The Seduction of Goody Two-Shoes

by Kathleen Creighton

  “Can I…turn over now?” She could hear McCall’s breathing, raspy and strained. Please be still, she telegraphed silently, desperately. Don’t try anything!

  “Go ahead.” The general took one step back. On the outer edges of her peripheral vision she could see him make an impatient motion with his hand. Was there a gun in it? She couldn’t tell. “Slowly.”

  Slowly, Ellie raised herself up on her elbows, keeping her head bowed and one hand still hidden under the pillow. She coughed, hard and convulsively, to cover any movement when the searching hand found and closed around the hard, cold shape of the Beretta. She coughed again to cover the sounds she might have made when she thumbed the safety. She counted slowly to three, rehearsing the sequence of her next actions in her mind. Visualizing…preparing.

  Then, in a single swift motion she rolled to her side, drew the pistol from under the pillow and fired.

  The Smoker dropped backward without a sound; his rifle fell across McCall’s chest. Ellie was dimly aware that McCall had snatched it up and was on his feet, swinging it by the barrel like a club at the other thug, but long before that she had already turned her own gun on the general. Still only half upright, braced on one elbow, she fired once. The general gave a terrible snarl, like a wounded tiger, and lunged. She fired again, just as he fell heavily across her, pinning her to the mattress. Helpless under the deadweight of his body, she could only listen to the sounds of desperate struggle. Grunts…scuffles…a sickening thud. And then silence.

  It seemed an eternity-an eternity during which she dared not hope, or think, or feel-before she heard harsh and labored breathing. The suffocating weight on top of her was dragged roughly aside and McCall was staring down at her, teeth bared, his hair sticking out like a wild man’s, eyes burning in his gaunt and ravaged face. She thought she’d never beheld a face so terrible before. Or so beautiful.

  “Ellie-oh God, Ellie…” And now his face was a mask of sheer horror as his gaze swept down over her body.

  She followed his gaze and found herself fighting an urge to throw up. She caught at his hand as he reached for her. “It’s not mine. It’s not mine. McCall-he didn’t shoot me. I’m okay-I’m okay, I swear. But we have to get out of here. There might be more-McCall, do you hear me? McCall?”

  He was staring at her, like a man frozen in mid-scream. She squeezed his hand, shook it urgently, and he finally gave himself a single violent shake and wheezed, “You’re okay…you’re not-”

  “I’m fine. It’s the general’s blood.” McCall heard her quivering voice as the roaring in his own ears faded away. He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed hard. “I sh-shot him. What about the other one? Is he d-dead?” She kept staring at him, as though she couldn’t bring herself to look at the three men lying helter-skelter on the hotel-room floor. Reaction was setting in, he realized; in another minute she’d be shaking too hard to walk. And he didn’t think he was in any shape to carry her.

  “Don’t know,” McCall said. “And I don’t think we ought to waste time finding out, do you?” He was pretty sure the guy he’d clobbered with the rifle butt was only out cold-no way of telling for how long. No way of telling how many more of the general’s men might be waiting for them outside, either. Or who else might have heard the gunshots, and how long it would take for someone to decide to call the cops-or get brave enough and come to investigate themselves. “Like you said-we’d best get the hell out of here.”

  He was already pulling on his pants, barely aware of how cold and stiff and wet they were. He glanced at Ellie, who was still standing motionless, staring down at the general’s body. He started to say something, then realized it was her clothes she was looking at, and that the general was sprawled on top of them. He tossed her his shirt. “Here-put this on. Forget the rest.”

  If we make it to the Volkswagen we’ll be okay, he thought. It wasn’t far to his friend’s place. Al might be home by now, and if he wasn’t, well…under the circumstances, McCall didn’t think his old diving buddy would mind a little breaking and entering.

  His shirt hit Ellie about mid-thigh. He watched her struggle with the buttons for a second or two, then abandon the job and just wrap the two halves of the shirt across herself, ignoring the blood that was smeared over the upper half of her body. He felt the tension in his chest ease a little bit when she did that; it had been a hard thing to look at, even knowing the blood wasn’t hers.

  “Let’s go,” she said breathlessly.

  He nodded; the VW’s keys were already in his hand. Flattening himself against the wall, he fingered the curtain back from the window and took a cautious peek. Tropical Storm Paulette had moved on; the darkness was thinning, leaving only the brightest stars to wink in and out among the remnants of storm clouds. He couldn’t see anyone moving around in the courtyard, or hear any shouts or running footsteps. But when he stuck his head out the door he could hear hushed and excited voices farther down the way, and see the pale rectangles of opened doors.

  “Coast is clear,” he whispered. “For the moment. Hurry-”

  “Wait-” One second she was there, pressed against his side, and the next she was gone.

  “What the hell are you-” That was all he had time for before she was back.

  “Couldn’t very well leave without my chocolate,” she said breathlessly, holding up the beach bag. “Or this,” she added, as with the last word she jammed it onto her head-the hot-pink sun visor with the word Acapulco embroidered across the band in rainbow colors.

  He rolled his eyes skyward as he caught a glimpse of her smile-or a feeble memory of it. Then they were running, splashing through puddles, running together through the gray dawn as the Day of the Dead awoke with slamming doors, and cautious whispers rose to shouts behind them.

  “I just want to know one thing,” McCall panted when they were in the car and he’d coaxed the VW’s engine to grudging, wheezing life. Hunched over the wheel and still breathing hard, he tore his eyes from the alley’s potholes and puddles long enough to throw her a look. “What in the hell have you got in that thing that’s worth risking your life for?”

  Ellie was concentrating on breaking apart the chocolate bar she’d just unwrapped. “Video camera,” she said as he took the half she offered him. She paused to lick her fingers. “I’ve got it all on tape-the whole operation…the general’s part in it.” The look she gave him was bleak and frightened, and he knew suddenly that even though the blood on her body wasn’t hers, she had wounds on her soul. “It’s the only proof we’ve got that I didn’t just kill a Mexican government official in cold blood. If we can just get it to someone… Someone we can trust.”

  “I’ll get you there,” McCall said. It felt like a vow to him.

  Fifteen minutes later he was wishing with all his heart that the video camera in Ellie’s sun visor was still operational. He’d have given just about anything to have been able to record the look on his diving buddy Al Loman’s face when he opened his front door, just as dawn was breaking in all its rosy tropical splendor, to find the two of them half-naked and bloody on his doorstep.

  McCall was avoiding her. Ellie was certain of that, just as certain as she was that he’d deny it if she accused him of such a thing. And it was true that she had no proof at all, other than an uncharacteristic heaviness in her spirit…a deep and mystifying sense of loss.

  It had been more than twenty-four hours since they’d arrived at the American consulate in Merida, late in the evening in the midst of the eerie and uniquely Mexican celebration of death known as Dia de los Muertos. Postponed by Tropical Storm Paulette, the annual festival had been in full swing, with church bells tolling, streets and shops decorated with papier-mâché skeletons and grinning skulls, and candlelight processions winding their way to local cemeteries for all-night vigils of respect and remembering. For some, the ancient ritual was a solemn occasion; for others-including most of the tourists-it was simply an excuse for a party.

  It had seemed odd to Ellie-almost surr
eal-to be riding in a taxi through streets awash in a magnificent red-gold sunset and filled with carefree people, all singing and dancing and calling out to one another and consuming enormous quantities of pulque. Death had come too close to her-not the papier-mâché make-believe kind, but the real thing. She could feel it still-warm blood no shower could ever wash away…cold terror and yawning black emptiness. She had shuddered and shuddered, gazing at the chanting celebrants and dancing skeletons through the windows of the taxi, and had longed for McCall to notice and put his arms around her and comfort her. But he’d been lost in his own reflections and hadn’t seemed to notice, and for some reason she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell him how much she needed him.

  It’s been a long and stressful day, she’d thought. We’re both exhausted…probably a little in shock. She realized now that his withdrawal from her had begun long before that, almost from the moment they’d arrived on his friend Al’s doorstep, bloody and barely clothed.

  Things had happened so fast after that. She and McCall had been whisked into showers and borrowed clothes and then off to the airstrip and onto a private plane for the long flight across the Yucatan to Merida. During all of that time they’d had no chance whatsoever to talk, no time to be alone together. McCall, of course, had been in constant and friendly company with his friend Al, leaving Ellie with plenty of time to reflect on the fact that she’d just shot two people.

  The blur of activity had continued after their arrival at the consulate. There’d been a party in progress there, too, and the sudden appearance of two American citizens in desperate need of assistance hadn’t exactly been a welcome interruption. Once Ellie’s status and the full urgency of their situation had been made clear, she and McCall had been hustled up back stairways and installed in separate rooms and told to “get some rest,” while an endless series of phone calls was begun and the machinery of government agency interaction set in motion.

  Morning had brought the news that General Reyes wasn’t dead after all. He and his two lieutenants were said to be in a local hospital, the two gunshot victims in critical condition, the third man suffering from a concussion. Ellie had mixed feelings about that. Based on the videotaped evidence she had provided, the three had been placed under arrest pending further investigation.

  Ellie had spoken on the phone with her supervisor and with her partner Ken Burnside, still in Miami and recovering nicely from his emergency surgery. McCall had spoken with some acquaintances who would check in on Inky. They’d been questioned intensively, together and separately, by both American and Mexican government officials. Arrangements had been made to fetch Ellie’s overnighter from the hotel at Lago Bacalar; there was no word, yet, as to whether it or the money she’d hidden in it had been recovered.

  It was evening, now, and Ellie hadn’t seen much of McCall since the midday meal, which had been served around two o’clock, according to Mexican custom. She found that she missed him with an intensity that astonished her. She felt depressed and restless, and filled with a strange, indefinable fear. She wanted desperately-needed-to be alone with him, to talk with him. She knew that something had happened to her in the course of the past few days, something that would change her and affect her life forever. Like a child waking up in strange surroundings, she needed to be held and soothed and told that everything was going to be all right.

  But before she could allow herself to go in search of him, there was one more thing she had to do. She told herself she’d waited so long to call her parents because she wanted to be sure they were home, all the farm chores finished and both of them snug in the house. It could be cold in Iowa, this late in the fall. She wondered if they’d had snow.

  She couldn’t explain why her palms were slippery with sweat when she picked up the phone, or why her fingers shook when she dialed.

  “Mom?”

  “Ellie? My goodness…” Why did her mom always sound so surprised to hear her voice? “Wait-let me go get your dad…” and she could hear Lucy calling in the distance, “Mike! It’s Ellie-pick up the cordless.” A moment later, breathlessly, “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you called. How did-”

  At the same time there was a click, and her father’s calm voice. “Hi, Punkin, how’s it going?”

  “Hi, Dad. Everything’s fine. I just-”

  “That job you said you had to do-that all taken care of now? How’d it go?”

  “Fine, Dad. Everything’s…okay. Uh…Mom, Dad, there’s kind of a lot that’s been happening-I can’t really talk about it right now, but I just wanted you to know I’m okay, and…I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?”

  “Ellie?” That was her mom, sharp and alarmed. And then her dad’s voice, quietly breaking in, “By the way, how’d that new partner of yours work out? What’d you say his name was? McNeill…McMurphy…”

  “McCall,” Ellie said on an exhalation. “Quinn McCall. Yeah…that worked out after all. Much…better than I expected. Really well, in fact.” She paused, not wanting to give away too much…and became aware of a strange breathless silence on the other end of the line. “Uh…Mom? Dad? You still there?”

  “Quinn McCall…you don’t say,” said her father. His voice was as calm and quiet as always, but she heard something else in it-an unmistakable note of excitement.

  “That’s right. Why? Dad, is something-”

  “No, no-I used to know somebody named Quinn McCall, is all. Doubt if it’s the same person, though. It was a good many years ago-seven or eight, at least. This partner of yours-can you tell us anything about him? Where he’s from-”

  “Oh, Mike,” her mother broke in, exasperated, “I’m sure it’s not the same person. Wouldn’t that be something-”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” Ellie heard herself say. But her heart was suddenly beating fast and hard. I don’t know very much about him, actually. He could be anybody. Anybody at all.

  “Tell you what,” said her dad, sounding way too casual. “Uh, honey…is there somewhere I can send you a fax?”

  Ten minutes later she was standing in the consular office, watching pieces of paper shiver one by one out of an antiquated fax machine. Her chest was beginning to ache from the bludgeoning it had been taking from her pounding heart. She drew a deep, shuddering breath as the machine’s beep signaled the end of the transmission and the last page trembled into the basket. Her fingers shook as she reached to pick it up…blinked it into focus and began to read.

  The breath she’d been holding whooshed from her lungs in a single shocked gust. “Oh…God,” she whispered, ignoring the curious looks she was getting from the consulate’s receptionist. She snatched up another page-then another, and another. “Oh, God-Quinn…”

  McCall had spent most of the evening in his consulate guest room, trying to decide what to do with the rest of his life. There were several good reasons why he didn’t think it was going to be feasible for him to go back and pick up where he’d left off; the trouble was, he hadn’t been able to figure out a good alternative.

  That’s what comes, he thought, of getting involved in other people’s business. Twice in his life, now, he’d set foot on that slippery slope. And twice, now, it had cost him everything he’d worked for. Everything he’d held dear.

  Funny, though, how different this felt from the last time. Before, he’d felt great loss, it was true, but he’d also felt angry…bitter…betrayed. He’d come down here to Mexico knowing in his heart he’d done the right thing, the only thing he could have done under the circumstances, and determined to cut himself off from the world that had rejected him for that. This time…this time he still knew he’d done the right thing, and the only thing he could have done under the circumstances, and once again it had cost him dearly. But now instead of bitterness and anger he just felt…empty. And sad. And awfully damn lonely.

  Last night he’d tried to sleep-should have slept like the dead, exhausted as he was. But the big comfortable bed had felt cold to him. Every muscle in his body had ached to feel th
e warmth of one neat, tidy little body snugged up against his. All his senses were primed and alert, searching for the sweet orange-blossom scent of her…listening for her funny, scratchy voice…watching for the sunlight of her smile. He’d tried to make her part of himself, and he’d succeeded, it seemed. Too well. Now, how was he going to live with that for the rest of his life?

  Of course, he’d thought about going to her, knowing it would be the selfish thing to do. Unforgiveably selfish. Then, tense and wakeful, he’d waited for her to come to him, half of him hoping she would, the other half terrified she would. He’d never be able to turn her away if she did, he knew that. And to stay with her any longer would only make the inevitable separation that much worse. He was already wondering how he was going to manage that, and trying his best to justify slipping away like a thief first thing in the morning, without saying goodbye…taking the coward’s way out.

  When the knock came that evening, he knew instantly who it was, even before he heard her soft and breathless, “McCall? Are you awake? It’s Ellie.”

  He thought about not answering her…feigning sleep. And discovered that, when it came to his Cinnamon Girl, he had no willpower at all.

  He went to the door and opened it, and then just stood and looked at her while his heart tried its best to leap out of his chest. She looked like a girl, fresh and clean as new grass in some sort of greenish-blue Oriental-style silky lounging outfit the consul’s Chinese-American wife had lent her, and for a few treasured moments he feasted his hungry soul on the warm earth and sunshine colors of her. Then his eyes fell on the untidy sheaf of papers she held in her hands. His heart seemed to plummet through the floor of his chest and into his belly. The colors of his world turned gray.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked huskily.

  He stood aside without a word, and she walked past him. He shut the door carefully, then turned to face her.