Now You See Him (19 page)

For a moment neither of them moved, and Ross knew with complete certainty that he was closer to death then than he had ever been in his life.

"We're going to Mariz," Michael said, his eyes narrow pinpoints of rage. "We are getting Francey released from prison, and then, if you're very lucky, I won't feed you to the bloody sharks. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut unless you've got something useful to say."

"Might I remind you that I'm your superior officer and I…" His voice trailed off as he got a good look at Michael's expression. "And I have nothing more to say," he finished lamely.

"Good," Michael murmured, suddenly affable. "Then I won't have to cut out your tongue."

It was dark and cold in the cell, but Francey had grown used to it. Used to almost anything. The company of rats. The taunts of the other prisoners. The touches of the guards' filthy hands pawing her, mostly for the amusement of their fellow workers. She'd been able to bear it without screaming, knowing the touches weren't going to go further.

But now she was no longer so certain. There was a new guard, one who didn't speak much, who'd already garnered a certain reputation. One who didn't seem to possess mercy, or sympathy, or even reason.

In the countless days since she'd been thrown into jail Francey had carefully hoarded bits of comfort. Whoever was behind her incarceration hadn't abandoned her completely. She knew the guards were being paid, knew that the intimidation and harassment would go so far and no farther. She was alone in the cell, while there were three and four prisoners in those nearby.

It was small comfort. The food, what there was of it, was inedible. The showers were cold and infrequent, and they made her beg for them. Keeping clean was the only thing that kept her calm. If they'd taken away the showers, the change of laundry, she would have collapsed.

Tonight, though, most of her hope had faded. The new guard, Juan, wasn't being paid off as the others were. Or maybe her mysterious benefactor-imprisoner had simply shut off funds. Juan's touches were brutal, direct and quite clear. Sooner or later she wasn't going to be able to keep away from him.

It had happened once already. She'd hidden in her cell, holding her ears, keeping her eyes tightly shut, while one of the female prisoners had been raped, with the other inmates cheering the action. The thought that sooner or later it would be her turn was the worst terror of her life.

She leaned against the hard wall for a moment, ignoring the danger of bugs. And then she hunched forward, huddling in on herself. Looking for Michael Dowd had gotten her into this mess, one she seemed incapable of extricating herself from. She needed rescuing, and there was only one man, unlikely as it seemed, who could do it.

"Save me, Michael," she whispered to the damp, cold cell. "For God's sake, get me out of here."

"I couldn't think of a better place to put her. She's out of reach of anyone who speaks more than a smattering of English, she's wretchedly uncomfortable, and she can't cause any trouble," the man whined. "What more could you possibly want?"

"I want her dead."

The disembodied voice on the other end of the line always gave Cardiff the creeps. Not that he didn't know perfectly well exactly who and what the leader of the Cadre was. But if they wanted to play their little games it made no difference to him. His contempt for them
equaled his contempt for almost all forms of life, but still, there was something about that husky, sexless voice that made his skin crawl.

"I'm stalling as best I can. You'll have to hurry on your end of the bargain. I don't know how long I can keep them here. I'm not even sure she's still alive. You know how zealous soldiers can be, and the Spanish government has expressed its disapproval of drugs quite forcefully. You may never have to consider her again."

"You don't understand. I want to be there. I don't want her tidily removed. I want to watch."

Cardiff flicked an invisible crumb off his impeccable jacket. "You are sick. That's one of the things I like most about you."

"I don't give bugger-all what you like about me. I want the girl and I want Cougar."

"Shouldn't your political aspirations come first?" he inquired gently.

There was a long, frustrated pause at the other end of the line. "Sod off, Cardiff."

"Have a nice day," he murmured in reply, replacing the receiver gently in its cradle.

«
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The day had been endless, one day too many in the small, dark cell. Francey hadn't eaten, hadn't moved, had simply sat cross-legged on the sagging cot and listened to the obscenities fill the air from the cells around her. She'd become adept at shutting her mind off. When things were unbearable, she would send her mind back to Baby Jerome, to the cool, clear blue of the lagoon, water like silk sliding over her body. Michael was there, protection, comfort, shelter from the storm. As long as she floated in the lagoon, nothing could harm her.

There were times when she didn't even need the lagoon. When she could simply fill her mind with a bright blue light, shutting out the squalid surroundings, the noise, the smell. Those times were coming more often, when reality overwhelmed her. And she wondered, quite calmly, if sometime she would go to that place and never return.

There was a new inmate in the prison, another lone inhabitant, this time in the cell across from hers. A huge Arab, dressed in enveloping robes that covered him from head to toe. She tried to distract herself by considering whether he was wearing a djellaba, or was it a burnoose? If the clothes were for religious reasons he was obviously a major hypocrite. Because the huge man was dead drunk, sleeping noisily on the narrow cot, impervious to his surroundings.

Would they let him go in the morning, once he sobered up? Could she get him to take a message for her, a plea for help? No one had come to see her since she'd been incarcerated, not even the Spanish-speaking court-appointed lawyer. She'd had to accept the possibility that no one even knew where she was, except for the people who'd put her there.

She spent hours watching him as he slept, but he didn't move, just snored noisily, his robes wrapped around him. He probably didn't speak English. If he did, he wouldn't talk to her. By the time dinner came and he still slept on, she gave up hope. No one was going to rescue her.

She heard the key turn in the lock, but she didn't bother to look up. If she did, she knew she would see Juan, he of the broad, cruel hands and the dark, piglike eyes.

He said something in Spanish, and the eavesdropping prisoners laughed coarsely. She considered ignoring him, then thought better of it. It would just give him an excuse to put those filthy hands on her.

She turned, keeping her face devoid of emotion. It was full dark again, a moonless night, and the shadows in the jail were deep and ominous. Beyond the guard's back she could see the cell where the Arab slept on. Chances were he would never even know she'd been there. She would simply disappear. "Shower," Juan said, having mastered the word.

For the first time Francey shook her head, rejecting her salvation. She could see from the nervy eagerness in Juan's wiry body that her time had come, and she would be damned if she was going willingly. "No, thank you," she said clearly. "Not tonight."

It was a waste of time. He put his hands on her, dragging her from the cell, and she fought him, suddenly ready to fight for her life. She kicked and scratched in furious silence as he dragged her down the row of cells and the other inmates called out jeers and encouragement, and she wondered numbly if he was going to kill her. If he was going to rape her on the cement floor where the men urinated daily, then cut her throat.

None of the other guards was in sight. Not that they would save her, but they might consider it worth their while to keep their meal ticket going. But then, maybe their payments had stopped. And that was why Juan was being given his turn.

He spun her around and shoved her hard against the wall. Her head smacked against the stone, and she blacked out for a moment, sliding to the ground. When her vision cleared he was on top of her, ripping at her buttons, his hot, fetid breath washing over her averted face as she fought and fought.

And then the magic place came back. The light was white this time, blinding, and no hands were clawing at her, no one was hurting her. She shut her eyes, blocking out everything, willingly accepting the blankness, when she heard a scream, one that echoed chillingly through the cells and then died in a rattling gurgle.

She opened her eyes. She was in no magic place. The stink and the noise of the prison were still around her, the bright white light no peaceful trance world but the brightness of electricity. Quickly she struggled to her feet, pulling her ripped dress back around her, as she surveyed the silent tableau.

The prisoners in their cells were backed against the walls, not saying a word. The Arab was standing by the light, tall, dressed in enveloping robes that obscured everything about him but the blood on the white material. And Juan was lying in a pool of blood on the floor, his mean eyes wide and staring, a knife in his throat.

Francey felt the scream of horror begin to bubble up in the back of her throat as she stared at him. Before it could erupt a hand clamped over her mouth, a hard, brown hand, and she was pulled back against the Arab's voluminous robes, against the strong body underneath it.

"You want to get out of here?" His voice whispered in her ear, a rasping, accentless voice. "Don't nod—I might break your neck. Just raise your hand."

She didn't even consider the alternatives. She raised her hand, and he caught it in his own large brown one. "Then follow me and keep quiet."

He didn't release her hand. Instead he pulled her after him, out into the stillness of the dark, moonless night. She stumbled as she followed him, and for a moment all she wanted to do was breathe in the clean, free air. But the stranger wasn't allowing her any delay. He yanked her after him, moving down a pitch-dark alley, and she followed, trying to hold her dress together with her other hand, trying to empty her mind of everything but the need to follow the huge stranger.

She didn't care where he was leading her. Whether it was to death, to white slavery, to degradation or to freedom. She'd lost the capacity to care, or to choose. She was like a leaf on the wind, swirling with the forces of nature. The last of her fight had been squandered on that fruitless struggle with Juan. If the man taking her away held a knife to her throat, she would accept it without flinching. She had had enough.

He seemed to have no interest in her, other than to lead her through the maze of back alleys of the small town of Mariz. She could smell the sea, growing stronger, and she wondered if he was going to drown her. Or simply sail away with her. It didn't matter.

Except that she wasn't sure she could make it. During those interminable weeks in the prison cell she'd barely been able to make herself eat. Her clothes had grown loose and baggy, and her strength and energy had vanished. She hadn't walked more than a few feet at a time during her stay, and this headlong march to the sea was fast draining her remaining resources.

The hand that gripped hers was hard and strong, callused and deadly. For a moment she wondered who her savior was. And then she decided it didn't matter. All that mattered was that she stayed on her feet until they reached whatever destination he'd decided on.

She wished he were Michael. But Michael was small, frail, Michael wouldn't kill a man that swiftly, mercilessly, efficiently. He wouldn't drag her through the twisty streets of a small Spanish town without a word.

Michael didn't even exist. He was a dream, from a dream world, not belonging to blood and death. She no longer wanted to find him. Searching for him had brought her to this devastating point. She had nothing more she could risk.

They were near the sea, and for a moment she could pretend they were a continent away, with clean white sand and palm trees. They were near the quay, and she could see boats at anchor. Fishing boats, yachts, one that even looked like Daniel's boat, the
True Blue
. But that was impossible.

She stumbled again, too weary to take another step, and she half expected the man leading her to abandon her, or haul her to her feet with unceremonious force.

He did neither. She felt him loom over her, all strength and size and enveloping robes, and a moment later she was lifted effortlessly in his arms. Her dizziness increased with the weightlessness, and she whimpered faintly, clinging to the soft cotton robes. Odd, the drunken man didn't smell like alcohol. He smelled of sunlight and warm male flesh. He smelled like blood.

She shuddered as the vision of Juan's dark, sightless eyes filled her, and for a moment she struggled in the man's arms. She'd forgotten how strong he was. He subdued her effortlessly as he swung up some angled walkway. And then he was setting her down carefully on her unsteady feet, and she blinked in the darkness, at the man waiting for her, the man he'd brought her to.

"Francey," the man said, his voice raw with concern as he held out welcoming arms.

Why had she thought the Arab would bring her to Michael, who would make everything better? Michael didn't exist. "Daniel," she said, her voice a breath of a sigh that covered her crushing disappointment and relief. She reached out for him, falling into darkness, warm and safe at last.

Michael caught her, her slight, weary form no burden at all as he scooped her up again, holding her against the enveloping robes. "Where are you putting her?" he demanded, his voice terse with the tightly suppressed rage that had been riding him for the past few days.

"The gray cabin. It's the quietest, most out of the way spot. What in hell did they do to her?"

Michael didn't bother to answer, shouldering the older man aside as he carried her into the companionway. In fact, he blamed the old man as well as Cardiff. Travers had allowed him into her life in the first place, oblivious to the danger he was putting her into. He must have heard tales of the Cougar—he must have known what she was getting into. If her cousin had made any effort to protect her in the aftermath, that effort had been negligible. Michael was so angry he wanted to kill, and disposing of that sadistic little guard hadn't been nearly enough to slake his murderous rage.