Escape Out of Darkness (6 page)

“It’s possible,” she allowed. “But not very likely. I’m good at what I do. Not good enough, or no one would have gotten killed at the motel, but good enough to protect both of us.”

“I wasn’t blaming you, Maggie,” he said, and to her amazement she realized that he wasn’t. “But I’ve got to figure out if my life is worth—what is it, nine lives already? And God knows how many more before they’re through.”

“What did you have in mind? Walking into their welcoming
arms next time they sneak up on us? I didn’t know you had a martyr complex.”

She was hoping to sting him. Instead, he just smiled. “I don’t want to be the indirect or direct cause of anybody else getting blown away, Maggie. Particularly not you.”

“Very noble. But even if you made the ultimate sacrifice, they’d probably do their damnedest to get to me, just in case I saw anything or you told me anything that might be incriminating. The people who are after you make a habit of killing innocent people. You included. And once they took care of you they’d be after someone else. There’s no way you can win, you can only do what feels right.” She knew she was preaching, but she couldn’t help it.

“And what if I told you that letting them get me is what feels right?”

“Then I’d tell you you’re full of shit. And you’ll do it over my dead body.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

“Do me a favor then,” she said. “Don’t give me any more problems with these sudden noble impulses. I’ve got all I can handle with the Mafia, the CIA, and the rebels after you.”

“Don’t forget the state police. We’ve stolen a car.”

The tension had broken. “Heavens, let’s not forget the state police,” she said, popping a peanut-butter cookie in her mouth. “If anybody gets you, I’ll have to take the rap alone for this little felony. You can’t give up now, Pulaski. I need you.”

He turned to look at her then. His hazel eyes were warm once more, his sexy mouth curled in a smile, and for the first time in days Maggie remembered his earlier incarnation as Snake, the sex god of the sixties. “Do you, Maggie May? I’ll keep that in mind.” And he turned his attention back to the highway.

“Okay, Maggie,” Mack said, pushing the mirrored sunglasses down on his nose to peer at her. “We’re approaching Houston, it’s three-thirty in the afternoon, and you still haven’t told me where the hell we’re going.”

Maggie shifted for the thousandth time in the cramped front seat of the noisy little VW. Beetles weren’t made for anyone nearly six feet tall—she did far better in big American cars, she thought with a nostalgic sigh. It was lucky she had Third World Causes behind her, because she’d have a hard time explaining to Avis just what happened to her rental car. “We’re meeting Peter Wallace,” she said finally.

“You’ve already told me that much. You just haven’t told me where or when. Or why, for that matter.”

“We’re meeting him at his offices at the Travers Hotel in downtown Houston. I don’t know when—my orders were to check in sometime on Friday and he’d be in touch.”

“Why?”

“He’s supposed to have come up with some answers. Jeffrey Van Zandt might be there too. He always knows more than he should.” Her neutral voice would have fooled most people, and she leaned back in the uncomfortable seat, pushing a hand through the wisps of blond hair that were escaping her braid.

“You don’t like Van Zandt.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Maggie answered nonetheless. “I don’t like Van Zandt.”

“You want to tell me why not?”

She considered it for a moment; discretion was second nature with her. But she had learned during the past three days that she could rely on Mack Pulaski more than she’d relied on anyone in years. “I don’t trust him,” she said finally. “He’s a little too charming, a little too friendly, a little too knowledgeable.”

“A little too handsome?” Mack suggested, and she looked at him in surprise.

“I suppose so. I don’t find him particularly good-looking. I guess I see through that artificial smile to the snake inside.”

“Watch who you’re calling a snake.”

“Sorry. There’s really no comparison. The Why’s Snake was an erotic fantasy of delicious temptation. Jeffrey Van Zandt is an oily sleazoid who’s all the more disturbing because he fools so many people.” She stopped for breath, disturbed by how vehement she’d become.

“You think Wallace is wrong to trust him?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. We’ve been involved in a number of joint ventures in the three years I’ve worked for Third World Causes, and he’s always been helpful. I just have a bad feeling about him, so I keep my distance whenever I can.”

“Does he know you don’t like him?”

“Of course. Jeffrey Van Zandt has to have everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. You should know that; you’re his friend.”

“Not his friend. An acquaintance. He was simply at the right place at the right time when I needed someone to turn to.”

“Was he?” She slid up higher in her seat, shifting her long legs. “How coincidental.”

“Stop being cryptic, Maggie. I thought you said you trusted him.”

“You weren’t listening. I said I didn’t think Peter was wrong to trust him. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

Mack cast an appraising glance over her lean, strong body. “Given the fact that Van Zandt is at least three inches shorter than you, that might be quite a ways indeed.”

“Don’t quibble. If I really thought he was a danger, I wouldn’t take you anywhere near him. I’m sure he’s just an oily, manipulative civil servant. As long as we’re useful to him he’ll be useful to us. When that time passes he’ll be history, and we won’t have to worry about it.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. I don’t like the idea of walking into a trap.”

“You won’t be. It’s all very simple—we check in to the hotel and wait for Peter to be in touch. Only Peter and I know the names we’re going to be registering under, only Peter and I know where we’re planning to meet. We just sit and wait in our room, watch a little TV, order champagne from room service, use the sauna. Everything will be fine.”

“Why does it sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, Maggie May? I trust you.”

“Yeah,” she said gloomily, looking at the huge, sprawling city through the shimmering haze of heat surrounding them. “I just wish I could trust myself.”

“Okay, Maggie.” Mack dropped down on one of the two king-sized beds that took up only a quarter of the space of their hotel room. “What next?”

Maggie was staring out at the city around them, trying to ignore the shiver that ran up her backbone, telling herself it was only the air-conditioning. The Travers Hotel was one of the newer, fancier, larger buildings among a great many new, fancy, large buildings in downtown Houston. It combined a world-class hotel, the American headquarters of Travers Petroleum, and twelve floors rented at a phenomenal price to various corporations that could afford the prestige. One of those corporations was the nonprofit Third World Causes, Ltd., whose space was rent-free, a convenient tax write-off for Travers Petroleum that aided them in their quest to pay zero income tax. A quest that had met with success three out of the last four years.

She turned back to Mack. He looked hot and sweaty and
rumpled, but he also looked damned sexy, she had to admit. It was probably just as well this little excursion was almost over.

“What I want most of all is a bath and a change of clothes,” she said. “And then a nap.”

“Sounds good. Where are we going to find the clothes?”

“There are boutiques on the second and third balconies of this monstrosity of a hotel. You want me to find something for you too?” She grabbed her wallet and headed toward the door.

He made no move to get off the bed. “That’d be nice. I think I’ll go for the nap first. Pants are thirty-two, thirty-four, shirt large, no polyester or double knit.”

“Aw, c’mon, Pulaski. A powder-blue leisure suit would be just the ticket.”

He raised his head long enough to glower at her. “You buy it, you wear it, Maggie May.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, glanced at her watch, and grimaced. “It’s a quarter of five. Don’t answer the phone. I’ll be back within an hour.”

“I won’t answer the phone,” he replied sleepily, and she watched his eyes drift closed above his stubbled face. Very sexy indeed, she thought dismally. And she needed to run, as fast and as far as she could. She wasn’t ready for this, for him, for the odd, tender, unexpected longings and emotions that were cropping up.

Of course he wouldn’t have been half as sexy in a polyester leisure suit, if they even still made such things, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It took her half an hour to buy him khakis, a field shirt, socks, and turquoise Calvin Klein briefs, another ten minutes for a beige cotton jumpsuit for herself and the toiletries they’d need to get them through the next twenty-four hours. Then she was off to Peter Wallace’s office on the thirteenth floor.

It was almost six o’clock, and the long, wide hallways were deserted, the offices shut tight. No one worked late in Houston, at least not on a hot summer’s evening. Third World Causes, Ltd. was at the end of the broad corridor, and Maggie moved
with caution, her running shoes silent on the thick smoke-colored carpet that lined the hallway. She was being neurotic and paranoid, she told herself, clutching her noisy paper bags beneath her arm. And why the hell did she hate guns so much? She would have felt a lot happier having one tucked in her belt at that very moment.

There was nothing to worry about—Peter probably wasn’t even in Houston yet. He’d call as soon as he got in, and then he’d tell her what to do with Mack. And she’d be able to turn her back and head to L.A. with a clear conscience, a sigh of relief, and more than a trace of regret.

The heavy oak door, with its raised brass lettering, was open just a tiny crack, and all Maggie’s doubts rushed back tenfold. With as much stealth as she could manage, she pushed the door open. It moved back silently, on well-oiled hinges, displaying a tableau that would haunt her nightmares for years to come.

Peter Wallace was lying on the red carpet. Except that the carpet was pale beige—it was only red surrounding his body. Blood was everywhere, covering his torso, his arms and legs, his face. It even reached the man leaning over him, staining his hands and shirt.

Mack looked up into her horrified face. He had a gun in his hand, a large, nasty-looking thing, and there was blood on that too. The two of them stared at each other for a long, breathless moment, and Maggie wondered whether she should scream, run, or try to kick the gun out of his hand. She did none of the three. She just stood there, clutching the bags in her nerveless hands.

Mack sat back on his heels, reached a hand up to push his hair out of his face, and left a streak of blood across his forehead. “He’s dead,” he said in a flat voice.

Maggie opened her mouth, tried to speak, and then shut it again, swallowing back the nausea. “No kidding,” she finally managed, moving into the room and shutting the door behind her with a silent click. “Did you do it?”

There was no feigning his astonishment. “Why the hell
would I kill him? He was supposed to be my ticket out of this mess.”

“Maybe.” She moved closer. She’d seen dead men before, far too many. People dead from violence, from starvation, from the ravages of illness. But she never got used to it. “How long have you been here?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“And he was like this when you got here?”

“No.”

“No?” She looked up, startled, into his bleak face.

“He was still alive. He tried to say something, but I couldn’t quite get all of it.”

“What did you get?”

“He thought I was Jeffrey Van Zandt.”

“What makes you think that?”

“That’s what he kept calling me,” Mack snapped.

“Maybe he wasn’t calling you that at all. Maybe he was telling you to find him. If Peter can’t help us”—there was a catch to her voice—“then Van Zandt’s our only other possibility. At least that I know of.”

“Wallace wasn’t in much shape to be cross-examined, Maggie,” Mack said dryly, moving away from the body.

Maggie stared down at him for a moment longer. “Damn you, Pulaski,” she said in a quiet, bitter voice without looking up. “You may not care that a man is dead, but I do. He was my boss, my lover, and my friend. And I haven’t got enough of them to spare.”

“Enough what? Lovers or friends?”

She turned to him, ready to do battle, when she realized that he’d said it on purpose, to jolt her from her grief. His next words verified it.

“Are you okay?” She looked at him, and his hazel eyes seemed more concerned with her than with their sudden, untenable situation.

“I’m okay. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.” There was
blood on her hands, and she wiped them on the carpet before rising on surprisingly steady feet.

“But the police …”

“Will probably be here any moment. And I don’t think they’re going to want to hear what we have to tell them. I think we’ve been set up. What the hell are you doing down here anyway? I thought you were taking a nap.”

“I answered the phone,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly. “It was Wallace, asking me to meet him here. What about you? I thought you were buying us some clothes.”

“I got the clothes. I thought it might be worth checking in here in case Peter got here earlier. Apparently he did.” She was suddenly very still. “Do you hear sirens?”

“I can’t tell in this building,” Mack said.

“They’re probably already here,” she said bitterly. “I think—” Her voice stopped as the shrill telephone broke through. They both turned to stare at it with a kind of repulsive fascination.

“Should I answer it?” Mack asked finally.

“No.”

“But what if it’s Van Zandt? What if it’s someone with the answers?”

“We’ll find out our own answers. Come on, Pulaski. We’re out of here.” She turned back toward the door, unable to give Peter’s corpse even one last look. Three days ago he had been golden, handsome, and regretful in the New York airport. And now he was lying in a pool of his own blood, past regrets, and she didn’t even have the time to mourn for him. Her energies had to be spent on the living, on Pulaski and herself. Later, when some of this began to make sense, she’d grieve for him.

“What about the gun?” He’d followed her example and tried to wipe some of the blood onto the carpet around his feet.

“Bring it,” she said grimly. “It looks like we’re going to need it.”

The corridor was still deserted when they stepped out into it, closing the door on the office and its grisly occupant. Maggie
gave him a cursory glance. The blood could have been anything—it was drying to a rusty brown, and if they both looked a little the worse for wear someone would have to look twice to notice.

“Where are we going?” Mack murmured as she started off.

“Stairway. They’ll be watching the elevators.”

“Who will be?”

“Whoever killed Peter.”

“I thought you weren’t sure whether I killed him or not?”

“It was only a temporary thought. You didn’t kill him. If you had, you would have been long gone. And you’re right, you didn’t have any reason to kill him. At least none that I know of.”

“So I’m not completely exonerated?”

“I don’t trust anyone completely,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Come on.” She kept moving until she heard the ominous sound of the arriving elevator pinging in the distance. “Damn.” She grabbed his wrist, the bulky bags still under her arm. “Let’s move it.”

She raced back down the hallway, with Mack keeping up with her. They rounded a corner, and she could hear the noise, the voices, the ominously official sound of what was very likely a large group of Houston police heading in their direction. They hadn’t seen them, but they were moving rapidly toward Peter’s office. By the time they reached it, Maggie and Mack would be in plain sight.

“I hate to interfere,” he wheezed behind her, “but do you want to get caught?” He suddenly stopped, and she was jerked back against him.

“Let go of me, you cretin,” she railed at him in a barely audible whisper.

“Sure thing. But you just raced past the fire exit.”