Against the Wind (24 page)

“Carlos found you,” he said, moving forward and taking
the damp paper towel from her hand. He pressed it gently against the line of blood, and she let out a little gasp at the cool, stinging sensation.

“He could have killed me.”

“Of course he could have but he wasn’t intending to. Carlos is very good with a knife—a craftsman, in fact. He cut you just as deeply as he intended, and no more.”

“Well, hurray for craftsmen,” Maddy shot back, her fear receding as anger took its place.

“Do you have any disinfectant? Hydrogen peroxide, alcohol?”

“I thought the great Carlos knew what he was doing,” she snapped.

“I said he was good. I didn’t say he was clean.”

Maddy glared up at him. “I’ll get it. In the meantime you can fix me a drink.”

“You aren’t going to order me out of your house?” he countered.

“Would it do any good?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t bother. I don’t have the energy to waste at this point,” she said in a weary voice, stumbling toward the hallway. The hand that reached out and caught her was gentle.

“Why don’t you go into the living room? I’ll find the disinfectant and make you a drink. Then we can decide what you’re going to do.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have, Jake.” Her voice sounded almost lost, damnably weak, but there was nothing she could do about it.

He gave her a gentle push on her bare shoulder. “Go sit down. We’ll talk about it.”

She went obediently enough, too weary to fight any further. She lay back against the sofa, not even opening
her eyes as he began painting her rib with iodine. She should have tossed that out years ago, she thought, biting her lip rather than complain.

“I’ve figured out what you can do,” he said, and the sound of his gravelly voice had its usual, unbidden effect on her.

She opened one eye and stared at him distrustfully. “And what’s that?”

“Run away with me.”

Maddy just looked at him. “Now that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” she drawled finally. “But I’m afraid I have to decline. You of course could always run away all by yourself. I’d like that a lot.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He was unmoved by her sarcastic refusal. “Right now I’m the only thing between you and Carlos’s knife. If you stopped to think about it for a moment you’d recognize that fact.”

“We happen to have a very fine police force in Hermosa Beach,” she said stiffly.

“And in L.A. And you know Carlos. You were down in San Pablo. Do you really think
norteamericano
cops are any match for him?”

Maddy hadn’t been able to argue that point with Soledad and wasn’t about to try with Jake. “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can. I’ll remember to send flowers to your funeral.”

“You do that,” she snapped. “Okay, Jake, now you can leave.”

“I thought we already established that it wouldn’t do any good to try to kick me out?”

“Hope springs eternal. At least the police could get rid of you, even if they’re useless with Carlos.”

“Don’t be so sure, Maddy. I’ve had the same training as Carlos.” He sat back on his heels, watching her out of those opaque eyes, and suddenly she felt very vulnerable, sitting there in her jeans and bra and nothing else.

“Let me make it perfectly clear, Jake. I’m not going anywhere with you.” He could make her, of course. They both knew it. All he had to do was put those strong hands on her and drag her out, and she wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight.

Jake shook his head, and she wondered if he could read her mind. He rose, towering over her as she lay back against the sofa cushions. “Let me know when you change your mind.”

“Sure.” Her tone didn’t hold out much hope.

“I mean it, Maddy.”

“Sure,” she said again. “Good-bye, Jake.”

So why was she mad when he left? she demanded of herself with an anger of noble proportions. Why did she feel lonely and bereft when he walked out the door, why did the sound of the Toyota starting up and driving off feel like nails in her coffin? Had she lost her last claim to sanity?

The dark amber drink sat untouched on the coffee table. Leaning forward, she downed it in one gulp, then almost spat it out on the carpet. It was iced tea.

Well, for once maybe Jake was right. A drink wasn’t a very good idea, especially when she was feeling so shaky. Her best bet would be a long walk on the beach. She’d been haunting the ocean for the last six months, when only the pounding of the surf, the freshness of the sea breeze, and the immovable elements of nature had been able to soothe the raw wound that Jake’s death had left.
The ocean still had the power to soothe her, in the midst of the tumult her life had become.

She headed back to the kitchen, picking up her medallion and dropping it over her head. The striped cotton shirt had a nice, clean slice through it, dotted with blood, and she dropped it into the trash with a belated shudder. Of course Carlos had known what he was doing. He would know what he was doing when he came after her again.

She pulled on her loosest cotton sweater, wincing as it grazed her side, changed into her Nikes, and headed down toward the strand. There were only a few runners out at that hour, the usual assortment of dog-walkers, and even one or two handholding couples. Maddy averted her gaze, ignoring the shaft of pain that sliced through her, and started walking.

She lost track of time, her long legs eating up the distance with a hurried, nervous stride that had little chance of calming her. She turned her options over and over in her mind, but none of them seemed the right answer. She could run, of course. Stephen had left her a small, rustic cabin in the mountains. Carlos would have a hard time finding her there. She could go to the police and hope against hope they’d be able to protect her. But Jake was right. Carlos played by different rules.

Or she could turn to Jake. Jake who had lied to her, who had let her father die without her, who had let her spend six months mourning him while he was turning traitor to everything her father had believed in. Jake who only wanted the mythical map to a massacre.

And how did that square up with his actions at Den Phui? He’d put his military career on the line in testifying about that other civilian massacre. Was he going to do it again, betraying Sam Lambert and Richard Feldman and
all the Patronistas? The rebels had depended on the goodwill of the international press. This report would make them little better than Morosa’s murderers.

The growling in her stomach finally brought her up short, and she realized with a start of pleased surprise that she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything much all day, and despite the fright and trauma her body was reasserting its need to be fed. The sun was sinking low over the Pacific, and it was time to be getting back to the tiny house and find something for dinner. She’d been out for almost two hours, and if that hadn’t brought her any answers, another hour wouldn’t either.

There was no sign of the tell-tale Toyota as she climbed up the street toward her house. She wouldn’t have put it past him to reappear, but it seemed as if he’d taken her dismissal as definite. He’d told her to let him know when she’d changed her mind. How was she supposed to do that when she didn’t even know where he was? she thought irritably. San Pablo couldn’t afford a consulate in California, much as they needed one. Maybe he was over in West L.A. in the teeming neighborhood of San Pablo refugees. Much good he’d be to her over there, she thought with a grimace.

The lights should have warned her. Later on she would blame Jake once more. She’d been too absorbed in thinking about him to notice that the darkened house she’d left now had the glow of electric lights: Even the unlocked front door didn’t tip her off. She assumed she’d been too disturbed to lock it properly. After all, Hermosa Beach had very little crime so security had never been an obsession with her.

She walked in and stopped dead. The neat, clean lines of her small living room were suddenly blurred, and she
sank back against the wall, a small whimper of horror breaking the silence.

Carlos had been there. The place was totaled. Every sofa cushion slit, the books torn from the bookcases, the pictures smashed, dishes and glasses a pile of rubble on the floor. Even the spindly dining-room chairs had been splintered.

It took her a moment to move. When she did it was stiffly, in a state of shock, as she picked her way over the torn books, the shards of glass, the piles of stuffing.

The kitchen was worse. He’d emptied out the flour and sugar bins and hurled them around the tiny area. Every can was pulled out of the cupboards, the refrigerator was gutted, and the floor was swimming with spilled milk and wine and smashed Tab bottles.

There was a strange, painful little murmuring, and Maddy realized it came from her own throat as she moved through the hall to her bedroom and stood there, staring in horror.

Carlos had slashed through her clothes, emptied her dressers, smashed the mirrors, and trashed her closets. But worst of all was the bed.

He’d ripped through the center of the bed, a deep slash, and then crossed it, like a crucifix. And somewhere he’d found something red, probably catsup from the refrigerator, and poured it all over the deep incision. Feathers were still floating in the air from the pillows, sticking to the red stuff, and suddenly Maddy’s stomach heaved.

It wouldn’t have made any difference if she’d thrown up in the middle of her bedroom, she thought as she leaned over the toilet. Carlos had festooned the bathroom with her shampoo, but all and all it was the neatest room in the house. Unfortunately there wasn’t much in her stomach, and she sat back amid the rubble, shaking with
reaction, wishing there was enough glassless space to curl into the fetal position. As it was, all she could do was huddle back against the wall, wrapping her arms around her long legs, and bury her head against her knees.

She hadn’t even closed the front door, much less locked it. She could hear the sound of the screen door opening and closing, hear the heavy footsteps crunching through the broken glass. She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. If it was Carlos, come back to make sure she got the message, then there was little she could do. There was no back door to the tiny house. She was finally and truly trapped. She viewed that possibility with an equanimity born of desperation and she viewed the sudden appearance of Jake Murphy in her bathroom door with undisguised relief.

His eyes swept over her, meeting her face when he’d finally assured himself that she wasn’t hurt. “So Carlos changed his mind about giving you twenty-four hours,” he said.

Her first answer was a croak, and she quickly cleared her throat. “Apparently so,” she managed.

He reached down and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. She swayed slightly, and he held out his other hand to steady her. Her knees were weak, but her determination and anger were strong enough to support her.

“Are you ready to come with me?” he asked quietly.

She had no choice. She couldn’t stay there, and the idea of an anonymous hotel seemed even more threatening. And Soledad was already gone. There would be no sanctuary with her. Slowly she nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”

There was no triumph in Jake’s face. It must have been a trick of the light, Maddy thought, or a trick of her own
emotions, that he looked almost despairing at her decision. Whatever that expression was, it was soon gone.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

They went in her Alfa. She climbed into the passenger seat without a word, fastened the seat belt, tipped the seat back, and promptly fell asleep. She had no idea in the world where he was taking her, and she didn’t care. As long as it was away from Hermosa Beach, away from Carlos, it really didn’t matter where.

Jake had had to force her to take care of business enough to call Sally and tell her she’d be out of town for a while. Sally promised to send professional cleaners over to the house as soon as she could arrange it, and bless her soul, she asked no questions, other than “Is Jake with you?” And damn her, that seemed to satisfy her worries.

She woke up once when they stopped for gas, a few hours later when they stopped at an all-night diner. “You need to eat something,” he said gruffly.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t give a damn. I am, and I’m not leaving you in the car all alone.”

He had her full attention by now. “Do you think Carlos has followed us?”

“No, but I don’t want to take any chances. Besides, you need something in your stomach.”

She climbed from the car with a slowness that was part defiance, part real body aches. “Where are we?” she questioned as she followed him into the diner.

“Budgewell, California.”

“Budgewell? But that’s …” She let it trail off in sudden suspicion.

He ushered her into a booth. “That’s about seventeen miles from your brother’s cabin,” he finished for her,
handing her a plastic-covered menu. “Yes, I know. That’s where we’re going.”

She didn’t even open it. “How did you know where the cabin was?”

“How else, Maddy? Your mother told me.”

“Of course she did,” Maddy said bitterly, remembering for the first time in hours that she was with the enemy. At least Carlos had the dubious advantage of being on the right side. If there was such a thing, which Maddy doubted.

“What’s that look for?”

Maddy took a careful sip of the coffee placed in front of her by a discerning waitress. “I thought I should mention, just in case you forgot, how much I dislike accepting your help.”

A twisted grin slashed his face. “I hadn’t forgotten.” He ordered a huge breakfast for both of them, then turned his attention back to Maddy.

“That’s a lot of food for you to eat,” she said, taking another sip of the surprisingly good coffee.

“I ordered for you too.”

“Too bad. I don’t like scrambled eggs.”

Jake smiled sweetly. “I have no objections to shoving it down your throat.”

He probably didn’t, she thought grumpily. The caffeine was doing its job, bringing her fully, unpleasantly awake, and the more aware of her surroundings and her company she became, the more uncomfortable she got.