The Maddening Model (Hazards, Inc.)

by Suzanne Simms

  “Everything isn’t always what it seems to be,” she had said as they sat outside the Temple of the Reclining Buddha.

  “Or everyone,” he had tacked on.

  There was something about these people, she realized. Something odd. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  It was the darnedest thing.

  It was almost as if not one of them was really who or what they claimed to be....

  Six

  She took it back.

  After traveling with them for four days in Simon’s beat-up Range Rover, joggling over bumpy roads, dodging lunatic Thai truck drivers, eating only what came with a skin they could peel, rationing their bottled water, sleeping in countryside inns, sometimes using primitive bathrooms, sometimes making do with the privacy provided by a Ficus elastica, the tropical Asian rubber plant, Sunday decided these people were exactly what they seemed to be.

  Sister Agatha Anne was quiet and rather sweet. She occasionally chatted with one of them, but most of the time she had her nose stuck in a book titled The Nun’s Way.

  The Grimwades did not wear nearly as well. The pair were immature, brash, overbearing and cloyingly affectionate with each other. They talked loudly and incessantly.

  The Colonel was another matter altogether. He was very polite, very proper, very courteous, very everything, including very British.

  But it was Simon who surprised Sunday the most. She’d expected him to be nothing but trouble with a capital T. Instead, he’d displayed a genuine ability to deal with people. He was diplomatic, patient, good-humored and a born leader.

  “Scroop is the technical term used to describe the rustling sound made by silk fabrics,” Sunday said to the Colonel, continuing a conversation they had begun after lunch.

  It was Colonel Bantry’s turn to volunteer an obscure fact. He thought for a moment and said to her, “The bite of a king cobra can kill an elephant.”

  “Yes, I know.” She wondered if Simon was listening.

  The gentleman beside her tried again. “An elephant can sprint up to speeds of twenty-five miles per hour.”

  She hadn’t realized that. “If what you’ve said is true, a man can’t outrun an elephant.”

  He fingered his moustache. “Quite.”

  “I told you,” Simon interjected in a sardonic tone of voice, “the first rule of the forest is—”

  “Never take an elephant for granted,” she finished for him.

  There was a flash of white teeth. “You remembered.”

  “I remembered.”

  “All right, people, listen up,” Simon said. “The road we have to take to Lamphun, then to Chiang Mai and, for those traveling on, from Chiang Mai to Mae Hong Son, is steep, narrow and occasionally, during the rainy season, treacherous.”

  This was the rainy season, Sunday recalled. Simon had told her so, himself.

  “Lately, there have been a few...incidents.”

  “Incidents?” Sunday suddenly felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand straight on end. “What kind of incidents?”

  Simon explained for everyone’s benefit, “Every now and then, the Union of Myanmar army stages a border raid between Thailand and what was once known as Burma. Or a bandit sticks up a traveler for his wristwatch and a few baht. There’s nothing to be concerned about. We’ll take a few simple precautions, that’s all.”

  Sunday was becoming uneasier by the minute. “Precautions?”

  “We don’t flash any money or jewelry around in public. We don’t stop unless we absolutely have to.” His lips thinned. “And if we do, I do the talking.”

  “I assume,” Sunday said after a lull in the conversation, “a ‘call of nature’ falls under the heading of ‘absolutely have to.’”

  Simon shifted the Range Rover into low gear as they started their ascent of the mountain track. “We’ll take a short ‘necessary’ break—and I do mean short—every two hours.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at the trio behind them. “Any questions?”

  “Not a one, mate,” said Nigel Grimwade agreeably.

  “Does everyone understand?”

  They all nodded.

  “You must have dealt with a number of perilous situations in your time, Colonel,” Simon said, without taking his eyes off the road. “Do you have anything to add?”

  The Brit shook his head from side to side. “There is an old saying, Mr. Hazard.”

  They waited to hear what it was.

  Colonel Bantry stroked his moustache in what Sunday recognized was a habitually nervous gesture. “‘Wise men say nothing in dangerous times.’”

  She gave a sigh. “Another proverb.”

  “It’s from the writings of John Selden, a seventeenth-century English jurist and antiquary,” he expounded, bestowing upon her the closest thing to a smile she had seen from him.

  A masculine voice came from the back seat. “Jurist?”

  The Colonel sat up very straight. “Solicitor. Barrister. Lawyer.”

  Millicent Grimwade was apparently cut from the same cloth as her husband. “What’s an antiquary?” she inquired.

  “It usually means someone who’s interested in old or rare books, but it can refer to a collector or a student of any type of antiquities,” Arthur Bantry said, tapping his walking stick against a highly polished shoe. Even after four days on the road, his appearance was impeccable.

  The young Australian woman guffawed. Her laugh was always too loud and too shrill. “Lordy, mate, you do know a lot of stuff. What’s your sheila say about it, hey?”

  After clearing his throat, Arthur Bantry remarked to no one in particular, “I’m not married.”

  Millicent laughed again and whispered loudly to her husband, “I’m not surprised.”

  “Selden also expressed his thoughts about matrimony, and I find I quite agree with him,” the Colonel went on. “He wrote in his Table Talks—’Marriage is a desperate thing.’”

  A thin furrow appeared on Millicent Grimwade’s otherwise wrinkle-free face. “I don’t get it.”

  The British gentleman put his nose a notch higher and said with a polite sniff, “I’m not surprised.”

  Simon apparently decided it was time to divert the company’s attention to other matters. “If you will look at the large tree on the left side of the vehicle,” he directed, “you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the rare and exotic bird, Rupicola peruviana, commonly called cock-of-the-rock.”

  * * *

  “Cock-of-the-rock?” he heard Sunday repeat with a chuckle several hours later as they made their way through the wet underbrush. There had been a recent drenching afternoon rain; it had come down in buckets. “I don’t believe any such bird exists.”

  “Oh, it exists, all right,” Simon said as he tramped along behind her. “Primarily in Colombia and Peru, however. I doubt if one has ever been spotted within a thousand miles of Thailand.”

  “You handled that well, you know,” she said to him.

  He decided to play dumb. “Handled what well?”

  Sunday threw him a glance over her shoulder. “The nasty little contretemps between Mrs. Grimwade and the Colonel.”

  “Oh, that.“

  “Yes, that.“

  He set his mouth. “I told you, I have my rules.”

  She snapped her thumb and middle finger together. “That’s right. The passengers aren’t allowed to kill one another, are they?”

  Simon was not amused. It had been a very long four days on the road. “That isn’t funny, Sunday. At least not at this point.”

  “I can see why you might have a tendency to lose your sense of humor on a trip like this,” she commiserated.

  He felt as though his sense of humor had deserted him some miles back, and he told her so.

  “I still don’t understand why you have to be the one to keep watch while I use the so-called privacy of the bushes,” Sunday said as they hiked a short distance from the Rover.

  Simon took in and let out a deep breath before
he replied, “Because I’m your guide.”

  “Why couldn’t Sister Agatha Anne, or even Mrs. Grimwade, for that matter, stand guard?” Sunday seemed to reconsider. “Well, perhaps not Millicent Grimwade.”

  “Sister has wisely decided to stay put in the Range Rover. Mr. Grimwade is accompanying Mrs. Grimwade on a ‘necessary’ stop in that direction.” He pointed to their right. “The Colonel is quite capable of looking after himself. That leaves me—” he pointed first to his own chest and then to hers “—to keep an eye on you. After all, I feel responsible for you as long as you’re traveling under my auspices.”

  There was a soft humph from in front of him.

  He added for good measure, “Besides, I’m the one with the gun.”

  Sunday stopped dead in her tracks, pivoted on her heel and gave him a once-over. “Are you really carrying a concealed weapon?”

  “As a matter of fact, several,” he answered with a perfectly straight face.

  She looked briefly disconcerted. “Several?”

  Simon leaned over and patted the side of his boot. “Bowie knife. A bon voyage present from my cousin, Mathis, when I left the States. The blade is five inches long and razor sharp.”

  Green eyes grew round as saucers. “You keep a knife stashed in your cowboy boot?”

  Simon grunted. “Yup.”

  She was curious. “How do you keep from stabbing yourself?” she wanted to know.

  “I had a special leather sheath made for it.”

  Her mouth formed an O.

  Next, he dived down the back of his jeans with one hand and brought out his revolver. “A Beretta is small but deadly,” he said, double-checking that the safety was on.

  Sunday wrapped her arms around herself and seemed to shiver in spite of the tropical heat. “I don’t like guns.”

  Simon put the Beretta away, but not before a very old, and very irreverent, Mae West line popped into his head: Is that your gun, or are you just glad to see me?

  Sunday planted her hands on her hips—he couldn’t help noticing how good she looked in a pair of tight jeans—and tapped her foot in the damp humus on the forest floor. “Why, pray tell, are you grinning from ear to ear?”

  Simon only hoped his face, and other parts of his anatomy, didn’t give him away. “Can’t tell you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t. Too embarrassing.” He stopped himself from saying any more.

  A splash of pink suddenly appeared on her cheeks. “Speaking of embarrassing, did it ever occur to you that I might find it embarrassing to use the great outdoors as a ‘necessary,’ with you standing only a few feet away?”

  “I’ll turn my back.” He did so.

  “There...are other...problems,” he heard her stammer.

  “I’ll sing.”

  And he did, in a slightly off-key but booming baritone. He began with a rousing rendition of “I’ve Got Plenty of Nothin’” and concluded with “Stranger in Paradise.”

  He finally felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Sunday said politely.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She gave him a relieved smile. “You sing very...”

  “Beautifully?”

  “I was going to say loudly.” Then she laughed. Simon realized he liked the sound of her laughter: it was sweet and natural and infectious. “You may have even frightened away the rare and exotic cock-on-the-rock, you know.”

  “I may have.”

  As they hiked back to the road, Simon studied the woman beside him. There wasn’t a speck of makeup on her face. Her hair was a frizz of curls from the heat and humidity. She had been wearing the same pair of blue jeans and the same red pullover sweater since the day after they’d left Bangkok. And, damn, if she still wasn’t the most beautiful and desirable creature he’d ever set eyes on.

  She was dangerous.

  She was a definite hazard to his peace of mind, to his vow of abstinence, to his best intentions. Traveling with her through Thailand for the next several weeks was going to turn out to be hazardous duty.

  In the navy, of course, “hazardous duty” meant a high-risk assignment requiring a sailor with nerves of steel.

  A memory of a long, sleek and voluptuous body in a revealing bikini flashed into Simon’s mind. Then a new image took shape, an image of his hands replacing those three ridiculously tiny purple triangles covering Sunday’s breasts and bottom. Too bad he only had two hands....

  He could always use his hands and his mouth, came the erotic thought that nearly sent him over the edge.

  “That’s peculiar,” murmured Sunday.

  Simon blinked several times in quick succession and forced himself back from his daydreams. “What’s peculiar?”

  She raised her arm and pointed to a spot visible through the thicket. “That is.”

  Simon looked to where the Range Rover was parked, then twenty yards ahead to a second vehicle that was blocking the road. He bit off a sharp expletive.

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  “We have to move and we have to move fast.”

  She glanced up at him as they broke into a trot. “Simon?”

  “Do exactly what I tell you, Sunday.”

  “You’re frightening me.”

  “Good. I want you to get in the Range Rover with the others and stay there!” he barked.

  A word formed on her lips. “Why?”

  Simon hoped and prayed he was wrong, but he didn’t think so. “Bandits.”

  Seven

  “By the bones of the blessed martyrs, who are those men?” Sister Agatha Anne asked in a frenetic whisper when Sunday jerked open the door on the driver’s side of the Range Rover and jumped in, slamming it shut behind her.

  “Bandits, I should say,” offered Colonel Bantry. “Of course, that’s merely conjecture on my part.”

  Sunday struggled to keep her voice even. “Simon agrees. The last word he said to me was ‘bandits.’”

  “Ohmigod, we’re all going to be killed!” wailed Millicent Grimwade. “We’re going to be robbed and beaten and left to die a slow, painful death in this godforsaken place.” Then, as if on cue, she burst into tears and buried her face in her husband’s shirt.

  Sunday didn’t mean to be unkind, but histrionics were no help. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said brusquely. “No one is going to die.”

  There was a muffled sob behind her. “How d-do you know?”

  “Simon will make certain nothing happens to us,” she said clearly and stubbornly.

  Arthur Bantry gave her a long, measuring look. “You seem to have a great deal of faith in the man,” he observed.

  “Simon Hazard knows this country like the back of his hand. He speaks the language fluently. He understands the people and their customs. He’s the best,” she said with conviction.

  “Mother Superior has complete faith in him, too,” piped up Sister Agatha Anne as she sat clutching her book.

  “I just wish I didn’t feel so helpless,” Sunday said, mostly to herself. “I wish I had some kind of weapon.” She turned to the retired army officer beside her. “Your name is Arthur, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Arthur Egbert Bantry. I was named for the legendary kings of England.” There was more than a hint of pride in his voice.

  “Well, Arthur Egbert Bantry, I wish you had Excalibur with you,” she said with a sigh.

  “Oh, but I do,” he replied, unscrewing the top of his walking stick and withdrawing a small sword; it wasn’t much larger than a knife, really. “In the event of an emergency,” he said, apparently to explain the reason he was carrying a weapon.

  “Good Lord, mate, will you put that thing away before you get us all murdered?” whined Nigel Grimwade.

  “Yes, you’d better put it away,” said Sunday. “Simon can take care of things if it comes to that.”

  The Colonel’s eyes narrowed. “Is he armed?”

  She nodded.

  “A revolver?”<
br />
  “A Beretta down his back, and a bowie knife in his boot.” She hastened to reassure everyone, “I’m sure it won’t come to a showdown, however.”

  “It bloody well better not,” snarled the Aussie. “Hazard is outnumbered and outgunned.”

  Sunday watched as Simon conversed with the man who appeared to be the leader of the bandits. The man was wearing a quasi-military hat and seemed more heavily armed than the others. There was a nasty-looking machete dangling at his side, the butt of a revolver appeared above his belt and he had a semiautomatic rifle clasped in his hand. There were two or three men with him, a motley group of no particular size or age.

  “I wonder what they’re saying,” she murmured, peering through the front window.

  The conversation was animated. First, one spoke, then the other. Heads were shaken. Occasionally, someone raised an arm and gestured in their direction, or back toward the bandits’ truck. They were obviously discussing the vehicle blocking the road.

  It started to rain again. Droplets of water ran down the windshield. Sunday didn’t dare turn on the ignition to start the wipers, but it was getting more and more difficult to see.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a movement in the forest. She took in a breath and held it. More bandits. Three—no, four of them. Young, and armed with machetes and rifles.

  Maybe Simon realized they were there, and maybe he didn’t. Maybe he could take care of himself...and then again, maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he needed a good—and a very tall—woman at his side. The Colonel and Nigel Grimwade were certainly making no move to come to his aid.

  “Colonel, you’re in charge,” Sunday said, scooting over to the door. “If worse comes to worst, take the Range Rover and the other passengers and get the hell out of Dodge City.”

  “I b-beg your pardon,” he stammered.

  “Take the others and leave,” she said.

  Millicent Grimwade sat up straight in her seat and pushed the hair back from her tear-stained face. “W-where are you going?”

  “To help Simon.”

  “Dominus vobiscum,” intoned Sister Agatha Anne. “The Lord be with you.”