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“Thanks, honey, but I can do without your sort of help,” he drawled, touching his left eye, which was puffy and red.
Anger seared her; she was innocent, and she was tired of being treated like Benedict Arnold. She thought of pouring the lime juice in his lap, but her stomach growled and revenge took a distant second place to putting something in her empty stomach, even if it was just fruit juice. She sat back in her chair and sipped, wanting to make the juice last as long as possible.
The minutes crawled by, and Jane began to feel a twitch between her shoulder blades. Every second they sat there increased the danger, gave Turego a better chance of finding them. The abandoned truck wouldn’t fool him for long.
A man slipped into the chair beside her and Jane jumped, her heart flying into her throat. He gave her only a cursory glance before turning his attention to Grant. He was a nondescript character, his clothing worn, his face covered by a couple of days’ growth of beard, and his smell of stale alcohol made Jane wrinkle her nose. But then he said a few words to Grant, so quietly that she couldn’t understand them, and it all clicked into place.
Grant had advertised their presence not because he wanted Turego to find them, but because he wanted someone else to find them. It had been a gamble, but it had paid off. He was no longer in the business, but he was known, and he’d trusted his reputation to pull in a contact. This man was probably just a peripheral character, but he would have his uses.
“I need transport,” Grant said. “Within the hour. Can you manage it?”
“Sì,” the man said, slowly nodding his head for emphasis.
“Good. Have it sitting behind the Blue Pelican exactly one hour from now. Put the keys under the right seat, get out, and walk away.”
The man nodded again. “Good luck, amigo.”
That hard, lopsided smile curved Grant’s lips. “Thanks. I could use some about now.”
The man blended in with the crowd, then was gone. Jane slowly twirled the glass of juice between her palms, keeping her eyes on the table. “Now that you’ve made your contact, shouldn’t we get out of here?”
Grant lifted the tequila to his mouth, his strong throat working as he swallowed the sharp-tasting liquid. “We’ll wait a while longer.”
No, it wouldn’t do to follow the other man too closely. George had always told her how important it was to make contact without seeming to. The man had taken a chance by walking up to them so openly, but then, Grant had taken a chance by making himself so available. It had probably been clear that the situation was desperate, though Grant looked as if he was thinking about nothing more important than going to sleep. He was sprawled in his chair, his eyes half-closed, and if Jane hadn’t noticed that he kept his left hand on the rifle she would have thought that he was totally relaxed.
“Do you suppose we could find a bathroom?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
“In here? I doubt it.”
“Anywhere.”
“Okay. Are you finished with that?” He downed the rest of his tequila, and Jane did the same with her lime juice. Her skin was crawling again; she felt that tingling on the back of her neck, and it intensified as she stood up.
They threaded their way through the tangle of feet and tables and chairs to the door, and as soon as they stepped outside Jane said, “I think we were being watched.”
“I know we were. That’s why we’re going in the opposite direction of the Blue Pelican.”
“What on earth is the Blue Pelican? How do you know so much about this town? Have you been here before?”
“No, but I keep my eyes open. The Blue Pelican is the first cantina we passed.”
Now she remembered. It was the cantina with the flashing neon sign, the one that had given her such an intense feeling
of unreality.
They were walking down the small side street into a yawning cave of darkness. The street wasn’t paved, and there were no sidewalks, no street lights, not even one of the incongruous neon signs to lend its garish light. The ground was uneven beneath her boots, and the sour smell of old garbage surrounded her. Jane didn’t think; her hand shot out, and she grabbed Grant’s belt.
He hesitated, then resumed walking without saying anything. Jane swallowed, belatedly realizing that she could have found herself sailing over his shoulder again, as she had the first time she’d grabbed him from behind. What would she do if she no longer had him to cling to in the dark? Stand around wringing her hands? She’d already come a long way from the child who had sat in a terrified stupor for days, and perhaps it was time for one step more. Slowly, deliberately, Jane released her grip on his belt and let her arm drop to her side.
He stopped and looked around at her, darkness shrouding his features. “I don’t mind you holding on to my belt.”
She remained silent, feeling his reluctant curiosity, but unable to give him any explanation. All her milestones had been inner ones, attained only by wrenching effort, and this wasn’t something she could easily talk about. Not even the frighteningly expensive child psychologist to whom her parents had taken her had been able to draw her out about the kidnapping. Everyone knew about the nightmares she’d had, and her abrupt, unreasonable fear of the dark, but she’d never told anyone the details of her experience. Not her parents, not even Chris, and he’d been her best friend long before he’d been her husband. In all the years since the kidnapping, she’d told only one person, trusted only one person enough. Now there was a distance between them that she’d tried to bridge, but he kept pushing her away. No matter how she wanted to throw herself into his arms, she had to stand alone, because soon she might have no choice in the matter.
The fear of being alone in the dark was nothing compared to the fear that she might be alone for the rest of her life.
He wove a crazy path through the town, crisscrossing, backtracking, changing their route so many times that Jane completely lost her sense of direction. She chugged along doggedly, staying right on his heels. He stopped once, and stood guard while Jane sneaked in the back of the local version of a greasy spoon. The plumbing was pre-World War II, the lighting was a single dim bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the carcass of an enormous cockroach lay on its back in the corner, but she wasn’t in the mood to quibble. At least the plumbing worked, and when she turned on the water in the cracked basin a thin, lukewarm stream came out. She washed her hands and, bending over, splashed water on her face. There was no towel, so she wiped her hands on her pants and left her face to dry naturally.
When she tiptoed out of the building, Grant stepped from the shadows where he had concealed himself and took her arm. They weren’t far from the Blue Pelican, as it turned out; when they turned the corner, she could see the blue and pink sign flashing. But Grant didn’t walk straight to it; he circled the entire area, sometimes standing motionless for long minutes while he waited, and watched.
