by Anne Stuart
“Does he know you don’t like him?”
“Of course. Jeffrey Van Zandt has to have everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. You should know that; you’re his friend.”
“Not his friend. An acquaintance. He was simply at the right place at the right time when I needed someone to turn to.”
“Was he?” She slid up higher in her seat, shifting her long legs. “How coincidental.”
“Stop being cryptic, Maggie. I thought you said you trusted him.”
“You weren’t listening. I said I didn’t think Peter was wrong to trust him. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”
Mack cast an appraising glance over her lean, strong body. “Given the fact that Van Zandt is at least three inches shorter than you, that might be quite a ways indeed.”
“Don’t quibble. If I really thought he was a danger, I wouldn’t take you anywhere near him. I’m sure he’s just an oily, manipulative civil servant. As long as we’re useful to him he’ll be useful to us. When that time passes he’ll be history, and we won’t have to worry about it.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. I don’t like the idea of walking into a trap.”
“You won’t be. It’s all very simple—we check in to the hotel and wait for Peter to be in touch. Only Peter and I know the names we’re going to be registering under, only Peter and I know where we’re planning to meet. We just sit and wait in our room, watch a little TV, order champagne from room service, use the sauna. Everything will be fine.”
“Why does it sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, Maggie May? I trust you.”
“Yeah,” she said gloomily, looking at the huge, sprawling city through the shimmering haze of heat surrounding them. “I just wish I could trust myself.”
“Okay, Maggie.” Mack dropped down on one of the two king-sized beds that took up only a quarter of the space of their hotel room. “What next?”
Maggie was staring out at the city around them, trying to ignore the shiver that ran up her backbone, telling herself it was only the air-conditioning. The Travers Hotel was one of the newer, fancier, larger buildings among a great many new, fancy, large buildings in downtown Houston. It combined a world-class hotel, the American headquarters of Travers Petroleum, and twelve floors rented at a phenomenal price to various corporations that could afford the prestige. One of those corporations was the nonprofit Third World Causes, Ltd., whose space was rent-free, a convenient tax write-off for Travers Petroleum that aided them in their quest to pay zero income tax. A quest that had met with success three out of the last four years.
She turned back to Mack. He looked hot and sweaty and rumpled, but he also looked damned sexy, she had to admit. It was probably just as well this little excursion was almost over.
“What I want most of all is a bath and a change of clothes,” she said. “And then a nap.”
“Sounds good. Where are we going to find the clothes?”
“There are boutiques on the second and third balconies of this monstrosity of a hotel. You want me to find something for you too?” She grabbed her wallet and headed toward the door.
He made no move to get off the bed. “That’d be nice. I think I’ll go for the nap first. Pants are thirty-two, thirty-four, shirt large, no polyester or double knit.”
“Aw, c’mon, Pulaski. A powder-blue leisure suit would be just the ticket.”
He raised his head long enough to glower at her. “You buy it, you wear it, Maggie May.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, glanced at her watch, and grimaced. “It’s a quarter of five. Don’t answer the phone. I’ll be back within an hour.”
“I won’t answer the phone,” he replied sleepily, and she watched his eyes drift closed above his stubbled face. Very sexy indeed, she thought dismally. And she needed to run, as fast and as far as she could. She wasn’t ready for this, for him, for the odd, tender, unexpected longings and emotions that were cropping up.
Of course he wouldn’t have been half as sexy in a polyester leisure suit, if they even still made such things, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It took her half an hour to buy him khakis, a field shirt, socks, and turquoise Calvin Klein briefs, another ten minutes for a beige cotton jumpsuit for herself and the toiletries they’d need to get them through the next twenty-four hours. Then she was off to Peter Wallace’s office on the thirteenth floor.
It was almost six o’clock, and the long, wide hallways were deserted, the offices shut tight. No one worked late in Houston, at least not on a hot summer’s evening. Third World Causes, Ltd. was at the end of the broad corridor, and Maggie moved with caution, her running shoes silent on the thick smoke-colored carpet that lined the hallway. She was being neurotic and paranoid, she told herself, clutching her noisy paper bags beneath her arm. And why the hell did she hate guns so much? She would have felt a lot happier having one tucked in her belt at that very moment.
There was nothing to worry about—Peter probably wasn’t even in Houston yet. He’d call as soon as he got in, and then he’d tell her what to do with Mack. And she’d be able to turn her back and head to L.A. with a clear conscience, a sigh of relief, and more than a trace of regret.
The heavy oak door, with its raised brass lettering, was open just a tiny crack, and all Maggie’s doubts rushed back tenfold. With as much stealth as she could manage, she pushed the door open. It moved back silently, on well-oiled hinges, displaying a tableau that would haunt her nightmares for years to come.
Peter Wallace was lying on the red carpet. Except that the carpet was pale beige—it was only red surrounding his body. Blood was everywhere, covering his torso, his arms and legs, his face. It even reached the man leaning over him, staining his hands and shirt.
Mack looked up into her horrified face. He had a gun in his hand, a large, nasty-looking thing, and there was blood on that too. The two of them stared at each other for a long, breathless moment, and Maggie wondered whether she should scream, run, or try to kick the gun out of his hand. She did none of the three. She just stood there, clutching the bags in her nerveless hands.
Mack sat back on his heels, reached a hand up to push his hair out of his face, and left a streak of blood across his forehead. “He’s dead,” he said in a flat voice.
Maggie opened her mouth, tried to speak, and then shut it again, swallowing back the nausea. “No kidding,” she finally managed, moving into the room and shutting the door behind her with a silent click. “Did you do it?”
There was no feigning his astonishment. “Why the hell would I kill him? He was supposed to be my ticket out of this mess.”
“Maybe.” She moved closer. She’d seen dead men before, far too many. People dead from violence, from starvation, from the ravages of illness. But she never got used to it. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“And he was like this when you got here?”
“No.”
“No?” She looked up, startled, into his bleak face.
“He was still alive. He tried to say something, but I couldn’t quite get all of it.”
“What did you get?”
“He thought I was Jeffrey Van Zandt.”
“What makes you think that?”
“That’s what he kept calling me,” Mack snapped.
“Maybe he wasn’t calling you that at all. Maybe he was telling you to find him. If Peter can’t help us”—there was a catch to her voice—“then Van Zandt’s our only other possibility. At least that I know of.”
“Wallace wasn’t in much shape to be cross-examined, Maggie,” Mack said dryly, moving away from the body.
Maggie stared down at him for a moment longer. “Damn you, Pulaski,” she said in a quiet, bitter voice without looking up. “You may not care that a man is dead, but I do. He was my boss, my lover, and my friend. And I haven’t got enough of them to spare.”
“Enough what? Lovers or friends?”
She turned to him, ready to do b
attle, when she realized that he’d said it on purpose, to jolt her from her grief. His next words verified it.
“Are you okay?” She looked at him, and his hazel eyes seemed more concerned with her than with their sudden, untenable situation.
“I’m okay. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.” There was blood on her hands, and she wiped them on the carpet before rising on surprisingly steady feet.
“But the police …”
“Will probably be here any moment. And I don’t think they’re going to want to hear what we have to tell them. I think we’ve been set up. What the hell are you doing down here anyway? I thought you were taking a nap.”
“I answered the phone,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly. “It was Wallace, asking me to meet him here. What about you? I thought you were buying us some clothes.”
“I got the clothes. I thought it might be worth checking in here in case Peter got here earlier. Apparently he did.” She was suddenly very still. “Do you hear sirens?”
“I can’t tell in this building,” Mack said.
“They’re probably already here,” she said bitterly. “I think—” Her voice stopped as the shrill telephone broke through. They both turned to stare at it with a kind of repulsive fascination.
“Should I answer it?” Mack asked finally.
“No.”
“But what if it’s Van Zandt? What if it’s someone with the answers?”
“We’ll find out our own answers. Come on, Pulaski. We’re out of here.” She turned back toward the door, unable to give Peter’s corpse even one last look. Three days ago he had been golden, handsome, and regretful in the New York airport. And now he was lying in a pool of his own blood, past regrets, and she didn’t even have the time to mourn for him. Her energies had to be spent on the living, on Pulaski and herself. Later, when some of this began to make sense, she’d grieve for him.
“What about the gun?” He’d followed her example and tried to wipe some of the blood onto the carpet around his feet.
“Bring it,” she said grimly. “It looks like we’re going to need it.”
The corridor was still deserted when they stepped out into it, closing the door on the office and its grisly occupant. Maggie gave him a cursory glance. The blood could have been anything—it was drying to a rusty brown, and if they both looked a little the worse for wear someone would have to look twice to notice.
“Where are we going?” Mack murmured as she started off.
“Stairway. They’ll be watching the elevators.”
“Who will be?”
“Whoever killed Peter.”
“I thought you weren’t sure whether I killed him or not?”
“It was only a temporary thought. You didn’t kill him. If you had, you would have been long gone. And you’re right, you didn’t have any reason to kill him. At least none that I know of.”
“So I’m not completely exonerated?”
“I don’t trust anyone completely,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Come on.” She kept moving until she heard the ominous sound of the arriving elevator pinging in the distance. “Damn.” She grabbed his wrist, the bulky bags still under her arm. “Let’s move it.”
She raced back down the hallway, with Mack keeping up with her. They rounded a corner, and she could hear the noise, the voices, the ominously official sound of what was very likely a large group of Houston police heading in their direction. They hadn’t seen them, but they were moving rapidly toward Peter’s office. By the time they reached it, Maggie and Mack would be in plain sight.
“I hate to interfere,” he wheezed behind her, “but do you want to get caught?” He suddenly stopped, and she was jerked back against him.
“Let go of me, you cretin,” she railed at him in a barely audible whisper.
“Sure thing. But you just raced past the fire exit.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” She wheeled around, diving through the door with Mack on her heels, and moments later they were clattering down the stairs. Three flights down, she flung her body against the wall, gesturing Mack to do the same, and they stayed there, listening, for what seemed an eternity.
“They didn’t see us,” she gasped. “So far so good. Let’s go.”
“Won’t I look a little odd carrying this?” Mack gestured with the gun.
Maggie opened one of the bags. “Toss it in here.”
“And then what?”
“We find a way out of here without tripping an alarm. Then we find a car, a motel, and we find a way out of the country.”
“You want to tell me where we’re heading?”
She pushed herself away from the wall. “Honduras.”
“Honduras?” He managed the semblance of a shriek.
“That’s where we’re most likely to find Van Zandt. He spends far too much of his time as a military adviser for various rebel groups. Last I heard he was stationed in Honduras. So that’s where we’re going. Any objections?”
“No. As long as we get there in one piece.”
“I expect we will. We’ve been damned lucky so far.” She started down the next flight of stairs at a more reasonable pace.
“Luck has a habit of changing,” Mack said from above her.
She paused long enough to meet his troubled gaze fearlessly. “And some people make their own luck. Come on. I promised I’d get you out of this mess, and I’m going to. It’s just going to take a little longer than I expected.”
“That’s all right, Maggie May. I’ve gotten used to having you around.” And he caught up with her just as she was trying to decide whether she liked the sound of that or not. “Let’s go steal another car.”
“A Mercedes this time,” she said.
“Maybe. More likely another Beetle.”
“I won’t be able to walk if my legs are cramped into another VW,” she warned.
“I’ll carry you.”
And she was damned if she didn’t like the sound of that, after all.
seven
“You sure know how to pick ’em, Maggie.” Mack surveyed the shabby motel room with more curiosity than actual condemnation. “I think I preferred the Travers.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. Jail would probably be more comfortable too.” She dumped the much-abused shopping bags on the bed, then dropped her aching body beside them. It was the worst motel she’d come up with since they left Utah—even the late, unlamented Lone Star Bide-a-Wee was a model of cleanliness and luxury compared to their current quarters. There were two different patterns of paper on the water-stained walls—cabbage roses on the outside wall, green polka dots on the bathroom wall. The two narrow beds were covered with raveled chenille bedspreads, and the wall-to-wall carpeting showed the paths of a thousand weary feet.
But it was outside the sprawling city limits of Houston, ten miles from a small, run-down private airport, and for the moment they were safe.
Somehow, they had managed to escape the death trap in the Travers Hotel. Through a stroke of amazing good luck the stairway had ended in the basement garage of the huge building. It had taken five minutes to retrieve their aging VW, and then they were off, chugging past the police cars with their lights flashing into the early evening sky. Maggie had been right—someone had sent for the police, and she had no doubt at all that Peter’s killer made the phone call. Mack had read the road atlas, directing her toward Simmons Airfield, and the Lazy Cowboy Doze-Motel had loomed up out of the darkening sky like a beacon.
A somewhat dimmed beacon, Maggie had to admit. “I’m too dirty to sleep and too tired to move. All I want is a hot shower and twenty-four hours’ sleep.”
“Let me go first. There’s a Laundromat two doors down—I can wash the clothes we’re wearing while you’re taking your shower.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t take all the hot water.” The words came out in a tired mumble as she turned and buried her face in the chenille bedspread. For a few blissful minutes all was silent—just the rustle of paper
bags, the rainlike sound of the shower, the quiet little thuds and knocks as Mack undoubtedly tried to fit his large body into a small shower stall. She remembered the turquoise Jockey shorts, and she smiled in her sleep, waiting for his reaction.
The door to the bathroom opened quietly, and Maggie considered staying facedown. But curiosity got the better of her, and she rolled over to stare at him.
He was wearing nothing but the turquoise Jockey shorts. His blond hair was wet and hanging in tendrils around his freshly shaven face. A face that wore an expression of doubt and amusement as he met her gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding, Maggie May,” he said after a long moment.
With great deliberation, she ran her eyes over his body. Hell, it was a great body. Long legs, flat stomach, broad, sort of bony shoulders, and not too much hair. She was tempted to ask him to turn around so she could check out his rear, but she didn’t quite have the nerve. She smiled sweetly.
“I think you look adorable, Pulaski,” she purred.
“Thank you for your thoughtful shopping.” He quickly divested his new khakis of their various tags and pulled them on. Maggie watched the turquoise shorts disappear with a trace of regret. “Your turn at the shower. And believe it or not, there’s plenty of hot water. Dump your clothes on the floor so I can wash ’em.”
“You’re very domestic,” Maggie said as she stumbled toward the miniature bathroom. “Be careful out there.” She couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice.
He paused in the act of buttoning his shirt. “Don’t worry, Maggie. Even if I prefer having you take care of me, I’ve been responsible for myself for years. I won’t let the bad guys get me.”
“Humph,” she said, disappearing into the tiny bathroom.
He was right, there was plenty of hot water and she took full advantage of it, letting the shower scrape the sweat and dust and blood away from her. She heard Mack leave, and the sound of the front door made her nerves tighten in sudden anxiety. He would be okay, she reassured herself. He’d taken care of himself for probably forty years.