It was a hellish paradise. Max was not the only one to think so. Trapped in a cave with four men, two of whom were bound most of the time and had to be kept under constant guard, with inadequate food, clothes that were growing more repulsive by the hour, and the constant fear of snakes, insects, or other creatures who might decide to explore the cave, to say nothing of the nervous tension caused by waiting, waiting for whatever hostile rescue party would arrive first, Lora thought she might actually go crazy. It was like being snowbound for months, she thought, only worse. Because at least someone who was snowbound did not have to contend with flies and mosquitoes and huge fire ants that stung like hornets if you were unwary enough to put your hand down on them, daily downpours that left the world smelling of mildew, and the contrast of hot, steamy days with cold nights; to say nothing of the constant threat of danger from Minelli and DiAngelo, who were sullenly threatening as they sat bound hand and foot through the seemingly endless hours. And then there was Tunafish’s suffering, which was painful to watch. The heroin helped when he took it, but he only did so when the pain was dreadful. As a schoolteacher, Lora thought that drugs were an abomination second only to the devil, but in this one instance she had to admit that without them Tunafish’s situation would have been unbearable. If he had been in a hospital, they would have given him painkillers, but they could not get to a hospital and the heroin was the only painkiller available. Under the circumstances, Lora could not think it wrong for Tunafish to take it. Guiltily, she realized that she even found it interesting to watch. Tunafish sprinkled the powder on a large flat leaf, rolled another leaf into a cigarette-sized hollow tube, and used the tube to inhale the drug. Lora actually caught herself thinking, so that’s how they do it! and immediately banished the subject from her mind.
Max was another problem. He kept his distance, speaking to her only when necessary and then in a cool, distant way that she hated to admit hurt. Even Tunafish had noticed, and commiserated with her with raised eyebrows and a grimace when Max wasn’t looking. Lora didn’t know for sure what ailed Max, but it was beginning to bug her as much as the enforced confinement. Surely he was not still angry at her because she had witnessed him having a nightmare. . . .
He was apparently uneasy about leaving her and Tunafish in the cave with Minelli and DiAngelo any more than he had to, but necessities such as food and water dictated that he leave the cave several times a day. During those periods, Tunafish would sit watching Minelli and DiAngelo, a gun propped in his lap. Though those two had never tried to cause any more trouble, Lora was always jumpy when Max was gone. Ten million dollars worth of drugs and a hundred thousand dollars in cash was enough to tempt many law-abiding men to murder. And Minelli and DiAngelo had never, she thought, been law-abiding, even in their cradles.
They made her uneasy for another reason, too, or at least, Minelli did. He watched her with an insolent attention that made her feel unclean. She always got the feeling that he was mentally undressing her, and as the days passed the feeling grew stronger. Even though she performed her daily ablutions—a sponge bath, with a cupful of tepid water and a rag made from the remains of Max’s windbreaker—behind a bush just outside the cave and definitely out of sight of Minelli’s avid eyes, she still felt uneasy about removing her clothes. As a result, she usually just pulled off her t-shirt and sponged herself as quickly as she could. Which, after three days, left her feeling grungier than she had ever felt in her life.
The two men were a problem at night, too. Max bound them more securely then, because even he had to sleep sometime. Their pallets—sans blankets or pillows—were on the opposite side of the large cavern from where she and Tunafish and Max slept, but that did not stop Lora from feeling particularly vulnerable when she lay down and closed her eyes. Tunafish now stood the early watch, while Max took the late one. They clearly didn’t trust her enough with a gun to let her stand her share of watching, and Lora didn’t much blame them. She didn’t trust herself much that way, either. But with Minelli and DiAngelo across the cave, whether they were bound and supposedly sleeping or not, she found herself inching imperceptibly closer to Max. Until now her pallet was so close to his that there was scarcely a palm’s width between them. If he had noticed her creeping encroachment, he had not said anything. But then, he didn’t say much to her nowadays.
On the afternoon of the fourth day since the crash, Lora couldn’t stand it any longer. She thought she would die if she didn’t get out of the cave. The daily downpour had already passed, leaving that sickening sweet smell of rotting vegetation that she was beginning to think would suffocate her. Minelli and DiAngelo sat with their hands bound loosely in front of them, their backs resting against the curved wall of the cave as they seemed to doze. Tunafish was standing guard, but he looked as apathetic as the rest of them. His splinted leg must be hurting him badly, she thought, but as Max was out hunting for food he could not seek the relief of sleep or dope-induced insensitivity.
Adding to the misery, Lora had at least a dozen mosquito bites that were itching to distraction. Max had warned her not to scratch. She had tried it once, disregarding his curt caution, and found that scratching only made them swell up and itch four times as ferociously. After that, she had not argued about coating her exposed skin with the mud that he said was the only remedy for the itching and swelling, and the only way to guard against future bites. He had been right, of course, but she felt almost as miserable with smears of mud on her cheeks and neck and arms as she did with the mosquitoes chomping on her.
More than anything in life—except rescue and a decent meal—she longed for a bath. But that was clearly impossible. Although there was a spring somewhere nearby, according to Max, she didn’t know where, and even if she did she didn’t dare wander about the jungle on her own. Every night she heard the yowl of big cats and the screams of their prey, and every day ticks and snakes were washed onto the shelf of rock just outside the cave. Danger lurked everywhere out there, and she wasn’t stupid enough to brave it alone. She was stuck. Stranded. Unable to go further than a few feet from the cave that was rapidly growing more confining to her than the prison cell Max had rescued her from.
There was no reason Max couldn’t take her with him on some of his expeditions, Lora told herself, feeling a righteous anger begin to build. Just because he was nursing some ridiculous grievance against her was no reason to treat her like she had leprosy. When he came back and Tunafish had had a chance to rest, she meant to demand that he take her someplace where she could breathe, and perhaps bathe. If he refused—well, he wouldn’t refuse. That was all there was to it.
To her surprise, he didn’t. He looked at her rather narrowly when she told him with more than a hint of belligerence that she needed a bath, but after eyeing her up and down he didn’t argue. Lora didn’t much like that when she thought about it—it was insulting to have someone agree that one stank—but she wasn’t going to quarrel with the results. He meant to go fishing for their supper, and he agreed to take her with him, provided she did as he told her, and didn’t wander off.
The spring-fed stream that trickled down the side of the mountain near the cave widened as it cut through the jungle. Max led her along it via a path he had already cut through the thick vegetation until, without warning, the stream shot out into space with a shower of sparks, to tumble down a staircase of gray rocks before cascading into a small lagoon perhaps twelve feet below. As waterfalls went, this one was nothing spectacular, but Lora found it beautiful. When she and Max had worked their way down over the steplike rocks on one side of the waterfall to stand looking up at the falling torrent of water, Lora felt the first rush of exhilaration she had known since the plane crash. The scene was like something from Green Mansions, which she had her students read every year. Framed by lush, hanging greenery, with sunlight falling tangentially through the canopy of leaves to glisten on the sparkling drops that shot away from the main fall of rushing water, the view before her took her breath away. Garlands of scarlet h
ibiscus trailed from the trees with which they were intertwined to hang over the water. Exotic orchids of nearly every color imaginable grew in thick patches along the sides of the lagoon itself. Near the rocky banks, a profusion of water lilies flourished. Their waxy white blossoms and dark green leaves glistened with water droplets that sparkled in the sun. Birds fluttered in the trees overhead, while monkeys chattered as they swung from branch to branch. Nearer at hand, a snake slithered across a rock, but Lora was so caught up in the beauty of it all that the snake didn’t seem frightening at all, but natural. Even the rustling of a particularly dense patch of greenery on the far side of the pool didn’t disturb her rapt appreciation. This was the jungle of Edgar Rice Burrows and Anya Seton. This was the jungle of Tarzan and Sheena. This was the jungle as she had always thought it would be.
Now, except for the occasional squawk of a parrot or the sudden chatter of a monkey, the dull roar of the water itself was the only sound. When Max spoke, she jumped. She had been so lost in admiration that she had nearly forgotten why she was here.
“If you want to take a bath, make it quick. We want to be away from here before sundown. That’s when the animals come to drink.”
His sour voice didn’t detract from the validity of the warning. Lora shuddered at the idea of still being here when lions and tigers and pythons and God only knew what else came to claim the pool, and turned to survey the glistening water. She saw a flash of scales beneath the surface, and had a sudden thought.
“Is it safe?” She must have sounded doubtful, because she thought she saw a touch of humor in the black eyes that had been as remote as glaciers for the last few days.
“Yep,” he answered, sounding as if he had copied his conversational style from a TV western. “Just stay near the edge and me, and you’ll be fine. But watch out for the piranhas.”
“What?” Her eyes were enormous as she silently begged him to admit he was kidding. His face, that expressionless stone face, did not change by so much as a twitch.
“Don’t worry, they won’t eat you. At least, as long as you don’t go out in the center of the pool. Go on, do you want to take a bath or don’t you? We don’t have all day.”
He had moved a little away from her as he spoke, settling himself down on a convenient rock and extracting the fishing line he had made from laboriously unraveling a thread from his windbreaker, which was made of nylon and therefore made the thread much stronger than it looked. At the other end was a hook which he had fashioned from a safety pin in the first aid kit. The result was crude but effective, as their dinners for the last two days attested.
Lora looked at him uncertainly. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“About what?”
“About the piranhas?”
“No.”
“But I can’t go into a pool that’s swimming with piranhas!”
“Yes you can. They’re not vicious. As long as you’re not bleeding somewhere. You’re not, are you?”
It took a moment for Lora to register this as the very intimate question it was. Her face burned.
“No!”
“Well, then.” He seemed to consider the matter settled. Lora glared at him, then looked nervously at the pool. Surely Max would not send her into the water only to be devoured by woman-eating fish! No, he would not. Of course he would not. Whether he admitted it or not, he was just teasing her. . . .
Still, Lora hung back, staring at the water. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked to the edge of the pool and climbed carefully down the shallow rock bank. When she reached the edge of the water, she took one more uncertain look at Max, who was staring at the place where his fishing line disappeared beneath the water with a look of intense concentration. He would not let her go into a piranha infested pool—would he?
Clothes and all, she waded in. Since she only had the jeans and t-shirt and single set of underclothes she had been wearing when they crashed, and the clothes were as filthy as she was, she saw no reason to remove them before bathing. If she was clean while they remained filthy, she would never be able to put them back on. Better to get them soaking wet and let them dry on her. At least they would be clean—and she would not have to worry about him looking at her while she was naked.
“Max?” She was waist deep now, and the cool water felt marvelous, even through her clothes. She just had one problem: soap. She could not get clean if she had no soap.
“What?”
“What should I use for soap?”
“God, you are helpless, aren’t you? Scoop up a handful of mud and use that.”
Lora stared at him. He was looking down at her impatiently from his perch on the flat gray rock. The late afternoon sun was slanting down through the leaves, its rays just touching his hair. Even unwashed and uncombed, its rough black texture looked vibrantly healthy. So did the sun-bronzed tone of his skin, darkened dramatically since the crash. Even the four days’ growth of whiskers on his face became him. Lora decided that he was a man who could turn disreputable into some kind of masculine chic.
She decided he wasn’t kidding. He didn’t look like he was kidding, and, anyway, he hadn’t been much for jokes lately. So she scooped up a handful of mud, stared at it rather dubiously for a moment, and then began to work it into the skin of her arm. To her surprise, she did feel considerably cleaner once she had rinsed it off. Heartened, she scooped up another handful and rubbed her face and neck and hair with it. After all, she reasoned, everyone had heard of mud packs. . . .
“Heyee!” The cry came from Max, and it almost drowned Lora. She screamed, starting, and promptly lost her footing among the slippery pebbles and mud which made up the bottom of the pool, falling with an enormous splash. She floundered beneath the surface, kicking frantically for a foothold. Finally, she found one and shot up, choking. Water streamed down her face from her soaking hair. Her waterlogged jeans hung from her waist as though they were made of lead.
“What’s wrong?” Lora dashed the hair and water from her face and opened her eyes to look nervously around the pool and then at Max.
He was scowling at her from the rock, those ferocious black brows meeting in a wide vee over his nose. He was standing instead of sitting, and beside him curled the thin string of his fishing line, with neither fish nor hook in sight.
“Damn it, you made me lose him!”
“Who?”
“The fish! The damned biggest catfish I’ve ever seen! On my line—until you yelled and made a splash a blue whale couldn’t match!”
“I yelled? You yelled first, and you almost drowned me in the process! Don’t you yell at me for yelling, you, you—”
“I’ll yell at you anytime I damned well please.” He was yelling, his fists balled on his hips and his mustache quivering with anger all out of proportion to the subject of the argument. Those black eyes shot fire at her.
Lora, too, was suddenly furious. She was sick and tired of putting up with his ill temper and she meant to let him know it.
“Well, then, I’ll yell right back!” she said, yelling herself, glaring up at him with an expression to match his. “Who do you think you are, anyway? You’ve been sulking around for days—ever since you had that stupid nightmare! If I’d known it was going to make you mad, I would have let you cry all by yourself—baby!”
There was a moment’s charged silence.
“Why you little—” He bit off a word, but his eyes said it for him. They spat anger at her like twin black machine guns. His hands were no longer balled on his narrow hips, but hung at his sides where the fingers flexed and unflexed as if they itched to close around her throat. Beneath the short-sleeved white t-shirt, the brown muscles of his arms tightened until they resembled rolling hills. He looked as if he was about to explode.
Lora knew that she had hit below the belt by referring to his nightmare, but she didn’t care. It was about time Mr. Macho Stud was brought down a peg or two.
“Crybaby!” she said, taunting. The absurdity of the nursery school na
me did not even occur to her. She wanted to make him mad, and she knew with unerring accuracy that that was the way to do it.
She was right. She could practically see steam come out of his ears. His fists clenched at his sides, and she could see the muscles of his thighs bulge against the material of his jeans as his whole body tensed.
“Shut up, Lora.” The command was a grim warning, uttered through clenched teeth.
Lora lifted her head and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Crybaby, cry, stick your finger in your eye,” she sang softly, and with a bellow he was diving off the rock into the center of the pool, his big body splitting the water as cleanly as a knife. She barely had time to consider the depth of the pool before he was surfacing just a few feet from where she watched, wide-eyed.
He stood up, one large brown hand coming up to sluice water and lily pads from his face, and fixed her with eyes that glittered like jet. Lora instinctively took a step backward, only to lose her footing again on the slippery bottom and fall down. He was upon her in an instant, hauling her out of the water by her shoulders. As she surfaced, spitting and gasping, and shedding as much water as the waterfall, she caught a glimpse of his face and thought she would almost have rather stayed beneath the surface.
“Say it again. I dare you.” His lips barely parted to reveal the glinting white teeth through which he spoke. Lora felt his hands hard on her upper arms, saw the murder that glittered in the black eyes, and for an instant was transported back to when they first met and she had thought he was going to kill her every other minute. He looked as frightening now as he had then . . . only now, she remembered, she wasn’t afraid of him.
“Not so brave at such close quarters, are you, lady?” he sneered.
The sneer was a mistake. It reminded her of her grievances with him. She straightened her spine and glared at him through the trailing, dripping strands of her hair. “Crybaby!” she said again in a soft, goading tone.
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