Heart of Fire (28 page)

The senhora shouted at him from the veranda. She was wearing a long white nightgown and held a machete in her right hand.

He looked at Jillian. She was just sitting there, shoulders slumped and head bowed, rain pouring down on her. She was already soaked to the skin, so she wasn't going to get any wetter. Reluctantly he left her and walked to the senhora.

"Do you have some explanation for this?" she growled in her deep, harsh voice. "Who is that man?"

"I'll tell you everything," he said. "Would you make a pot of coffee, please? Or tea. Jillian will need something."

She drew herself up, glaring at him as if he had suggested her hospitality might be lacking. "Of course. I'll bring towels out." She turned her glare on Dutra's body. "That will have to be disposed of." Practically everyone from the settlement was out in the rainy night now, standing grouped around, staring at the body. She shouted at them, "Take him to the shed," and several men stepped forward to take hold of the thick arms and legs, and they dragged Dutra off to be stored in the shed until morning.

The senhora went back inside, and Ben returned to Jillian, crouching by her side. "Come on, sweetheart. The senhora is bringing towels. We'll get dried off and drink some coffee. How does that sound?"

Her gaze lifted to his. "Mundane," she said.

He managed a tight smile. "It is. That's what you do after a crisis. The mundane things help put everything back in focus."

"All right." She sighed and climbed to her feet, moving slowly and with great care, as if her muscles weren't working all that well. He put his arm around her waist again as they walked to the veranda. The rain was ending, the storm moving on, and he looked up to see stars through a break in the clouds.

The senhora came out with a couple of towels. Jillian took one and wiped her face, then began rubbing her dripping hair. They had no dry clothes to change into, so that was about all she could do to repair herself.

But the senhora was regarding them, her lips grimly pursed. "Perhaps I can find clothes for you," she said. "My husband was a big man like you, senhor, God rot his nasty soul. And I have a skirt and blouse for you, poor little chicken."

Jillian felt like a poor little chicken. She was wet and muddy and exhausted. The senhora brought out the clothes, and Jillian went with Ben to the other side of the house where they changed clothes on the veranda in relative privacy. The senhora's skirt was too long and too big, hanging to the middle of her calves, but the old woman had provided a gay sash and Jillian wrapped it around her waist like a belt, tying it in a snug knot. She had discarded her muddy boots but had no other shoes to put on. Ben was also barefoot.

Here too the senhora came to their aid, producing two pairs of old leather sandals. The smaller pair was still too big for Jillian, but she could manage to keep them on her feet.

Then they sat at the table and drank hot, sweet coffee, the caffeine moderating the effects of crashing adrenaline levels. Jillian sat in silence, her face pale, as Ben related to the senhora the bare bones of the situation. He left out most of it, certainly not mentioning the Empress, explaining only that Dutra had killed Jillian's brother on the expedition and had been trying to kill them, too, as they were witnesses. It wasn't much of an explanation, but the senhora didn't press any further.

Instead she said with a rather shocking casualness, "My people will carry the body inland in the morning. It wouldn't do to bury him too close to the house. The smell, you know."

Ben wasn't sure Dutra could smell any worse dead than he had alive, but kept that comment to himself. Neither of them mentioned notifying the authorities. The people in these isolated settlements tended to handle details like this themselves.

"Senhora," Jillian said, "please, may I use your facilities?" It was the first time she had spoken since thanking the senhora for the coffee.

The old woman nodded graciously, and directed Jillian to the rear of the house. Jillian left the table. Ben watched her go, noting the bowed head.

"She will be all right," the senhora said. "She is strong; she attacked without hesitation and did not waste her time with silly squeals or wringing of the hands."

"I know," Ben said, and smiled. "She has more guts than any ten normal people combined."

Ten seconds later it hit him, and he shot to his feet. "Goddammit!" He ran out onto the veranda where they had been sleeping. His pack was gone.

"What is it?" the senhora asked, rushing out after him.

He sprinted for the dock, cursing with every step. He could see Jillian already stepping into the raft, silhouetted against the glassy river by the starlight. He yelled as she began jerking the cord to start the motor. The reliable little motor coughed into life on the second pull, and the raft began moving away from the dock. By the time his feet thudded on the planks, she was fifty feet away and increasing the distance with every second. Ben stood there, helpless, and watched her disappear in the night.

His fists were clenched, and he was repeating every curse he knew when the senhora reached his side. "Why did she run?" she demanded baldly.

"We had an argument," Ben said. He thrust his hand through his damp hair. God, he couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. He had just gotten the words out of his mouth about Jillian being so gutsy; he should have realized she wouldn't accept defeat so easily, and expected something like this.

"It must have been a serious disagreement, instead of just an argument."

"It's pretty serious, all right," he muttered.

"What would you do if you could catch her?" the senhora asked suspiciously.

Ben thought of several violent things, but then discarded them. "Kiss her," he finally said. "And make love to her." His knees wobbled, and he sat down hard. "I'm in love with her," he said blankly, staring at the black river.

"Ah!" The senhora laughed. "Perhaps you aren't as foolish as I thought. It will be dawn soon, no more than an hour. You may go after her then."

"I don't have a boat, senhora."

"Why waste your time with a boat?" she boomed. "It would be much faster to use my aircraft! I will fly you myself."

Ben looked up, hope flaring in him with white-hot intensity. "I have a pilot's license, senhora."

"Then you may fly yourself, but if you don't return my craft, I will find you and deliver a fitting punishment. Hah! You must ready yourself. How much petrol does she have?"

"Enough to get her to the next settlement, but she'll have to refuel then." "Then that is where you will wait for her."

Jillian kept to the middle of the river, following the wide, gleaming ribbon. She had done it, but she didn't feel any wild triumph or exhilaration. She felt tired, more so than ever before. The events of the night had been draining. She knew how dangerous it was for a woman alone to brave the river in a raft, but she hadn't been able to think of an alternative. Once they reached Manaus, she would have had no opportunity to get the Empress away from Ben. This had probably been her only chance, so she had taken it.

She might not ever see him again. In fact, she expected to do so only if he somehow caught her, and she didn't think that would be possible. She had seen the watercraft there at the settlement; there had been a few old motorized boats, but nothing capable of catching the agile raft. Her last mental image would be of him standing on the rickety dock, cussing a blue streak.

She didn't know how many more days it would take to reach Manaus. Food was no problem; they had left their supplies in the raft. Fuel would be her only concern, because she had no money. She would have to barter her food for fuel. Ah, well, going hungry wouldn't hurt her. And if she wasn't able to get fuel, she would use the oars. That would definitely give Ben a chance of catching her, but that was a bridge she would cross if she came to it.

The gray pearl of dawn began to lighten the sky, and then in a matter of minutes the darkness had been dispelled. The jungle filled with color, deep, vibrant colors, more intense than in the northern climes, chasing away the monochromes of night. Perhaps, in a few weeks, she would be returning to the interior, this time on an expedition sponsored by the government. They could carry a global positioning device and, once in the bowl, get their exact coordinates from the orbiting satellite. Thereafter they could reach the bowl by air, perhaps clearing out a helicopter pad or constructing a short runway; the bowl was easily long enough to accommodate a runway. The Stone City would never be the same again, but the people exploring it would be properly reverential of the secrets held there.

Her chest was throbbing with pain, but she knew she had done the right thing.

A small airplane droned overhead, startling her. She had just been thinking of helicopters and airplanes, but only in the abstract. It had been so many weeks since she had seen such a sign of civilization that the sound was jarring.

She stopped to check the fuel; only a few inches left in one tank. If she didn't make it to the next settlement, she would try to barter with the inhabitants of the river shacks. One way or another, she would get to Manaus. She simply refused to give up.

She had no watch, no way of telling time, but she had become adept at gauging the sun and it was a little after midmorning when another settlement came into view, ramshackle huts perched on their stilts, lining the bank. There was less than an inch of fuel left, so she had no choice about stopping.

The scene was much the same as the day before, the children running to the dock, their parents hanging back. But this time it was a man who came to greet her, a portly gentleman dressed in tropical shorts, sandals, and a wide straw hat. His bare chest hosted a veritable forest of curly gray hair.

Predictably, his first words were "Senhorinha, you are alone?" His bushy gray brows snapped down in disapproval.

"By accident, yes," she said. "I must reach Manaus."

"But this is not good. It is very dangerous. And you need a hat."

"I need petrol—"

"Yes, yes, of course," he said. "But you must come in the house. My wife will give you a hat and something cold to drink."

She hesitated only a moment. "Thank you, that would be lovely. But I have no money, senhor…"

"Moraes," he replied. "Bolivar Moraes. My wife is

Angelina, and she is truly an angel, as you will see. Do not worry about money, senhorinha. You are alone; you need help. We will manage. Now come, come."

He told one of the children to secure the raft, and extended a courtly hand to help Jillian onto the dock. She picked up the backpack and accepted his aid.

A very attractive woman, at least twenty years younger than Senhor Moraes, came out onto the veranda. "Bolivar?" she called.

"We have a guest, my angel," he bellowed in reply. "A lovely young woman in need of our help."

Senhor Moraes must need glasses, Jillian thought, amused in spite of herself. Lovely? She had to be haggard with strain and fatigue, and her hair hadn't been combed in two days.

Angelina Moraes came forward and deftly rescued Jillian from her exuberant husband. "My dear, do come in where it is cooler. We have ice; would you like something to drink?"

The thought of an iced drink made her almost dizzy with anticipation. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble," she managed to say.

Senhora Moraes led her into the deliciously cool interior of the house; ceiling fans swirled in every room, and there were screens and shutters on the windows. "What is your name, dear?" Angelina asked as she poured a pale green liquid into a glass and added several ice cubes.

"Jillian Sherwood." She sipped the cool drink; it had a tart lime taste to it, both sweet and sharp, and utterly delicious.

"You must have a hat," Angelina said, echoing her husband. "Would you like to freshen up while I find one for you? We have ridiculously modern plumbing; Bolivar insisted on having it done when we married. I am from the city, and he did not want me to feel deprived."

Modern plumbing? Jillian numbly followed her hostess, who directed her to a small bedroom with windows shuttered against the heat. "For guests," Angelina explained. "With its own private bath. I will leave you alone while I search for a hat, yes? Please make yourself comfortable."

Jillian found herself left alone in a room that seemed sharply alien. It had been weeks since she'd seen a bed. She had experienced culture shock before and knew that it would soon fade as she adjusted to once-familiar things, but for now she was almost wary. She put the pack down and moved gingerly into the bathroom. There was a flush toilet, a basin, an actual bathtub. It wasn't luxurious, but it was functional.

It was remarkable how silly she felt.

But the running water was nice. She washed her face and hands, and borrowed the comb left on the side of the basin to bring order to her tangled hair. She forced herself not to linger, for fear she would be tempted to make use of the bathtub. When she left the bathroom, she found herself facing the bed again.

She gave a faint smile. Would she have to gradually accustom herself to a bed, or would it feel like heaven?

Hoping Senhora Moraes wouldn't mind, she sat down on the edge of the bed. With that action, fatigue almost overwhelmed her. Just for a moment, she promised herself, and leaned back against the headboard, swinging her legs up onto the bed. The mattress was a little too soft and a tad lumpy, but she closed her eyes in delight. It did indeed feel like heaven. Despite herself, she felt her body begin to relax…