He frowned and then the frown eased into something not exactly a smile but a close relation. “Point taken. We’re not in-country and you’re not some grunt under my command. I can be a little abrupt, especially when I’m nervous and I’m going to be nervous until I see you safe in the American consulate. Anyway, nervous is better than careless. Careless can get you kil– in trouble. See you in the morning.”
He turned and walked out. No parting hug, not even a handshake. I shook my head at my earlier notion of a romantic night at that darling little hotel. What was I thinking?
I shucked my clothes, took a shower and washed the grit out of my hair. I rubbed conditioner into it and let it air dry. I put on my white cotton nightgown with the Mexican floral embroidery around the neck. My fingernails were dirty and two were broken. I worked on them for a while, then brushed my hair.
I inspected myself in the bathroom mirror. I saw a red-haired woman with long Pre-Raphaelite waves. (All right, I’m vain but my hair is my best feature and it does look like the flowing tresses on those Arthurian maidens the Victorians loved to paint.) The woman in the mirror was fair-skinned with blue eyes that were nice enough but ordinary, not the kind of deep ocean-blue that a lover could fall into and never surface. Her nose was thin and long, not too big, thank God, but not cute or pert. She had okay lips, the top one too thin and the bottom too fat but on balance they passed. Her second-best feature was her chin, which was as delicately pointed as Audrey Hepburn’s. If boys fell for chins instead of eyes, this gal could have had a different date every Saturday.
Moving from her face to her body, she was on the tall side with breasts a little on the small side. Her waist was nicely slender but her hips too thin to make waves in a bathing suit. Overall, I’d give her an eight, oh hell, eight-point-five. That’s 8.5 out of a possible 10, not going to go home with the gold but a respectable showing. Smile for the cameras, Rory.
Oh, and she had a great smile. Terrific smile, broad and wide with real Pepisdent teeth, shiny and straight and white as snow. Give that girl a 9!
So why didn’t she get even a goodnight kiss from Mr. Call-Me-Rock?
I turned out the lights and flopped in bed. Maybe he was gay? That would explain a lot. Mushy inside, soft on kids and grannies but has to hide it by becoming a trained killer. Typical over-compensation. Boasts about chasing girls when he can’t bring himself to touch one. Probably does push-ups every night until he’s too exhausted to think about naked boys.
Poor, tortured man! You’ve done this before, Aurora Constable. Fell for pale, artistic Stephen Schaeffley your senior year at Boston School of Performing Arts, made him write poetry to you and hold hands in the hallway until he botched a suicide attempt and got his stomach pumped. Do Rock and yourself a favor and accept him for who he is. Stay in touch of course. How could you not? Be his best friend, the one he can confide in. Maybe you can even hook him up with a nice guy. They’ll settle down, open up a little business in an old house on Mulberry Drive: antiques on the first floor, karate classes on the second.
Yup, I was going crazy, all right. All this went though my mind while I lay in the darkness on my lumpy bed, listening to the snores of my neighbor and the raucous laughter of a group of truckers swilling beer a few doors down. They must be outside. I could hear Rock’s voice among them. Why the hell wasn’t he in his own room?
I got up and dialed the thermostat to coldest, not that I thought it would make much difference. The room was about as cool as a refrigerator whose door had been open all night. There wasn’t even a fan. I had some bottled water but it had gotten warm.
I must have drifted off because the next time I looked at the clock it said four o’clock. The room was no cooler and I’d kicked off my sheet. I couldn’t wait to get back to Boston, where it’s never hot or even warm, just sometimes unseasonably temperate. That would be so nice. Back on campus at BU. Back in Richard’s big old mansion with my own suite of rooms. I dreaded telling him what happened. He was already over-protective, worse than my father. Of course, Daddy was old, a little out of it, so maybe Richard thought it was his duty, at least until I got married to some nice, over-protective investment banker like himself.
And then there was Rock, over-protective in his own way, indifferent in every other way.
Drop it, Rory.
I closed my eyes but couldn’t get back to sleep. The night was silent. Everyone had finally gone to bed and my sonorous neighbor must have rolled on his side. I was thirsty. There was a vending machine downstairs with cold cans of oversweet Mexican sodas. Rock had given me a wad of money at the drugstore and told me to keep the change. I put on my clothes and sandals, grabbed some coins and slipped outside on quiet little cat feet. Rock would never know.
I padded to the stairs, then headed to the vending machine near the office. It was a long walk and it got longer. Only a thin sliver of moon was out and the street level was dark with shadows. The unbroken line of parked trucks made it narrow and a little creepy. I began to wonder if this was a good idea, but thirst made me press on.
I reached the machine, put in my coins and selected a can of orange Fanta. It rolled out with a clank that sounded loud in the silent night. As I started back to my room, a pair of headlights pulled into the parking lot. A police car drove past and stopped in front of the office. The nearness of the police was reassuring. I headed down the walk, which was just as dark as before but now not quite so creepy.
I was almost at the stairs when I heard footsteps, coming down fast. Suddenly nervous again, I flattened myself against the wall, concealed in the shadows. A moment later, a tall figure appeared at the base of the stairs, looking left and right. Looking for something. What?
For me. I suddenly realized it was Rock and stepped out from the wall. “I’m right here.”
He spun around, startled. I had a brief, sneaky thrill at having ambushed him.
Then I heard the icy anger in his voice. “I told you not to go outside!”
“I didn’t go far, just to get a drink.”
“It was stupid. This place is not safe. What if someone grabbed you?”
“I’d yell for the police.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“I’m not joking. The police are here.”
The ice left his voice. “What?”
“A police car just drove up. They went to the—”
“Hush!” he suddenly whispered, putting his hand to my mouth.
I heard a pair of voices, speaking in low tones but growing louder. Rock stepped back into the shadows, pulling me with him, an arm around my waist, his hand over my mouth. I began to see how easy it would have been to seize and silence me. You’d think I would have learned something from this morning. Mr. Paranoid had a point, except no one had grabbed me but him.
Two policemen rounded a corner about fifty yards away. They cut across the parking lot, heading toward our section of the motel. A minute later and I saw them at the far end of the walk, coming directly toward us. Wasn’t there anyone that Rock trusted? What did we have to fear from a pair of Mexican cops? I didn’t know why they’d shown up but they clearly weren’t here to rob or rape. What’s more, they’d see us when they got near and assume he’d attacked me. This was not going to end well.
They were coming closer, still talking. Rock’s grip on me tightened. “Shhh,” he whispered in my ear. I realized I’d been rescued by a madman. What was he going to do when the police saw us and drew their guns? Not give up quietly, I knew that much. Even outnumbered and unarmed, Rock was dangerous. I began to wonder if he was drawn to danger, even sought it, excited by the prospect of violence. Was this the same man who only hours before laughed while a child clung to him like a monkey? Rock didn’t simply have different sides; he had multiple personalities.
The two policemen were only a few yards away now, close enough I could see their features. One was ruddy-cheeked, the other sallow with a prominent nose. Any moment they’d spot us.
The sallow one abr
uptly raised his hand and pointed, but not at us, at something farther off. “Ahí está la moto.”
“Vamos a echar un vistazo,” said the other.
Their pace quickened and they walked past, so close I could have reached out and touched them. A moment later, Rock let go of me. He stepped out of the shadows so I could see him and put his finger to his lips, gesturing upstairs. I saw no sense in this game-playing but I was ready to do anything to keep from being shot by a rattled cop.
We tiptoed up. Rock gestured for us to get against the wall, back in the shadows. As I did, I glanced down and saw the policemen about thirty feet distant, standing beside Rock’s motorcycle, one of them jotting in a notebook. I had no idea what that was about but I found it alarming. Were they looking for us? Why?
We’d gotten out of one dilemma only to be in another. The clerk must have given them our room number. They’d be coming upstairs in a minute. Where did we go now?
After what seemed hours I saw them crossing the parking lot, headed back toward their car. What was going on?
“They’re going to radio for back-up,” Rock whispered.
“Why?” I whispered back. “What do the police want with us?”
“The two men I killed, seems they were cops. That’s what these guys were talking about.”
“They were kidnappers!”
“They don’t know that. They think something’s fishy all right, but at the moment all they care about is finding a cop killer.”
“How did they know to look here?”
“They didn’t. There’s police all over the state doing the same thing.”
“All right, but how did they know to look for us?”
“Must have been a watcher at the hotel after all, which means a gang. Bad news.”
“But that was once we were inside. How did they know to look for a motorcycle?”
‘I doubt they did. The description is a tall, tough-looking guy—not much to go on there—and an American woman with red hair. I was stupid to let the clerk see you. They know about the bike now. The cop with the notebook was writing down my license plate. In a little while, they’ll have a name to go with the description.”
“But why would this gang give our description to the police?”
“Payback. There’s no better way to get shot than to kill a cop, whatever the circumstances. Go to your room and get whatever you need, fast. Stay there until I knock.”
I went to my room, grabbed my purse, threw my extra clothes in a pillowcase and sat on my bed, waiting for his knock. The thought occurred that I wasn’t a cop killer and didn’t look like one. Leaving with Rock was foolhardy, just a way to put myself in more danger. I’d do better to go to the office and give myself up. I’d probably have to spend some time in jail but at least I wouldn’t get shot. They’d question me about Rock but I had little to tell them except for his name, which they’d soon have anyway. The court would let me get in touch with the American consul, who would contact Richard. Before the day was over, I’d be represented by a high-powered Mexican attorney, charges would be eventually dropped and I’d be on my way home.
And Rock? The man saved my life and then put it right back in danger. Being with him was exciting in more than one way, too much so. He might be a swashbuckling soldier of fortune but I was a demure college student with a bright future that involved nothing more exciting than marriage, children and maybe running a foundation endowed from the family fortune.
Never were two roads more clearly marked. I was grateful to Rock but I owed him nothing and could do him no good by staying with him, in fact only be a burden. Telling the police what happened would reduce his chances of getting shot. In fact, if I could only convince him to go with me and give himself up, we’d both be free by this time tomorrow. All I had to do was convince to drop his paranoia.
Fat chance.
I heard a soft, persistent rapping but it wasn’t at my door. After a moment there was a voice, sleepy and annoyed – a trucker, I supposed. Then I heard Rock’s voice, low and urgent. A short exchange followed and the voices grew faint. Rock must have gone into the man’s room. What for? Why was he wasting precious time?
If I was going to take action, now was the moment, while he was occupied. If I ran, I could be at the stairs in thirty seconds and out of sight a moment later. There was absolutely no reason to linger.
So why was I lingering? What was so hard about leaving Rock?
I stood and walked to the door. I turned the doorknob. Now or never.
Midnight Escape
Rock shoved money in the trucker’s hand. They shook and he left for his room. He quickly gathered his things, walked out, scanned the parking lot, then opened the door to Rory’s room. She was sitting on the bed. “Let’s go,” he told her. She rose and joined him outside. He gestured at the stairs and they hurried down. He pointed, “This way.”
She didn’t move. “Your motorcycle is this way,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction.
God, women! Never just trust and go along. There’s always a discussion. “We’re not taking the bike.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll be looking for it. We wouldn’t get fifty miles.”
“But we’re only miles from Hermosillo, aren’t we?”
“About sixty but the consulate won’t be open for hours. Even if we make the city, we’ll have to dodge the local cops. The minute one spots my bike, it’s Game Over.”
“We can—”
“No more talking! Come on.”
They walked quickly, shielded from view by the row of parked trucks. Finally he turned and made his way between two vehicles, Rory following. He scanned the empty lot one last time and pointed to a separate lot reserved for eighteen-wheelers, the behemoths of the trucking world. The big trucks were nearly two hundred feet away with no cover between them and the motel. He grabbed her hand and they ran.
The tall bright sodium lights of the parking lot made them visible for any eyes to see. Any moment he expected to hear shouts of “Alto, alto!” It took forever to cross, like they were caught in one of those dreams where you run but at a maddening crawl. Once safe in the shadows of the eighteen-wheelers, he knew they’d actually done in less than a minute – though without her he could have done it thirty seconds.
But then she was the reason he was doing this, wasn’t she? If not for her, he’d get on his bike and take his chances; he’d been in tougher spots. The thing was he hadn’t the right to make her share the risk.
He wondered briefly if he would have done better to leave her at the motel, tell her to go to the office and surrender. At least she’d be in no danger of getting shot. Once she was at a police station, she could contact the American consulate. After that, she’d be safe and eventually free to return home. What bothered him was what might happen between arrest and arraignment. These were state police who would take her to the nearest town with a jail for female prisoners. That could be a long drive. It was unlikely these two cops were dirty but word of her capture would spread fast, maybe to unfriendly ears.
That branding business bothered him. This hadn’t been any ordinary snatch. Maybe somebody wasn’t after an American girl, however pretty. Maybe they wanted her, Aurora Constable. Not for her money though. Then for what? Who the hell gives an order to brand a woman? Only a crazy man. He made himself stop thinking about it. He had more pressing concerns.
There were more than a dozen eighteen-wheelers. He roamed among them till he found one with big red letters that said Riviera Transporte. “This is it,” he told her.
“Can you drive that?”
“If I need to, but I don’t need to.”
“Hola!” came a shout, as the trucker came into view.
“Hola, Juanito,” said Rock. Juanito was a short man with a Zapata mustache and muscles everywhere but his bulging stomach. He unlocked the cab and gestured for them to get in. Rock climbed metal drop-down stairs and held out a hand to help Rory up. Juanito got in on the driver’s s
ide and pulled a curtain on a compartment above and behind the seat.
“What’s that?” said Rory.
“Sleeping compartment, where you and I will be.”
She stood and peered in. “Can’t we just sit up front?”
“Not unless you want to shave your head. That hair’s a giveaway and your scarf doesn’t hide it. Let’s go. Leave your purse on the floor and get in.”
She crawled in until only her shoes dangled outside the compartment; a moment later they disappeared as well.
“Ewww!”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s smelly.”
“Lo siento,” said Juanito with a shrug and a grin.
“What did he say?”
“Said he’s sorry. Move over. Here I come.”
“There’s not room!”
“We’ll have to make room. Juanito wants me out of sight too. He could go to prison for this.”
Rock wriggled into the space. It was tight all right, designed for one sleeper, not two, especially when the second was as big as himself.
They heard the truck start. A metal divider rose like a power window from a slot in the side of the sleeper. “What’s that?” she said with alarm. “Is he going to shut us in here?”
“No, it only goes partway up. If the driver has to brake in a hurry, it keeps whoever’s up here from flying out. They use the sleeper if there’s a two-man team, cuts the downtime.”
The truck began to move. Rock found the curtain cord and pulled it shut, cutting out the light from the parking lot.
“Hay una almohada,” said Juanito.
“What did he say?”
“Said there’s a pillow.” Rock felt something soft between them. “Here.”
“Thank you.… Ewww.”
Rock didn’t ask what was wrong and she didn’t say. He wondered if rich girls had more sensitive noses than other females. More sheltered probably, used to perfumes and orchids and French cooking. Thank God he’d only have her on his hands for another day or so.
They lay on their backs. He was too tall, had to bend his knees. The ceiling was low, not even room enough to sit up, at least for him; maybe she could. He dug the phone out of his pocket, scrolled for a name and hit it. No answer of course, not at this time of night. He left a message. “Hola Tío, soy yo. Llámame cuando te levantes. Estoy en problemas y necesito tu ayuda.” He put the phone away.
DARK BLISS (Dangerous Games,) Page 5