneath her. Her other hand flailed wildly, increasing his alarm.
He could hold her with his left hand but could do nothing to capture the dangerously thrashing hand. He had surprised her, but in seconds, she’d recover and stick him with the needle. Her hair brushed his partially numb right hand. That hand found her throat and his fingers closed. Her struggles increased to a momentary frenzy and then subsided.
His left hand released the shirt and grasped her slack, free hand. It was empty. He arched to a sitting position, scanning the bed. With the change of position, the pain in his chest exploded and radiated down his arm and settled in his hand like a cramp, and he lost his grip on her neck.
Then she was rolling across his legs, gasping and choking as she went. She hit him once, with the heel of her hand. The blow was wild and undirected but dead center on the wound. As she dropped off the bed, the world went black.
* * * *
He was awake, lying with his eyes closed, spacing each breath. He didn’t hear her enter the room but the sound he did hear was familiar. As she completed racking the clip on his Walther, he opened his eyes.
She held the gun with both hands, pointed at his chest. “Now,” she said, “I think this belongs to you, but in case I’m wrong, I’ll tell you about it. This is a Walther PPK. It’s not a common gun. I’ve never fired one but I doubt you’re a gambler. No safety, the clip is full. I’ll keep firing until it’s empty and I can hardly miss at this distance.”
Her voice was low and strained. She was wearing the outsized white shirt again. On her neck, the marks of his fingers were visible. As he watched her face, he felt his heart shrink in anticipation of another bullet.
“You’re going to keep your hands to yourself,” she said. “I started out to help you. I have no idea how I would explain your dead body in my house, but difficult as that would be, it doesn’t bother me enough to let you kill me.”
He hoped she’d keep talking — at least long enough to cool down — but she seemed to be waiting for a response.
Finally, she said, “I’ll drive you to this wedding. Then you can take your chances with your buddy and his ex. I don’t care about that, you’re on your own with that. Deal?”
The gun was absolutely steady. She looked capable of killing him. He waited silently, thinking that a pro would’ve cut off his options long ago so maybe she was just a civilian after all. If so, she was as dangerously unpredictable as any other civilian.
“Say it,” she said.
He raised his left hand slightly in a gesture of conciliation. “You don’t hurt me,” he said carefully, “I won’t hurt you.” Then he closed his eyes. He waited, his body tense and aching. After a full minute, he looked and she was gone.
* * * *
The next thing he knew, the sun was warm on his legs. He swung himself off the bed, leaned over the desk and checked the clock on the monitor. It said three-seventeen p.m. He leaned against the desk, relieved that it wasn’t later and dizzy from standing too quickly.
He found his clothes hanging on the bathroom shower rod. The shirt was in one piece, a press-on patch reinforcing the right front behind the frayed edges where she’d cut it from the hem up to the entry site. The parts of the shirt that would show under his jacket were presentable, though it smelled of bleach.
He scowled when he noticed the shirt studs lying on the vanity. They were going to be pure hell. He unearthed a package of disposable razors in the medicine cabinet and went to work on his beard — not that it would help much. He looked as bad as he felt, and shaving wasn’t going to change that.
He’d selected Hispanic weddings knowing their propensity for enormous, formal receptions. The only thing he had to wear was his tuxedo, so he’d go where everybody else would be wearing one, too. But his appearance bothered him. Disappearing in a crowd was not easy for anyone his size, even without the additional liability of a virtually immobile right arm and a face that was gray and hollow from dehydration.
He held himself to the tasks of shaving and dressing, resisting the temptation to check on Suzanna, although he wondered where the gun was and whether she was keeping it with her. It would make things easier if she did. He wouldn’t have to look for it when he wanted it. She obviously didn’t intend to use it on him. At least not yet.
He’d prowled the empty kitchen and living room twice before investigating the stairs. When he was halfway up, he could hear the shower running and followed the sounds of the water to the door of the master bedroom. The bathroom door was open. He crossed the bedroom quickly.
She was washing her hair, her body enveloped in white suds and distorted by the patterned glass of the shower door. He watched her for a moment, thinking she would never get that much hair dry and wondering why the smell of the shampoo made him hungry.
The bedroom shared the living room’s glass wall, though here it was softened with translucent blinds in soft gray. The room was oversized, as was the bed. Under the bed, the carpet was overlaid with a Chinese rug in pale greens and the same delicate gray from the blinds. As he looked around, he tried to remember how long it had been since he’d been in a woman’s bedroom in a private home. A long time since he’d seen one like this, anyway.
The damp T-shirt was on the floor of the closet with a pair of socks. The Nikes had been kicked off against the wall. He stared at them in disbelief, remembering the slick, hot feel of her body. Running, for Christ’s sake. She was totally uncontrollable. His right hand touched his wound carefully, reminded of the blow she’d landed there. He was tempted to drag her out of the shower and force the truth out of her. But what he really wanted was to go down to the telephone, call the Group and have them pick him up immediately — just get him the hell out of there and damn the consequences. He rejected both thoughts, disappointed in himself. This was how it happened: You got desperate, gave in to the pain and confusion, and pushed things before you knew enough. That’s how you blew it. Then your career and sometimes even your life ended.
A library opened off the stairs, a long, narrow room incorporating the remainder of the glass wall. It was furnished with more of the Italian leather and an elaborate entertainment center. The electronics were expensive and comprehensive, giving the same impression of deliberate and discriminating selection as the modems downstairs. Books lined the wall opposite the window, sets of them, in leather bindings side by side with paperbacks and tattered hardcovers, both old and new, novels and classics including, incongruously, a complete edition of the Encyclopedia Europa. He studied the assortment, shook his head and moved on. Very elaborate for a safe house.
The noise of the shower had stopped. A pair of guest bedrooms with a shared bath occupied the remainder of the upper level. He gave them each a quick inspection before heading back downstairs, attuned to the drone of a blow drier from her bedroom.
He was impatient by three-forty. By three-fifty he had covered every inch of the living room a dozen times. He was ready to go up after her when he heard her on the stairs. The time she’d spent upstairs had not been wasted. The dress she wore was short and black, exposing long, sleek runner’s legs. In a moment he’d taken in her tanned arms and shoulders, and the slice of collar bone on either side of the high, tight collar.
She was almost at the bottom before he spoke. “Where the hell do you think you’re going in that?”
She froze on the step. Then she put one hand on the stair rail and reached the other up behind her head to pluck at the back of her collar. She looked at him intently while she steadied herself, but he couldn’t decipher the look on her face. When she started down the stairs again, she came toward him like she intended to drop the dress and walk right out of it.
So this was the plan. While he’d been passed out in that dim back bedroom she’d gone for a little run, met her co-conspirators and now her cooperation was going to end. They needed time to set something up so her job was to keep him in this house. Clearly amateurs. He had a plan and he needed a driver. If he had to stuff her back into her clothes to get on with it, that wouldn’t be a problem.
Not those clothes, though. There wouldn’t be a male within a mile who’d miss this show. He covered the distance to the stairs in two strides. “Do you usually go to weddings dressed like a hooker?”
“I don’t usually have to dress to hide things,” she said.
“That’s obvious.”
“Is it?” Both hands were busy behind her head while she spoke. “Well, if you don’t like this, maybe you should go up and pick something else. But you probably won’t like me any better in something that shows this.” Her hands opened the collar and caught the front of the dress as it fell forward. He saw what the high collar had hidden.
She’d done something with her hair. It was fastened behind her head and fell back behind her shoulders in waves. The dark hair was the perfect backdrop for the marks he’d left on her neck. Her skin was a mass of red and purple bruises. The bruises were ugly, but the relief that she wasn’t going to fight him about leaving the house outweighed everything else. She was watching him with the dress held against her chest with both hands, looking like she might cry.
“Right,” he said. “I guess the dress will have to do. Now, get back up those stairs and put something over it. I’m not even a little bit interested in what you look like, and it’ll be better for you if nobody else is either. We’re late.”
She struggled to refasten the tight collar. “If you want to be even later, I can start over. This is Arizona. We don’t overdress. I’ve been through my closet three times, but maybe you think you can do better. While you’re at it, look for something to cover this, too.” She held out her arm with purple bands of bruising from where his grip had held her on the stool.
He didn’t like the attitude, but it was better than tears. All he needed was her, with those legs, covered with bruises and looking like she’d been crying. A good-looking woman in tears brought out the hero in every asshole.
“Get going,” he snapped. “For fuck’s sake, I can dress myself quicker with a bullet in me. Go make something happen to that dress.”
She went. He couldn’t think of any reason not to watch her legs go back up the stairs.
When she reappeared, she’d added a filmy scrap of a shawl and pearls in her ears, in her hair and on a wide band on her wrist. He thought it was an improvement though nothing could really tone down the way she looked in the dress.
* * * *
A redwood deck extended along the kitchen side of the house. He stood behind her while he scrutinized the landscaping. The deck was very high and exposed. The stairs were worse than the deck, three flights and no cover. Dense shrubs were just beyond the landscaping. Deadly set-up: good light, lots of cover for them, none for him. For the second time in two hours, his body tensed as he waited for the tear of the bullets.
She looked at him questioningly. “After me,” he said and started down.
At the foot of the last angled set of stairs a silver Volvo was parked under the roof of a carport. He watched her circle the front of the car, and didn’t open the passenger door until she was behind the wheel.
“Where did you go today, while I was sleeping?” he asked as she backed the Volvo out.
She turned it tightly and headed downhill to the paved road at the foot of the driveway. She shifted with a little dig of her shoulder. “You weren’t sleeping,” she said. “You were unconscious.”
“I’m not interested in your medical opinion.”
They were slowing to pass through a wide entryway with white steel fencing. A block of mailboxes extended along the section of fence on his side of the entry. The opposite side displayed a sign with the words Águila Arroyo in elaborate welded iron.
She turned to him at the stop sign. “I run in the afternoon if I’m home.” She pulled out onto the main road.
“I’m beginning to think you enjoy collecting those bruises you’re so proud of. The question was where?”
The road was a maze of S curves and reverses. She gave him a long look anyway, and then turned silently back to the road. She was taking the curves fast, probably too fast, and getting away with it because she knew the road and the car.
“There’s a nature preserve, it’s private, just for residents. That’s where I found you and that’s where I run.”
“I told you not to leave the house.”
“You weren’t going to miss me.”
The next series of turns pressed him back against the seat and rolled his shoulders right, left and right again. She threw the car into the corners with just enough under-steer to snap the tail out and into the next series and then do it again. She was good at it and the car responded with a continuous rocking motion. It felt like a bowling ball was being rolled back and forth across his chest. The road was losing altitude as it twisted through the canyon. He braced himself into the seat, fighting to prevent any movement of his shoulders.
When the road ran out of curves and the killing weight left his chest, he could feel the sweat on his forehead and temples. He recognized that they were out of the pines and driving through the same flat, brushy country he’d driven across to the center. He examined the landscape on both sides of the road, sure he was right and feeling the sweet relief of familiar territory and orientation. He wondered how much of the climb up that canyon to her house he’d managed on his own.
There was very little traffic until the road ended at a Stop sign and she made a right onto a divided four lane. Then the traffic in both directions picked up.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked archly, “Or shall I guess?”
He ignored her. There was no need for her to know yet. He scrutinized the traffic in both directions, checking the wing mirror for a tail and the opposing traffic for the giveaway turn of a driver’s head as they passed.
He noticed a truck coming towards them in the inside lane of the opposing side of the highway. As he registered it, he saw it swing slightly out as though to change lanes and then the driver abruptly cut the wheel and the truck was into the median and sliding sideways across the dividing strip ahead of them. Suzanna did not change course but continued in her lane as the truck fishtailed in the gravel of the median. He estimated the pickup to be two hundred yards ahead, plowing the gravel strip with no indication of slowing down.
“Watch him,” he said sharply.
Suzanna glanced at him. “He’ll make it,” she said.
He took his eyes off the truck, to give her an incredulous glance, and when he looked back, the truck had gained the shoulder of their side of the four-lane. In an instant, the long bed of the pickup was broadside, dead ahead and streaking across both lanes. It disappeared into a crowd of similar vehicles in the parking lot of a roadhouse just off his side of the road.
“That’s the Wagon Wheel,” Suzanna explained. “It’s a bar. The cowboys around here all drive like that. It’s called the flying dismount. It looks like fun. I think you need a pickup to do it right but I’d like to try it someday.”
He watched the truck slide to a stop as they passed. The driver appeared to be all hat. “Not today,” he said.
He considered the map she’d drawn and waited until they were on the freeway and entering the city before deciding their destination. The Moranya Golf and Country Club met his criteria, and its location put it on a straightforward route.
According to the information Suzanna had extracted over the phone, the Moranya had two receptions scheduled. He had planned to arrive during maximum guest attendance but they were forty-five minutes late when Suzanna pulled the Volvo into the parking lot. Even so, the covered lobby entrance was jammed with vehicles. He had her pull up behind a limousine and they sat, with the engine running while he observed the activity. When another car pulled in behind them, he instructed her to drive through the congestion and into the parking area, ignoring the valets. He’d seen enough; the place was swarming despite the hour.
As soon as they were parked, he reached over and took the keys. When she looked at him, he said quietly, “This time I am going to tell you exactly what to do. I only want to be inside for five minutes. Even you should be able to concentrate for that long.”
“Five minutes? And then what? Why do I have to go inside? You can just go and find your friend.”
“You’re coming with me. I need a date, remember? Now we’re going to be together, like lovers while we’re in there. With you, I assume I’ll have to explain how that works.”
“Oh please, spare me. I don’t want to hear your version.”
“You’re going to hear it. But don’t take it personally. I prefer my women with a little more meat on their bones.”
“And I prefer my men with a little more manners.”
He gave her a curt little nod. “Fine. We’ll both be glad when this is over. Now, we are going to walk together, very close together, like lovers, over to that entrance and up those stairs. You will walk on my right, touching me at all times. I don’t want to have to think about where you are, just be there. You are not going to talk to anybody. No matter what happens, you say nothing. Stay close and keep your mouth shut. Understand?”
“When can I go?”
“When I’m finished with you. I’ll let you know.”
She planted her hands on the steering wheel. “I want to know what’s going to happen in there. And when you’re going to let me go.” She looked over at him. “Or I’m not getting out.”
He dropped his left hand onto her thigh, just above her knee and thrust his fingers into the tendons behind the joint. He was immediately rewarded by her cry of pain.
She put both hands over his and pried at his fingers. “I thought we had an agreement about you hurting me,” she gasped.
“You blew that. Just exactly what did you think you were doing to me with that joy ride off that mountain? It hurt like hell. I told you I needed your help for today. Today ends at midnight.” He released her leg. “Now, I’m going to come around to your door. Sit still. Be quiet. Wait for me.”
He saw that she was angry and thinking about resisting.
His chest was an inferno, the only part of his body with any trace of warmth. He wanted to put his head back against the seat and shut his eyes. He shook off the urge and opened the door awkwardly with his left hand. He knew he could catch her on foot, although running, if it came to that, would draw attention and be so painful it might derail the whole plan. He moved quickly around the car and opened her door.
She moved with him, hugging his right side across the parking area and up the wide steps. “Good afternoon, sir and madam,” said the doorman. “Receiving line on your right.” He ushered them through the wide doors and directly into the overflowing crowd of well-wishers lined up to kiss one of the brides.
He slid away from the noisy whirlpool of backslappers, easing his way to the wall on his left. Suzanna was bumped by several people and forced away from his side. He lifted his right arm painfully to put it around her waist. She stiffened but stayed pressed to his side.
He had not anticipated the reception taking place in the lobby, which was a moving mass of bodies. He was lightheaded, in the press of people his body had transition from cold to hot. He settled against the wall to size up the crowd and the layout of the lobby. The crowd was drifting into an adjoining room where there was music. He examined the lobby twice, three times, unable to locate any house phones.
The crowd was thinning as couples trickled into the ball room. He and Suzanna had to move or be isolated so he reluctantly left the safety of the wall. The room with the music smelled like a trap but he didn’t see an alternative. Where the hell had they hidden the telephones?
Inside the ball room, he positioned them again with their backs to the wall near the door. The DJ killed the music and blew into the microphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” she announced, “may I present Mr. and Mrs. Rodney Guiterrez.” The bride and groom strolled to the middle of the dance floor to enthusiastic applause studded with whistles and cheers.
Then the entire room was laughing and crowding onto the floor. Somebody urged them forward and he reluctantly left the support of the wall. His right arm was trembling violently around Susanna’s waist and he tightened it to control the tremor, saying into her hair. “We’re going to the back of this room, as quickly as possible.” The room tilted but he kept his focus on the alcove opposite the bar in the back corner as they shuffled in the press of bodies, using her erect resistance to keep his balance.
Suzanna shifted, protesting against his grip. “You’re hurting me,” she said and dropped her hand from his back to her waist where the fingers of his numb right hand held her.
“No,” he said, “this isn’t hurting you. But if you don’t do exactly what I say, you will not believe how much I can hurt you.” He tightened his grip.
She pulled away enough to see his face, “I’m doing what you want. Why are we here? It has nothing to do with this wedding, does it?”
At his cold, unresponsive glare, she added loudly, “Lover.”
He saw heads lift, faces alert and interested. He snarled into her hair, “You are a slow learner.”
She abandoned all pretense of dancing and pulled away, her voice low but firm. “Not me. You. Every time you hurt me, you hurt yourself. Stop it. I’m willing to help you, just tell me what’s going on.”
He wrenched her roughly against him, using his bad arm despite the wave of agony across his chest, and hissed into her ear, “Be quiet. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can go.”
She met his gaze for a moment and then they were moving again, progressing steadily around the perimeter of the floor until they were opposite the alcove. A half-turn, two steps and he was into the alcove, choosing the middle phone, while Suzanna’s body blocked him partially from view. “Stand here,” he said to her, “and I mean it. Just stand there and keep your mouth shut.” His arm dropped from her waist. He took her wrist, wrapping his fingers around it so the bones shifted under his grip.
He wanted Christine. He could hear Christine’s voice in his mind, almost see her face while the call clicked through the international switching system. When he heard Tomas, he felt such a surge of disappointment that for the space of one heartbeat, he couldn’t speak. Then it passed; Tomas was perfectly all right, almost as good as Christine.
“Ingraham sesenta y seis,” he said. He didn’t intend to be on the phone more than thirty seconds; no time to repeat himself, no time for Tomas to have a stupid attack. After only the briefest pause Tomas responded, switching automatically to Spanish, “Identificar sesenta y seis.”
All right, Tomas, you beautiful little son of a bitch. Now get this and don’t go dense on me. “Evacuar doce.”
This time there was a longer pause, which he understood, could almost feel Tomas’ concentration through the earpiece. “How’s the weather?” Tomas asked at last. “Is it wet?”
“Raining since Thursday,” he said.
“Evac twenty-four,” Tomas said, indicating that the computer had finally displayed his location in Arizona. Not good enough, Tomas. I can’t take another twenty-four hours of this.
“Dieciocho, Plan A,” he countered.
“Plan A, eighteen, directed,” Tomas confirmed and the call disconnected.
He’d been facing the wall with his back to the music.
Suzanna was waiting when he turned. “Is that it?”
He had been flooded with relief from just hearing Tomas, knowing that now they knew he was alive, where he was, where he would be, but her question snapped him back. “That’s it,” he said, and silently to himself: That’s all, just twenty seconds on the phone. And a mile of dance floor, lobby, parking lot and another eighteen hours with you. That’s it. Nothing to it.