Fever Dreams Page 17

  The girl replied that Gutierrez was still sleeping. Did the senor require something?

  He didn't even hear her.

  Why? Why else, you idiot? He was halfway up the stairs before he'd completed the thought. A beautiful, wealthy woman, sleeping alone up there ... Oh, God, please, please, please let her be safe.

  He flung himself against her door. It was locked.

  “Maddie!” He kicked in the door and barreled into the room.

  She screamed and leapt out of bed.

  Safe! Safe, she was safe.

  “Maddie!” He scooped her up in his arms while she was still flailing in the tangled bedsheets twined around her legs.

  “What? What! What?” She cried breathlessly, squirming in his arms, trying to see what was in her room or beyond her door that had caused him to terrify her like this.

  “Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, thank you, God,” he murmured incoherently, hugging her with bruising force.

  “What? What? Ransom, what's going on?” she demanded, shoving at him.

  He ran his hands over her possessively, still needing to assure himself that she was safe. “I thought ... I thought ... Oh, hell, I don't know what I thought, but—”

  “You don't know? You don't know?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “What's going on?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Um. I'm not sure.” He was starting to feel very stupid.

  “You're not sure?” She looked like she wanted to hit him again. “Have you gone mad? You scared me to death!”

  Realizing that he wasn't behaving very sensibly, he mumbled, “I'm sorry.”

  “Sorry? You're sorry?” She seemed at a loss for words. Her pretty cotton nightgown moulded to her body as she slumped down on the bed and repeated, “You're sorry.” She rubbed her side and said, “I think some of my ribs cracked when your gun rammed into them.”

  He glanced down, so accustomed to the feel of his holstered Glock that he'd forgotten he was wearing it. Yes, he must have hurt her. Shit. He had to pull himself together. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and tried to think. “Look, it's been a hell of a night, and—”

  “I nearly had a heart attack!” She pressed a hand to her chest and threatened, “In fact, I still may have one.”

  “Not now,” he ordered absently, drawing a withering glare from her. “I've got to figure out...” It suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks. “Miguel.”

  He turned and ran from the room. Madeleine followed him. She caught up with him when he stopped to pound on Miguel's door, two rooms away.

  “What's going on?” she demanded.

  “Somebody drugged me last night,” he said briefly. Then he shouted through the door, “Miguel? Are you in there?”

  “What?” Her eyes were wide with surprise.

  “I thought it might be someone trying to get to you.”

  “Oh! That's why—”

  “Stand back.” He shoved her aside and kicked the door in. She followed him inside.

  The room was empty. The bed hadn't been slept in. There was no sign of Miguel or his battered valise. But there was a note on the bed. Ransom read it silently.

  “What does it say? Where is Miguel?” Madeleine asked, wide awake now.

  Ransom sagged onto the bed and handed the note to her.

  “He's gone. For good. And he's stolen the car.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ransom gave up the effort of being brave; he stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, where he fell to his knees and was thoroughly and exhaustingly sick. Through his misery, he could hear Madeleine at the door, calming the other inhabitants of the pension, who had all been rudely roused from their beds by the racket.

  After a painful and degrading interval, Ransom finally lifted his head. A cold, damp washcloth appeared out of nowhere and wiped his face. When it was pulled away, he saw Madeleine crouching next to him, concern warming her lovely features.

  “What do you think he gave you?” she asked, brushing his hair off his forehead.

  He sagged against the wall and watched as she rose to rinse out the washcloth. “Sleeping pills or tranquilizers. Stolen from Senora Veracruz, probably.”

  She flushed the toilet and commented, “It must have been an awfully heavy dose.”

  “Shit like that always makes me sick.” Ransom closed his eyes as she bathed his face and neck again.

  “Why did he do it?” she wondered.

  “To make sure I wouldn't wake up,” he said irritably.

  “No, I mean, why did he steal the car?”

  “Oh. I guess he finally saw his chance,” he mumbled.

  “What chance? This isn't—”

  “I should have guessed. His mood was so strange last night, I should have—”

  “Stop it. You can't predict everything people are going to do, Ransom,” she chided.

  “Still...”

  “Cut yourself some slack.”

  “Look who's talking.” He eyed her with weary amusement, then said more seriously, “I think he decided this was his chance to get out of Montedora with some money. He's probably worked out a plan to get the car across the nearest border and sell it. Then he'll use the money to start a new life. Maybe in Canada or the US.”

  “And desert his family? I thought you said he was their sole support.”

  “That's why he's waited till now. If he were willing to leave without them, he'd have gone long ago. He needed to get his hands on enough money for all of them; and that car is worth a lot. He's undoubtedly arranged to meet his family somewhere. That must be what took him so long yesterday, while we were waiting to leave. When he realized he'd be taking the car so far away from Veracruz and Escalante, with only the two of us as passengers, he knew his opportunity had finally come. He had to make a lot of fast plans with his family.”

  “But ... I thought he liked you,” she said vaguely, still stunned. She rinsed the washcloth again.

  He took it from her. “He did. He told me so last night.” Ransom pressed the washcloth against the back of his neck. “Hell, I don't condone stealing, but ... how much longer could he have lasted here? He said only a few days ago that he was afraid that the next time someone aimed at Veracruz, they'd miss and hit him instead. I'll bet that LPM plot to blow up Veracruz's car made him realize his time was running out.”

  “And even if he stayed alive, sooner or later the First Lady would want a new boy toy, or Veracruz would punish him for sleeping with her.”

  “And he probably had to sleep with her to keep the job in the first place—the best job he could get here.”

  “I liked him,” she said sadly.

  “So did I.” He took her hand and squeezed it.

  “He must have really felt caught between the sword and the wall, to do this.”

  “He liked you, too, you know. He told me so.”

  “Last night?”

  “Uh-huh. I can see now that he was trying to apologize for what he was about to do.” He sighed. “Shit, if he just would have asked me for help. But he never did, not once...”

  This time, she squeezed his hand. “He wanted your respect more than your help. I could see that.”

  “He said something about pity,” Ransom murmured. “And about how hopelessness was the only thing worse than pity.”

  Her eyes were soft as she gazed at him. She summoned a faint smile. “Look, Miguel's bright and resourceful, and he can charm the chicken right off the bone. I have a feeling that, as risky as this is, things are going to work out for him.”

  “I hope so.”

  Wincing at the stiffness brought about by sleeping in a barroom chair, Ransom rose slowly to his feet. Still muzzy-headed, he decided he'd better take a cold, bracing shower before they discussed what to do next.

  “I'd ask you to join me,” he quipped weakly, turning on the water, “but I have a feeling this will be an emasculating experience.”

  Her expression wa
s a mixture of sympathy and laughter as she left the bathroom.

  * * * *

  Madeleine was waiting for Ransom with a large pot of strong coffee when he finally came downstairs. He looked pale, hollow-eyed, and unhappy, but clear-headed. She knew that he felt he had failed Miguel, and that nothing she said would convince him otherwise, just as she fully understood why Miguel would never have accepted his help. They were too much alike. Only now that he was gone did Madeleine realize how much Miguel reminded her of her intriguing bodyguard, whose irreverent charm and innate sex appeal concealed a serious and responsible nature. His quick, adaptable mind never stopped working and was capable of an unsettling mixture of directness and complexity. The man had shrewd instincts, as well as a startling sensitivity that he seldom chose to reveal. And his pride—oh, his pride was merciless with him.

  She knew that Miguel would never expect to be forgiven for what he had done to Ransom—not only the theft and the drugging, but also the betrayal; and she knew that Ransom had already forgiven him. In another reality, these two men could have been as close as brothers. But a bitter, hopeless poverty had shaped Miguel, just as ambition and opportunity had shaped Ransom, and so they were worlds apart.

  She silently wished Miguel good luck as she poured Ransom a cup of black coffee and suggested he sit down.

  “If I understand Gutierrez correctly, we won't have an easy time renting or even buying a car in Doragua,” she announced without preamble.

  Ransom thought it over. “Since the road from here to your ranch is bound to be as bad as what we encountered last night ... Christ, can Miguel even make it to the border by himself?”

  “He'll find a way. You would.” He blinked at her, and she prodded, “You were saying?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. “We'll have to call Veracruz. We'll have to tell him what's happened.”

  “I know.” She could tell he wanted to give Miguel time to get away. “I'm sure Miguel planned on that, Ransom.”

  “Yeah. He would have.” He frowned, took a long drag of his cigarette, then continued, “I say we tell Veracruz that we want the car you originally reserved from that rental agency. We need something reliable that can handle the road, especially if there's more rain. Veracruz can pay a driver to bring it out to us. I'll convince him that it's the least he can do.”

  “All right.” She realized it meant they'd be stuck here for a day, but it was their best option. Besides wanting a better quality car than they were likely to find among the local farmers, they'd need something they could take back to the capital with them, too, in a few days.

  “I'll go make the call,” Ransom said without enthusiasm.

  She put a hand on his arm. “You look awful. Why don't you go lie down for a couple of hours? I'll make the call.”

  He hesitated. “My Spanish is better.”

  “But my manners are better.” Seeing that he wanted to give in, she urged, “Senor Gutierrez can help me get through to the Palace, and the operator there speaks English. All right?”

  “All right,” he agreed, still looking rather green around the gills. He turned and went upstairs without his usual predatory grace.

  Madeleine watched him with concern, rather astonished at the protective instincts coursing through her. It was ridiculous, really. She'd never met anyone less in need of protection than Ransom. Besides, she doubted he'd welcome it from her. Apart from their personal differences, it would insult his pride to be protected by a client.

  The way it had insulted his pride to be abandoned by a nameless blonde after a one-night stand in Montedora City. How pathetically sordid it all was, she thought miserably. After a beginning like that, could two people ever ... ever ... What? she wondered in frustration. Confused and flustered by the direction of her thoughts, she went in search of Senor Gutierrez.

  Eager to help his distinguished guests, despite the incomprehensible scene they had staged at dawn, the senor was doubly impressed to learn Madeleine wanted him to help her phone the Presidential Palace. Although telephone connections had been restored after the storm, they were not wholly reliable. Madeleine was cut off twice before she finally got a call through to the operator at the Palace. The President was not available, being at some sort of meeting with Escalante at Seguridore headquarters, so Madeleine spoke to his secretary. The mild-mannered man she had met upon first arriving at the Palace now took her message, expressed horrified astonishment at Miguel's desertion, and promised to inform the President of these events.

  “We're at the Pension Doragua,” Madeleine shouted into the receiver. “In Doragua.”

  “Doragua? Yes, I know it. The army has troops stationed there.”

  Madeleine thanked the secretary for his help, hung up, and paid Senor Gutierrez for the call. Then, feeling at loose ends, she offered to accompany Senora Gutierrez on her morning shopping trip. Carrying a basket and two roughly woven sacks, they walked down the muddy street to a central square whose crumpled grandeur and fading beauty gave her a glimpse of Montedora's past. Having seen nothing but rain, mud, and jungle last night, Madeleine now saw the soldiers that the President's secretary had mentioned. Some patrolled the town, some sat in the local cafe, and a cluster of them guarded the district governor's mansion. Though not as hated as the Seguridores, they were not well-liked. Except for the officers, most of the soldiers came from poor families and had chosen the army as the only alternative to unemployment. Most of them were only interested in staying alive and collecting their pay, but some of them used their uniforms as an excuse to bully civilians, and there was no one to stop them.

  Noticing how much attention her appearance attracted, Madeleine suddenly realized that Ransom would be very annoyed with her when he learned she had gone to town without him. A couple of soldiers stopped her and questioned her, demanding to see her passport. She pulled it out of the little purse she kept draped across her body and handed it over. They spent an awfully long time looking at it. Senora Gutierrez scowled fiercely at them, and several other villagers watched from a safe distance.

  Madeleine didn't get worried until the soldiers demanded to see her money.

  “Por que?” she asked coolly. Why?

  She didn't understand the answer completely. Something about wanting to make sure she had enough money to support herself and wouldn't try to seek work here. The pressure of the senora's hand on her arm warned her to be careful. Using her most queenly manner, Madeleine said, in halting Spanish, that she was a personal friend of El Presidente himself, and she didn't like all these questions. Nor did she think he would be pleased when she told him about it.

  Seeing the soldiers start to look a little doubtful, Senora Gutierrez spoke up. Madeleine lost the thread of the conversation after that, as too many people spoke too rapidly, and all at once, but it seemed the soldiers were weighing their desire for some hard currency against the senora's repeated assurance that Madeleine really was a friend of the President's.

  Finally, the soldiers backed down and let Madeleine and Senora Gutierrez continue on their way. Her heart pounding with relief, Madeleine squeezed the senora's hand as they proceeded into the marketplace. Once they were safely lost in the crowd, the senora muttered angry comments about the soldiers and their greed.

  Some of the villagers pressed Madeleine's hand, commented on her pretty hair, or smiled and tried to chat with her. One old man gave her a flower and patted her cheek, though she didn't understand a single word that came out of his toothless mouth. The friendliness of ordinary people reminded her that the greedy politicians and swaggering soldiers were not Montedora; no, the common people whose courage was expressed in endurance, who still had kind words for a stranger, and who suffered in ways she would never experience—they were Montedora. And that realization gave Madeleine a sneaking, surprising fondness for this scarred, sultry land.

  Going from stall to stall, inspecting all the produce, and bargaining for a good price took a long time. Then the senora had to
go to the bank. Madeleine waited for her outside, guarding their purchases. Despite the shade, the heat made her feel thirsty and light-headed. By the time they returned to the pension, more than two hours after leaving it, she felt wilted.

  Ransom was heading out the front door when they got back. He stopped in his tracks and scowled at her. “I was just coming to find you! Where the hell have you been?”

  “Shopping,” she said, plodding past him with her sacks of produce. “You could offer to take one of these.”

  “Shopping?” he repeated, ignoring the heavy sack she tried to thrust at him. “Shopping?”

  “Yes. You know: exchanging money for goods.”

  “You're not supposed to go anywhere without me,” he snapped.

  “You're feeling better, I see.”

  “Are you listening to me, Maddie?” His tone irritated her.

  “Yes, I'm listening.”

  “Don't go wandering off without me again. I mean it.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. It felt good to snap at someone; she hadn't realized how much tension was coiled in her belly from that encounter with the soldiers. For good measure, she snapped at him again. “Fine.”

  Senora Gutierrez giggled at the expression on Ransom's face and said something about men and their silly demands. She tried to take the sacks from Madeleine, but Madeleine courteously insisted on carrying them back to the kitchen for the old woman. When she came back out into the bar, Ransom had apparently decided to abandon the fight they'd been about to have.

  “I'm hungry,” he said instead. “What's for lunch?”

  “It looked like twenty pounds of onions and carrots to me.”

  “I can hardly wait,” he said dryly. “Did you talk to Veracruz?”

  “To his secretary.” She recounted their brief conversation.

  “Good. I think I'll call the Palace again, though. Just to make sure someone has definitely arranged a car for us.”

  Madeleine went upstairs to shower off the sweat and dirt from her morning shopping. When she came back downstairs, she found Ransom wandering restlessly around the veranda.