Where There's Smoke (56 page)

Five years ago?
 
Yesterday?

Janellen was lounging in an easy chair upholstered in floral chintz, her feet resting on the matching ottoman, a paperback novel lying open in her lap.
 
A small brass lamp at her elbow cast soft, flattering lighting over her.
 
It came as an unpleasant shock that Janellen looked almost pretty.

During her childhood Jody realized that her daughter was not going to be a raving beauty.
 
Rather than finding this regrettable, she was glad and had done everything possible to guarantee Janellen's homeliness.

She'd never dressed her in anything bright or sassy and she had styled her hair in the least becoming way.

She firmly believed that desexing her daughter was the best thing she could do for her.
 
Wishing to attract a man was a weakness inherent to women.
 
Jody aimed to see that janellen never fell into that trap.

Compliantly, Janellen had conformed to the mold her mother designed for her.
 
She'd become an intelligent, competent woman who could never be accused of frivolity or flirtation.
 
She'd been too reasonable to fall in love.
 
Her plainness had spared her the deviousness of playboys, fortune hunters, and men in general.
 
In that respect, Jody considered her daughter most fortunate.

There was one major drawback.
 
Janellen had the Tackett eyes.

His eyes.
 
He'd been dead for years, but that living legacy, which all her children had borne, never failed to disconcert her.
 
It was as if Clark Junior were in the room with her, watching her from behind their daughter's face.

"Mama, what is it?
 
Are you feeling all right?
 
Is anything wrong?"

"Of course I'm feeling all right.
 
Why wouldn't I be?"

Janellen's curiosity was understandable.
 
Jody never sought her daughter's company and certainly not at this hour.
 
It was almost midnight.
 
Janellen had tucked Jody in hours ago, but she'd been unable to sleep.
 
Smoking heavily, she'd paced the floor of her bedroom.
 
Her body was tired, but her mind wouldn't relax and allow her to rest.

She'd always been an insomniac, even as a girl when frustration over her family's poverty had affected her sleep patterns.
 
Night after night she had lain awake between two snoring siblings, scheming ways to free herself of poverty's stranglehold.

The tornado that had destroyed her house and killed her family had been a godsend.

Once she began working for Tackett Oil, the challenge of the job kept her clever mind too energized for sleep.
 
Later, she'd spent years pacing the floor of her solitary bedroom while conjuring up infuriating, devastating scenarios of Clark Junior with other women.

Pushing that embittering thought aside, Jody said, "Where is your brother?"

"Key?"

She shot Janellen a retiring look.
 
"Of course Key."

"He's out of town."

The problem with Janellen was that she'd learned her lessons too well.

She'd conformed, she'd done what was expected of her, she'd never been rebellious, never created unpleasantness of any kind, but she was a titmouse.
 
Sometimes her eager-to-please expression was too much to stomach.
 
This was one of those times.
 
Jody wanted to shake her hard.

"He's gone to Central America, hasn't he?
 
He took that bitch down there just to show me that he didn't give a damn how I felt about it."

"Yes, he went to Montesangre with Dr. Mallory, but not because "When did he leave?"

"Today.
 
They planned to arrive tonight.
 
He said he would call if he had a chance, but he didn't think it was likely."

Jody's posture remained rigid.
 
The folds of her housecoat hid her hand from Janellen.
 
Otherwise her daughter would have seen how hard she was gripping the crystal doorknob.

"He's a goddamn fool.
 
She crooked her finger at him and he went running."
 
Her lips curled contemptuously.
 
"just like your father, he can't resist a chance in a woman's bed, no matter who she is or what it costs him."

"Key went because Dr. Mallory wants to bring back her baby girl's The sentimental implications didn't soften her.
 
"When are they due back?"

"He didn't know."
 
Janellen's eyes filled with tears.
 
"He left some papers with me.
 
I'm supposed to open them if he doesn't.
 
. . if they don't If she hadn't been holding on to the door with such determination, Jody might have collapsed from the impact of her emotions.
 
She had to get out of there before she made a fool of herself.

Without a word, she backed into the hallway and pulled the door shut with a decisive click.
 
Only then did she give vent to her inner turmoil.
 
Her shoulders slumped forward.
 
Bowing her head, she raised her fist to her lips and mashed them hard in order to keep from uttering an anguished sound.

After a time, she returned to her bedroom feeling alone and very frightened.

Reaching between the front seats of the jeep, Key thrust the Magnum against Lara's side.
 
"Take it," he whispered.
 
"Don't be skittish about using it if you have to."

She didn't argue.
 
The guerrilla fighters had completely surrounded them.
 
Their expressions were menacing.
 
She clutched the revolver and placed it in her lap, hiding it in her voluminous skirt.

"Buenas noches, seiiores."
 
Father Geraldo spoke pleasantly to the band of armed men.
 
Key counted a dozen.
 
Three times that many were probably keeping cover in the foliage.
 
He didn't like the odds.

"Quie'n es?"
 
One of the soldiers separated himself from the others.

He was dressed in camouflage fatigues and armed to the teeth.
 
His stance and tone were belligerent, his eyes hostile and suspicious.

The priest introduced himself.
 
The soldier spat in the dirt.

Unruffled, Father Geraldo said in fluent Spanish, "You know me, Ricardo Gonzales Vela.
 
I conducted your mother's funeral Mass."

"Years ago," the soldier growled, "when we still believed in such foolishness."

"You no longer believe in God?"

"Where was God when women and children begging for food were slaughtered by the swine under the command of Esca'ver?"

Father Geraldo was disinclined to engage in a theological or political debate, especially since the other soldiers cheered and raised their weapons to reinforce their comrade's opinion.

The angry young rebel glared at the priest, then his eyes shifted to Lara, who'd had the good sense to keep her head down to hide her Anglo features.
 
"Who is this woman?"
 
Ricardo jabbed the barrel of his rifle in her direction.
 
"And him?"

"They live in a small village in the foothills.
 
Her husband was killed defending the village from contra forces.
 
She's pregnant.
 
Her brother-in-law," he said, hitching a thumb toward Key, who'd remained slumped down and seemingly disinterested, "already has four sons.
 
He cannot afford to feed two more mouths.
 
I offered to bring her to the city and provide food and shelter in exchange for housekeeping duties at the rectory until she can find someone else to take care of her."

One of the soldiers made a crude comment about the kind of

"housekeeping duties" she would be performing for the priest.
 
Key had a basic understanding of Spanish.
 
He didn't catch all the words, most of which were slang, but these duties had something to do with her getting onto her knees.

Ricardo smiled hugely in appreciation of his comrade's ribald wit, then instantly sobered.
 
He gave Key a contemptuous once-over.

"You look strong and tall.
 
Why aren't you fighting?
 
El Corazon's army needs fighters."

Key's stomach tensed, but he pretended not to understand that the question had been directed to him.
 
Thankfully Father Geraldo took his cue.

The priest motioned Ricardo closer.
 
He approached warily, his military accoutrements making sinister jingling sounds in the darkness.
 
Key heard several guns being cocked and wondered if he should do the same with the one hidden in the sleeve of his peasant shirt.

Lowering his voice to a confidential pitch and tapping his temple with his index finger, Father Geraldo whispered, "He's an idiot, good for milking goats and planting beans, but otherwise useless."
 
He shrugged eloquently.

"But you said he has four sons," Ricardo argued.

"All of them nine months and ten minutes apart.
 
The poor fool doesn't realize that rutting makes babies."

A roar of laughter went up from the guerrillas.
 
Ricardo relaxed his vigilance.
 
"When will he return to his village?"

"In a few days."

Ricardo leered.
 
"Perhaps we should pay a visit to his village while he's away.
 
Maybe his wife will be lonely."

The others laughed, including Father Geraldo.
 
"I am afraid you would find her unaccommodating, amigo.
 
She was grateful for these few nights of rest."

Ricardo swept his arm toward the road ahead.
 
"We will not detain you.

You are no doubt eager to have the widow begin her housekeeping duties."

"Gracias, seiiores," he said, addressing the laughing group.
 
"God's blessings on you and on El Corazon del Diablo."

He put the jeep into first gear.
 
Key's gut muscles began to unknot.

The jeep had rolled forward only a few yards, however, before Ricardo commanded them to halt again.

"What is it, comrade?"
 
Father Geraldo asked.

"An airplane was sighted tonight, flying low over the mountains from the coast.
 
Did you see it?"

"No," the priest replied, "but I heard it.
 
Unmistakably.
 
About an hour ago.
 
Back there."
 
He pointed toward the mountains, but in a direction several degrees off the spot where they'd hidden the aircraft.

"I thought it was delivering supplies to your army.

"And so it was."
 
Ricardo lied as nonchalantly as the priest had.

"The army of El Corazon del Diablo lacks nothing, especially courage.

We'll fight with our bare hands if we must, to our deaths."

Father Geraldo saluted him and let off on the brake.
 
They were allowed to proceed without further delay.
 
None of them breathed easily until they were well away from the reconnoiters.

"Very well done, padre," Key whispered from the backseat.
 
"I couldn't have lied more convincingly myself."

"Unfortunately this isn't the first time I've had to break a commandment in order to save lives."

"Lara, you okay?"

She nodded her covered head.
 
"Do you think we'll be stopped again?" she asked the priest, her voice muffled by the scarf.

"Probably not, but if we are, we'll stick to the same story.
 
Keep your head down and try to look like you're grieving."

"I am grieving," she said.