Escape Out of Darkness (10 page)

But she left him to sleep and headed off down what looked like it had once been a road.

It was forty-five minutes before she came to what passed for civilization. Four or five adobe buildings clustered together around the rough road, and the chickens and dogs outnumbered the curious inhabitants. Maggie had always had a facility
for language, and it took her little time to be presented to the patriarch of the village and to ascertain that they were indeed in Honduras, though about as far from the border and the various camps of marauding rebels as they could be.

At first transportation was a complete impossibility. Once, however, the jefe accepted the fact that he had to deal with an inferior
norteamericana
woman, and once he caught sight of the always acceptable
norteamericano
money, impossibilities became easily accomplished.

And here she was, an hour and a half later, bouncing down the narrowing track, back to Mack, in a battered four-wheel-drive vehicle, a sack of food in the back, the sun beating down, the wind in her hair. God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. If she’d pinpointed their location and secured a running vehicle this easily, anything was possible.

She’d paid careful attention to the landmarks on her trek outward, and the distinctive triple palm tree signaled their campsite from the night before.

She pulled up as close to the beach as she could, put the balky vehicle in neutral, since she had dubious confidence in her ability to restart it, and leapt from the Jeep, racing out toward the ocean to show Mack her triumph.

But he was nowhere in sight. Last night’s campfire was a circle of charred cinders, and she could see the indentation in the sand where the two of them had slept. She whirled around, but there was no sign of him anywhere on the deserted beach. She was alone—abandoned. He hadn’t trusted her ability to get him out of this mess. Damn him, she thought, feeling oddly close to the tears she never shed. Tears of anger, she told herself, feeling bereft. Tears of rage.

“That’s a hell of a vehicle, Maggie.” Mack’s voice came from directly behind her. “Where did you conjure it up from?”

“Where were you?” She turned, her body radiating disapproval. “I thought you’d taken off.” She kept her voice completely even, unmoved by the fact that he was standing there dripping seawater and stark naked.

He shrugged. “I thought the same about you, Maggie. Fortunately, I had enough trust to wait around and see if you were going to return.”

She bit back the scathing reply. “I would have thought you’d had enough salt water yesterday,” she said instead, running her eyes over his body with studied calm. If the turquoise Jockey shorts had been distracting, this was much worse. She was going to dream about his damned, beautiful body, she knew she was.

He shook back his long wet hair and smiled at her sweetly. “It’s very refreshing.” And he started pulling on the clothes he carried over his arm. “You ought to try it,” he said.

“What I’d like to try is a long hot shower in a modern hotel,” she replied, noticing that some of the tension left her as the clothes covered his body. She was becoming more and more vulnerable to him, and it was a vulnerability she couldn’t afford. “We’re in Honduras, but we’re about as far from where we want to be as possible. If only Van Zandt had his damned camp in Costa Rica,” she grumbled.

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed, incensed. “Haven’t you looked at the horizon?” She gestured extravagantly. “This country is nothing but mountains and ridges and steep little valleys. Its roads are nonexistent, its population sparse and suspicious. We are going to have a hell of a time making it to Tegucigalpa.”

“Where?”

“Tegucigalpa. Capital of Honduras, center of rebel activities. That’s where I find out exactly where Van Zandt is, and that’s where the nearest Holiday Inn is. It’s about a hundred and fifty miles as the crow flies, and I figure on these roads it’ll take us three days.”

Mack was fastening the buttons of his much-abused chambray shirt. “Then what are we waiting for?”

They traveled in almost complete silence for the first hour. Maggie was concentrating on her driving. Mack was concentrating first on the provisions she’d conned from the villagers and then on the shredded Texaco map he’d found in the glove compartment that was chock-full of empty shell cases from a weapon that was undoubtedly the size of an elephant gun.

“You still haven’t told me how you managed to get this Jeep,” Mack said finally. “And the food, for that matter.”

“I found a village a little to the west of our beach.”

“And how did you persuade them to part with such a prized possession? I thought your money reserves were running low, and somehow I wouldn’t think a remote village on the east coast of Honduras would take Visa.”

“Nope. They did, however, take our gun.” She’d been trying to avoid her own doubts as to the wisdom of that unavoidable piece of barter, and Mack’s reaction only reinforced her own.

“They did what?”

“I traded them one hundred dollars of American money and the gun. We were out of bullets. It wouldn’t have done us much good.”

“We could have bought ammunition, Maggie. Even without bullets we could have scared someone off with it. Or are you prepared to catch bullets in your teeth, Superwoman?”

“Don’t call me that.”

He was muttering to himself under his breath. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Trust me.” Her voice sounded completely confident, hiding her very real doubts as the jungle around them seemed to thicken to her paranoid eyes.

“Oh, I trust you, Maggie. With my life.” If the sound of his drawling voice wasn’t completely reassuring, Maggie chose to ignore it. He flipped the crumpled map back, folding it over and laying it in his lap. “I think we ought to head back toward La Ceiba, catch the highway that goes through San Pedro Sula, and then on to Tegucigalpa. It’s about as direct as we can get, it has the advantage of major cities and probably adequate hotels, and it would cut our trip in half.”

Maggie bit back the odd little twinge of annoyance and relief. She hadn’t had time to more than glance at the map—she hadn’t even considered the possibility of heading back up the north coast to the bustling little resort area of La Ceiba. But paved roads and a bed for the night sounded almost too good to be true. “What do you suggest we use for money? I only have two hundred dollars left. And as you already mentioned, Visa isn’t ready currency around here.”

“It will be in the larger towns like San Pedro Sula,” he replied. “Don’t you think?”

“Don’t throw me any crumbs, Pulaski,” she snarled. “You’re right, I’m wrong, and my ego isn’t so fragile that I can’t admit it. How do we get to La Ceiba?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Maggie.”

She bit her lips, glaring at the underbrush. “You may as well—you haven’t held back so far.”

“You’ve been driving toward La Ceiba for the last hour anyway. I should think we’ll hit it by midafternoon.”

“The hell I am!” she exploded. “I’m heading due west—”

“La Ceiba is due west, Maggie. Tegucigalpa is directly south of us,” he interrupted calmly.

She would like to have driven the balky Jeep into a banana
tree before admitting he was right. She’d envisioned the geography in her mind, but turned it sideways. She’d been carefully heading west, thinking it was toward the Pacific Ocean and the Honduran capital halfway between, and instead she’d simply been moving farther away.

“Pulaski,” she said in a deceptively gentle voice, “no one likes a smart ass.”

“Maggie,” he replied, his raw voice curiously sweet, “no one likes someone who’s perfect.”

“Then I guess I don’t have to worry about whether you like me or not,” she said with a brittle laugh. “I’m getting further and further from perfection every day.”

“I like you, Maggie,” he said. “I like you just fine.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a Holiday Inn in La Ceiba?” she asked in a mournful voice, changing the subject.

“What is this fixation about Holiday Inns? I’ve seen enough in my younger days to last me a lifetime. Don’t you want to immerse yourself in the experience anymore?”

“I want to immerse myself in a heated swimming pool, a hot tub, a sauna, and a king-size bed with clean sheets.”

“Sorry, it looks too small to have a Holiday Inn. There might be some nice resorts by the beaches, but I would think you’d be happier if we took a small hotel in town.”

“I wouldn’t be happier, but I’d be smarter. All right, Pulaski, I know when I’m beaten. But tell me there’s a Holiday Inn in Tegucigalpa.”

“We can probably find a Fodor’s Guide in La Ceiba that will tell us. That is, if Fodor even publishes one.”

“I wouldn’t think too many people are eager to travel in Central America nowadays,” Maggie said. “Still, they must have some sort of guide. I’ve got a good memory for geography and history but I can’t remember much about Honduras except that it’s all mountains.”

“Good memory for geography? Then why were we heading in the opposite direction?” Mack drawled.

“Shut up, Pulaski, or I’ll hand you over to the rebels when
we reach Tegucigalpa. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to help you find Van Zandt. Or at least make sure that you wouldn’t ever need to see him again.”

“Empty threats, Maggie. Think of the long hot shower you’ll get tonight. Probably a wonderful seafood dinner, maybe a local wine.”

“Sadist. Hand me a tortilla and be quiet. I’ve got to concentrate on my driving.”

“How are you going to concentrate on your driving when you’re trying to eat—”

“Shut up, Pulaski,” she said in a dangerous tone of voice.

“All right, Maggie. But I don’t think—”

Whatever he didn’t think was destined to remain lost as a bullet whizzed directly between Maggie and Mack, straight through the center of the cracked windshield.

“Hell and damnation,” Maggie cursed. “Duck, Pulaski.” She stamped on the gas, and the balky four-wheel-drive coughed, sputtered, and then jerked forward at a marginally faster speed. Another bullet whistled past her ear, followed by the ominous crack of a rifle, and Maggie hunched over the steering wheel, biting her lip and cursing in a low, steady voice.

“What the hell is this?” Mack demanded from his position on the floor of the front seat. “You sure you paid for this Jeep?”

“I don’t have your talents for hot-wiring,” she muttered as the Jeep careened wildly down the jungle track. Her vision was not the best, since she didn’t dare do more than peer over the steering wheel, and she had more than one glancing encounter with the underbrush before righting the vehicle. “I can’t imagine why someone would want to shoot at perfect strangers—” Another bullet slammed into the dashboard five inches from her hand, knocking out the speedometer, which didn’t work anyway, and Maggie stamped on the accelerator once more.

“I can imagine. Didn’t you take a good look at this Jeep, Maggie?” How Mack could manage to sound reasonable from his hunched-over position on the floor of the Jeep was beyond her comprehension, but his raspy voice was calm and collected.
“This was some sort of government vehicle, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it once belonged to the local equivalent of the DEA. I imagine we’ve stumbled into a branch of the local import/export business that doesn’t care for government visitors. Probably doesn’t care for
turistas
, either. I think the sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“I’m driving as fast as I can!” she snapped as they bounced and jarred their way through the underbrush. The only sound in the steamy noontime air was the sound of jungle birds and the laboring noise of the old engine. “Do you hear anything?”

Slowly Mack pulled himself back into the front seat as Maggie took some of the pressure off the gas pedal. “I guess we’re out of range. For now.”

“What do you mean ‘for now’?”

“I mean I expect there are any number of drug operations in these jungles. And we’ll have to count on luck to avoid them.”

“Luck and my driving,” Maggie shot back, daring him to say something.

Mack only raised his eyebrows and sunk down lower in the seat. “Sure thing, kid. Wake me when it’s over.”

They drove into La Ceiba just after three o’clock in the afternoon. Maggie’s Rolex had survived its long submersion of the day before, but her nerves weren’t holding up as well. The sight of the bustling port city, surrounded by white beaches and fertile valleys, and the sheer mass of people sent mixed emotions through Maggie.

“Civilization,” Mack said.

“Yes. For what it’s worth.”

“For what it’s worth, I think there’s an airport here,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we could get a flight to Tegucigalpa.”

“God, I’d give my right arm to get rid of this damned Jeep,” Maggie said fervently.

Mack could have made the obvious comment, and she steeled herself for it. He’d never once offered to drive on the long, hot
trip, even when she wrestled with the stubborn clutch, the stalling motor, or the windshield wipers, which had flown off their stalks when they’d hit a flash rainstorm. He hadn’t given her a word of advice when she’d had to drive the damned thing almost straight down a cliff, hadn’t done anything more than clench the door handle and his teeth when they’d skidded on the rubble and ended up sideways in a shallow streambed.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, would have made her give up in her battle to control the Jeep, and Mack must have known it. Even now he said nothing, simply waited for her to shove the damned gear shift into first and head down into the port city. She put her narrow, long-fingered hand on the gear shift, paused, and looked at him.

She had battled the jungle, the narrow track that was better suited to mules than motorized vehicles, battled and won. And never in her life had she known a man who could just sit back and let her fight her own way, in her own time. Who trusted her enough to know what she had to do. A sudden rush of gratitude, affection, and something more swept over her, and with it came the exhaustion she’d been holding at bay. He looked so solid sitting there, and suddenly she wanted to put her head on his shoulder, close her eyes, and forget her battles.

“Pulaski,” she said. “Would you drive the rest of the way?”

She’d finally managed to surprise a reaction out of him. His warm hazel eyes were startled, his eyebrows rose in his newly tanned face, and his mouth quirked upward. “Tired of fighting, Maggie May?”

“I’m not fighting you.”

“I know that. We both know who you’re fighting.” And of course he did, bless his heart. He knew her almost as well as she knew herself. In some ways even better. It was an unnerving thought, and one she didn’t have the energy to dwell on right there and then.

“Yes, I’m tired of fighting. Drive till you come to the cleanest, quietest hotel you can find.” She climbed out of the driver’s
seat, stumbled around behind the Jeep, and stood by the passenger’s side.

Mack hadn’t moved. He was sitting there, looking at her, warmth and compassion and something else in those wonderful eyes of his. Before she knew what he was doing, he slid his large, warm hand behind her neck, under the loose braid, and pulled her face down to his. His mouth caught hers in a gentle, open-mouthed kiss that was reassuring, restrained, and yet hinting at a passion that had been waiting to burst forth.

She was too surprised and too exhausted to react—to respond or to fight—and before she could make up her mind, he moved away, sliding over into the driver’s seat.

She climbed in, the warmth of his body still clinging to the tattered seats. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “We can’t afford to complicate matters.”

He said nothing, his face blank as he put the Jeep in gear and started down toward the city. “I’m simplifying matters,” he said finally. And she was too weary to argue or even ask him what he meant.

Hotel La Ceiba was a small, quiet, unprepossessing little place on a side street in the surprisingly noisy town. Pulaski checked them in, prepaid the extravagant fee of eight dollars, and led her up to a small room on the third floor. The halls were narrow and well-swept, the room he took her to had two narrow beds, colorful rag rugs on the floor, and a crucifix on the whitewashed wall.