Night Magic (5 page)

IV

By suppertime that day Clara was feeling very much better. She had spent what was left of the night at Mitch’s house, under the eagle-eyed chaperonage of his disapproving mother. After consuming a hearty breakfast, Mitch had driven out to her house to check out her story. The window was broken on the kitchen door, all right, he reported, but nothing seemed to be missing from the house. He appeared to think that her encounter had been with a burglar—all right, a team of burglars, if there had been four of them—who knew that she was a writer and erroneously supposed that she was rich. They hadn’t gotten much, and Mitch doubted that they would be back. Still, Clara was welcome to stay with him and his mother until her own mother got back from that cruise she was on. Or until she could make other arrangements, if she was scared to stay at her house on her own.

Despite Clara’s insistence that the “burglar’s” name was Rostov and that he was a
KGB
agent, it was clear that both Mitch and his mother thought her vivid writer’s imagination was turning a rather ordinary situation into the extraordinary.

Being an author of juicy romances was not exactly a respectable profession as far as Mitch and his mother and most of the other residents of Clarke County were concerned. This latest incident only served to confirm their opinion that she had to be slightly dotty. Fuming, Clara swallowed her protestations and allowed them to think they had convinced her that she had been the victim of a burglar. Although she knew better.

The cats were not exactly welcome at Mitch’s house. Clara supposed she would have to take them over to Lena’s after supper. Lena Kennary was her best friend, had been since the two had started first grade together. The friendship had lasted all through school, through Lena’s procession of boyfriends (Clara had had just one in high school, and even then she had gotten him by default; Lena had dumped him and he had turned to plain but nice Clara for comfort). It had survived both Lena’s marriages, the birth of her three children, and the financial difficulties that had prompted Clara to employ Lena as a part-time secretary. The two of them had celebrated their almost joint (Clara’s birthday was in early September, Lena’s in early August) thirtieth birthday together just a month previously. During their school years, Lena had been the popular one and Clara had been the plump, stringy-haired best friend. Now the situation had changed. Lena was slightly plump and Clara had dieted, so that Clara was the more slender of the two, and Clara was financially comfortable while Lena was constantly having to juggle her bills despite alimony from husband number two and child support for three children, and her part-time job with Clara. Their situations had changed, but their friendship hadn’t. Clara knew that Lena would unhesitatingly care for the cats. Of course, she would insist on paying a reasonable boarding fee, because there was no way she was
staying anywhere but under the protection of Mitch’s gun until her mother was home and/or she felt a whole lot safer. …

“That sure was good pie, Ma.” Mitch wiped his mouth with one of the linen napkins that his mother washed and starched religiously (she insisted that paper napkins were for “trash”). His mother beamed at him, cut another huge wedge from the remaining half of the pie, and slid it onto his plate.

“Don’t you like the pie, Clara?” she asked with a disapproving glance at Clara’s barely tasted piece.

“It’s wonderful, Mrs. Potter, but I just can’t eat another bite. I’m so full from the rest of your delicious meal I can barely breathe as it is.” This was not strictly true—Clara had been too edgy to do justice to Mrs. Potter’s dinner of country fried pork chops and mashed potatoes with accompanying side dishes—but Mrs. Potter was a notable cook and the compliment mollified her. She smiled slightly at Clara. She was convinced that the younger woman was scheming to marry Mitch, who she was equally convinced was the catch of the county, so she was on guard against being too friendly. Clara smiled back.

“Can you believe this?” Mitch had just opened the evening paper, and one of the headlines caught his eye. Clara and his mother looked at him inquiringly. He glanced up, caught their eyes on him, and shook his head. “Some fruitcake shot up Bethesda Naval Hospital’s emergency room last night. Killed a bunch of people, nurses, doctors, an ambulance crew, people just sitting in the waiting room minding their own business. For no reason at all.”

“Isn’t that awful?” Mrs. Potter marveled, shaking her head. “Now who would do something like that? I declare, a body’s not safe anywhere anymore!”

“It says here some guy they brought in just went nuts. What can you do against something like that?” Mitch consulted the paper again. Mrs. Potter tsk-tsked and shook her head.

“May I please be excused?” Southern manners had been drummed into her from the time of her first breath. Clara supposed that if she were scheduled to be executed she would first thank the executioner. Now, though she could suddenly hardly bear the sight of Mitch stuffing that second huge piece of pie down his stolid face, she waited politely until Mrs. Potter nodded. Clara rose, dropped her napkin on the table, and crossed into the parlor (really the living room, but Mrs. Potter had insisted on calling it the parlor ever since Clara had known her, and the name had stuck).

“I’ll run over to your house again after supper, Clara. Just make a list of the things you want me to pick up,” Mitch called after her.

“Thanks, Mitch. Just clothes and things, basically. And my book. It needs to go in the mail.” It was nice of Mitch to make a second trip back over to her house to pick up her clothes, Clara knew. He was really a very nice man. It wasn’t his fault that she was so edgy.

From the large front window, framed in stiff gold satin draperies from a Sears catalogue, she watched the antics of a trio of squirrels, wondering all the while if there was any chance of joining her mother on that cruise. It had stops in Acapulco and Cancun, she remembered. The good man had said she should take a vacation; maybe she should. She hadn’t had a vacation for years, hadn’t really wanted to take one. She liked being at home, was a home-loving type of person, something her social butterfly of a mother had never been able to understand. But she didn’t much like her mother’s new boyfriend; on a ship she’d be stuck. Besides,
surely there was no longer any danger. Even a lunatic like Rostov must by now have figured out that he had made a mistake where she was concerned.

Dusk was creeping up over the countryside. The last golden rays of the sun touched the orange-red leaves of the two large oaks in the front yard, making them glow crimson. The squirrels were working busily, storing up acorns for the coming winter. Clara had always loved to watch them.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a fat gray shadow slinking closer and closer to the gamboling squirrels.

“No, Puff!” she cried, but of course he paid not the slightest attention, if he even heard her, which was doubtful. Puff was a formidable hunter, and allowed nothing to distract him from the pursuit of his prey. Not even the tiny silver bell which she had suspended from his collar years before slowed him down. It had taken him all of a week to learn how to move without making it jingle. Since then, Clara had spent a considerable amount of time scooping him up in the very act of pouncing on an unsuspecting small creature.

“Puff, stop it!” She hurried out the front door and crossed to the big hyacinth bush near the driveway. Puff was staring fixedly at the nearest squirrel, his golden eyes agleam and his huge tail aswish. “I said stop it!”

Clapping her hands, she tried scaring away the squirrels, but they were used to people and only ran as far as the base of the nearest tree. Knowing that they would immediately return to work as soon as she left, and would shortly thereafter very likely become Puff’s pre-dinner appetizer, she muttered “Drat!” under her breath and dropped to her knees. Grass stains on the knees of the one pair of jeans she had with her were just what she needed.

“Come out here, Puff!” she grunted, stretching one arm beneath the bush and grabbing him by his collar to drag him out. He growled, his golden eyes regarding her balefully. Clara paid no attention as she gathered him into her arms. She and only she knew his closely guarded secret: that ferocious growl masked the heart of a real pussycat. He would not dream of scratching or biting her. Although he had been known to attack strangers who were doing something to him which he found offensive, like Lena’s youngest son who had been trying to take a pair of safety scissors to his tail.

She was just getting up off her knees when a faint rustling sound alerted her that someone was nearby. She glanced up, her muscles tightening. A hand holding a can was thrust into her face; icy cold mist shot into her nose and mouth. Clara opened her mouth to scream, but just succeeded in swallowing more of the mist. Her eyes closed in instinctive defense against the spray as the world began to swim around her in sickening swirls. She was falling… Her arms tightened around Puff as she felt something being thrust down over her head, smothering her. …

V

She was going to throw up. Clara felt bile rise in her throat before she was even aware of where she was. When she realized that she was enclosed in musty smelling folds of dark canvas, and that her arms were bound tightly to her sides by means of something on the outside of the canvas, she swallowed hard. She could not throw up, nearly suffocated as she was. She might suffocate for certain.

She was lying on her back on something hard, something that bounced and joggled her. Her face, and as far as she could tell her whole body, were enveloped in the smothering, rancid smelling canvas. An unfamiliar weight rested on her chest. Her stomach churned, her head hurt, and she was totally disoriented. And every barely functioning brain cell she possessed screamed that she was in big trouble.

Impressions began to sort themselves out. She realized that she was lying trussed up on the cold metal floor of a van or truck, and that someone, or several someones, were nearby. Of course, the vehicle had to have a driver, but she sensed an even closer presence, possibly someone crouched next to her in case she should wake up. What he or they
would do to her in that case she shuddered to think—probably administer more of that knock-out spray. Or maybe worse. It did not require genius intelligence to figure out that she had fallen prey to Rostov and his men again. Cold terror started to creep over her at the thought. What would they do to her? Kill her, came the answer from the pragmatic part of her mind that she tried desperately to stifle. What else would they do with her? She couldn’t give them any information even if she wanted to.

A sharp stabbing connected with the weight on her chest made her stir uncomfortably before she remembered the unseen presence beside her and forced herself to lie still. With her arms bound to her sides it was impossible to move the object that was causing her discomfort, but suddenly she didn’t want to. With a completely ridiculous sense of comfort, she realized that the weight was Puff, that he was trapped in the enshrouding folds of canvas with her and was even now crouched on her chest. The stabbing sensation was caused by his claws as he dug them into her sensitive flesh. Under the circumstances, she welcomed that small pain. If she had had the use of her arms she would have hugged him.

The vehicle slowed and veered left. There was more jolting as it left the pavement to grind over what sounded like gravel. Clara felt her stomach sink clear to her toes. Obviously they were taking her to an isolated spot, where they would do their worst to her. Bound, blinded, and half suffocated as she was, there didn’t seem much she could do to save herself from whatever fate they intended for her. At the moment, all she could do was continue to feign unconsciousness and wait for whatever opening God might see fit to send her.

As the road grew rougher, Puff’s claws sank deeper. Clara
winced at the pain, but there was nothing she could do to alleviate her discomfort without announcing to her captors that she was conscious. So she lay, gritting her teeth, willing her churning stomach to be still, and endured.

At last the vehicle jerked to a halt. Clara’s first reaction was relief, followed by an immediate stab of fear. Whatever they intended to do to her, they would probably do now.

“She still out?” The voice was thick, gutteral—and not Rostov’s. Clara knew that she would recognize the
KGB
man’s distinctive accent anywhere.

“Yeah.”

Ridiculously, the knowledge that neither of her captors was Rostov comforted her. Although she knew perfectly well that they were almost certainly his henchmen, told to bring her to him. Still, it was likely that she would not be harmed until he appeared.

Clara felt hands grab onto her shoulders, and other hands take her feet, which from the feel of them on her bare ankles were clear of the canvas. Then she was lifted and carried clumsily from the van. Concentrating on being a dead weight—no easy task with a twenty pound cat digging its claws into her chest—Clara tried to project the muscle tone of a limp noodle.

“Heavy, ain’t she?”

This grunt, as they descended what felt like a steep flight of steps, piqued her pride. Which was ridiculous under the circumstances, she knew. Still, she’d always been sensitive about her weight, and it was some comfort to her to reflect that Puff was responsible for an additional twenty-odd pounds.

“God, I’m going to drop her!”

He did, before his gasping announcement even registered. Luckily, it was the man holding her feet who had fallen victim to butter fingers. Still, her leg crashed into what felt
like the comer of a table, and the ensuing sharp pain did not quite cancel out the ripping of claws in flesh as Puff, dislodged from his perch, skidded protesting to where the rope binding her arms to her hips made it impossible for him to skid any further. Despite her best efforts to fall like a dead weight, she could not help trying to protect herself as much as possible. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed how she’d cringed?

“What was that?”

The question was clearly in response to Puff’s menacing growl.

“The damn cat.”

“You didn’t get rid of it?”

“How the hell was I supposed to get rid of it? The thing’s a monster. You stick your hand up inside that bag and get rid of it.”

“I don’t suppose it makes that much difference. Come on, pick her up again and let’s get this over with. The colonel will be here soon.”

Clara’s feet were lifted again. She was carried through a door and then put down on what felt like a cold stone floor. The scent of dampness wafted through the stiff folds of canvas. She was in a cellar of some kind.

There was a sharp rapping on a door a few feet away.

“What?” The question came from inside the door.

“Open up.” It was one of her captors. “We’ve got the merchandise.”

Clara heard the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking open. Then she was picked up again and lugged through a narrow doorway. Her shoulders scraped the jam, but the canvas protected her flesh. Once inside, they set her on her feet, one of them holding her upright while the other seemed to be working at the rope. Conscientiously maintaining
her pose of unconsciousness, Clara sagged at the knees. A ringing blow to the side of her head made her cry out, and straighten up fast.

“We know you’re awake, Blondie. If you know what’s good for you you won’t give us any trouble.”

The blow and the muttered warning came from the man who was still struggling to untie the rope that wound around the canvas. Another voice, one she hadn’t heard before, spoke from further in the room.

“Here’s the present we’ve been promising you, McClain.”

“What the hell kind of screw up have you done now, asshole?” The rasping, taunting voice belonged to the man in the tobacco field. The one that Rostov had been searching for. Well, apparently they’d found him. But if so, what did they want with her?

“Next time Rostov tells you to talk, you’d better do it. Because I doubt your little girlfriend here will hold up very well to what Rostov will do to her. How do you think she’ll like having each finger broken one by one—and bow do you think you’ll like watching? And if that doesn’t work, we can always try cigarettes on soft little titties. Or a cattle prod. I can think of something fun to do with a cattle prod…” And he went on to describe an act so vile that Clara felt sick to her stomach. She had no illusions that the man was just talking, trying to frighten her. She
was
frightened. But no one cared about her. They were going to use her to try to make McClain talk—and he wouldn’t talk to save her. She didn’t know the man, but she suspected he would let them do anything they wanted to her, even kill her. She moaned.

There was a low chuckle. “See, she’s smarter than you are. Are you going to let us do that to your sweetie without doing anything to stop it? All it takes is the right words from you.”

“I keep telling you, she’s not my girlfriend.”

“You keep telling us,” he agreed. Then, apparently to the man still trying to work the knots out of the rope, he said, “Cut it, you fool!”

Seconds later, Clara felt the sawing of a knife at the rope. Without warning it gave. Her arms were released from the circulation-stopping restraint—and Puff, with no support for his rotund body, dropped to the floor like a stone just as Clara was freed from what proved to be a large laundry bag.

“What the hell is that?” The startled question came from the man who had originally been in the cellar with McClain.

“It’s only a cat,” one of her captors tried to assure him. But Puff was not behaving like “only a cat.” Thoroughly outraged by the treatment that had been accorded him, he snarled, crouching at Clara’s feet, then leaped for the top of a heatlamp that had been directed at McClain. Clara, still blinking in the unexpectedly bright light, barely managed to take in all that happened next. The light pole fell with a crash. Puff, emitting bloodcurdling yowls, was thrown from his chosen perch to land with claws extended on the shoulder of one of her captors. The man screamed and tried to drag Puff from his back. The other two watched goggle-eyed as their buddy danced around the small room trying to dislodge the huge furry ball, and McClain, who had been sitting on a small wooden chair, his face swollen and bloodied from blows, rose to his feet with a sudden surge of power, his hands handcuffed uselessly behind him. Even as the man who had been guarding him turned toward him, one of McClain’s feet lashed out and made contact with the other’s crotch. Screaming, the man dropped to his knees. The other two men, their attention caught by the scream, turned in time for one of them to be flattened with a flying drop kick that landed right beneath his chin. The third,
finally free of Puff, who had leapt for safety to the top of a metal locker, fumbled inside his jacket for a gun. McClain ran toward him, butting him in the stomach with his head before the gun could be drawn. The man doubled over with a whoosh of escaping air.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” McClain roared, hardly looking over his shoulder at her as he bolted through the open door. Clara, who was still somewhat dazed but not stupid, ran after him. The three thugs were already recovering.

McClain ran up the basement stairs, through a pantry and then a kitchen of what seemed to be a large, elegantly furnished house, and out onto the paved patio, where numerous vehicles were parked.

“Check for keys,” he yelled at her. Clara ran to look in the window of the vehicle closest to her. It was a van, and the keys were in the ignition.

“Here!”

He was beside her even as she got the door open, shouldering her inside then dropping into the passenger seat.

“Get us the hell out of here!”

“But—”

“Drive!” he bellowed. Clara turned the key over and started to pull away just as a gray furry ball erupted from the open door of the house, followed by three men.

“Puff!” she screamed, barreling toward them. One of them was taking aim … She ducked, the bullet shattered the windshield, McClain yelled the foulest curses she had ever heard, the men leapt out of the way, and then Clara hit the brakes so hard that the van slid sideways to a screeching halt.

“What the—” She barely registered McClain’s protest. Swearing under her breath, she jumped out of the van, ran to scoop Puff out of the driveway where he crouched
apparently frozen with fear, and jumped back into the van just as another bullet whistled over her head. Dumping Puff unceremoniously into the back, she put the van in gear and stepped on the gas so hard that the vehicle shot forward like a rock out of a slingshot.