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“Seems so.”
The truck’s noisy engine was coaxed to life. With a screech of gears, it moved forward. Through the opening in the back, they watched the camp roll past. When they last saw Emilio Sánchez Perón, the dreaded El Corazón del Diablo, he was seated on the porch of his ramshackle hut, consulting with his lieutenants while being fanned by adoring young girls.
“He’s so damn smug,” Lara angrily observed. “He thinks we no longer pose a threat to him.”
Key cupped her chin and brought her head around. “Do we?”
She considered the question, then slowly shook her head as tears began to slide down her cheeks. “No. Even if I’d been able to kill him, his death wouldn’t have brought back Father Geraldo, or Dr. Soto, or Randall, or Ashley.”
He whisked a tear off her cheek. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“Then what would be the point? I’d be a killer, no better than he.”
“I haven’t had a chance to say anything about what we found last night. I’m sorry, Lara.”
She nodded her thanks, but hadn’t the strength to say more. Within moments, she succumbed to exhaustion. Her eyes closed, and her head fell back against the wall of the truck. Almost immediately she was breathing evenly, having found release in sleep.
One of their guards approached with blindfolds. “Bug off, Bozo,” Key said to him. “We’re going to sleep. Our eyes will be closed.”
The guerrilla consulted his comrade. The other shrugged indifferently. The blindfolds were withdrawn and the soldier returned to sit near the tailgate with his counterpart. They lit cigarettes.
Despite his aching ribs, Key slipped his arm around Lara so her head wouldn’t bump against the truck. He positioned her against his side. She turned and settled her head on his shoulder.
One of the soldiers made a crude comment about the instinctive way she nestled the cleft of her thighs against his hip. The two laughed, flashing Key lewd grins.
He gave them the finger before surrendering to his own exhaustion.
Chapter Twenty-Four
At sunset they arrived at the hotel. It once had been a showcase, but, like everything else in Ciudad Central, it had suffered the effects of war. Lara had attended diplomatic receptions and parties held in its ballrooms in bygone days. Now the staff was inadequate and unfriendly, acting more like surly soldiers obeying orders than like hosts.
After spending hours in the back of the bouncing truck, Lara was so relieved to have reached her destination that the hotel’s notable lack of amenities didn’t bother her. The formality of registering was waived. She and Key were promptly escorted under armed guard to the third floor.
The hallways were deserted. There was only silence behind the numbered doors. Lara guessed that this floor was reserved for “special guests,” and that it could rightfully be called a detention center. Essentially, anyone given a room on the third floor was under house arrest.
“Señora Porter.” The bellman handed Lara a room key. He gave Key another. “I trust your stay with us will be comfortable.” Under the circumstances, his hospitality was a parody. Nevertheless, he bowed to them, then he and the two guards retreated to the elevator. Only the bellman got in. The guards posted themselves outside the sliding doors. There were also soldiers at the emergency exit doors at both ends of the corridor.
Lara unlocked the door to her room. Key followed her inside. The room was clean but tacky. Through an open door she saw the flamingo-pink tiles of the bathroom and a plastic shower curtain with lurid hibiscus blossoms. She dropped her doctor’s bag and duffel at her side and stood in the center of the room, too dispirited to take another step.
Key was behind her. He touched her gently. Turning, she looked at him, and, for the first time since leaving El Corazón’s camp, she really saw him. He looked battered and beleaguered. She reached up to touch the wound on his temple, then, realizing that the gesture wasn’t professionally motivated, she lowered her hand.
Softly he said her name. As they stood facing each other, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Her voice was hoarse from screaming at Sánchez, whose only reaction to her accusations had been a gloating smile. He’d demonstrated no remorse for Ashley’s death. Remembering, tears came to her eyes. She inclined toward Key and began shaking her head mournfully. “No, no, I’m not all right. My baby is dead, forever lost to me.”
His arms encircled her and held her protectively. “Shh. Don’t cry. He can’t hurt you anymore. We’re safe.”
Suddenly she wanted very badly to be convinced of that. Her fingers curled inward, digging hard into the muscles of his chest. She desperately needed to touch, to be touched, and apparently Key was just as eager to allay his own fears.
He tipped her head up as his descended. Simultaneously a violent hunger was unleashed, and they aggressively sought to satisfy it. He claimed her mouth with a frantic, needful thrust of his tongue.
Lara arched against him and locked her arms around his neck. He pulled her shirttail from the waistband of her pants and impatiently tore the buttons from their holes. Reaching behind her, he unfastened her bra, then slid his hands forward to cover her breasts. His strong fingers pressed into her flesh.
His name drifted across her lips—a question, a profession, a prayer.
Responding, he lowered his head and took her nipple between his lips. Her head fell back upon her shoulders, and she gave herself over entirely to the hot urgency of his caress. He pulled her deeply into his mouth, the flexing of his jaws strong and possessive. Then he kissed her mouth again, moving his head from side to side, changing angles, testing positions, tasting her completely.
At last he raised his head and looked at her, his eyes feverish and painfully blue. His eyebrows were pulled into a frown of determination above his straight, narrow nose. His lips were a thin, firm line of resolve set between his bearded cheeks.
