Demon Lover (25 page)

"Are you allowed to tell me your name?"

What an odd question!
Dazed, Julie stammered, "Of—of course. I— My name is Julie Maguire. I’m—"

"Well, Julie, I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Madeline Younger."

Younger?
They were moving from the veranda into the house; Julie had an impression of warm, muted colors, of golden wood and natural fieldstone and the cool green accent of plants. She shook her head, gamely trying to collect her scattered wits.

"Younger," she repeated hoarsely. "Are you Chayne’s sister?"
Not his wife. Please.

A delightful laugh burst from the woman, and she gave Julie’s waist a squeeze. "Oh, dear, you are nice. No—and I can see that you’re as confused as I am by all of this. I’m that terrible man’s mother. Though I take no responsibility at all for his manners. Come, let’s both have a cup of coffee and regroup, shall we?"

Julie found herself in a huge kitchen made cozy by the warmth of quarry tile and copper pots. She was ushered gently but firmly into a chair at a heavy oak trestle table beside a fieldstone fireplace, cold now in the dead of summer.

"His mother," Julie mumbled, eliciting another burst of that musical laughter.

"Afraid so," Madeline Younger said tranquilly as she poured coffee from a chrome pot into thick mugs. "Atonement for sins in a former life, no doubt. How do you like your coffee, dear?"

"Hmm? Oh—black, please." Julie’s mind was skittering about like a chipmunk in a maze.

Chayne’s mother. This is Chayne’s home.

He’d brought her here on purpose; he was turning her loose. It didn’t make sense.

"Drink this, dear."

Julie reached distractedly for the proffered cup and took a swallow. Then she coughed and pounded her chest. "Sorry," she wheezed. "What—"

"Brandy," Madeline Younger said comfortably, settling into a chair across from her. "You looked like you needed a belt."

Julie sipped carefully this time and felt the cobwebs begin to clear from her head as the alcohol and caffeine burned their way down into her belly. She sat up.

"Mrs. Younger—"

"Oh, please call me Maddy. Everyone does, even my children and grandchildren."

"Maddy." Julie cleared her throat, hesitating. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to ask this lovely, compassionate woman for help in turning her son over to the authorities. But it had to be done, and quickly. Those men wouldn’t stay at the abandoned church now. They were probably already on their way. But perhaps an APB… "Listen, I hate to trouble you, but is there a telephone I could use? If you—"

"Oh, certainly. You can use the den; I imagine you’ll want privacy. Chayne always does. But do finish your coffee first. There’s no hurry."

"I’m afraid there is. You see—"

"Julie—that was your name, wasn’t it? Julie…" Madeline reached across the table to take her hand in a firm grasp. "I’m not a doctor, but even I can see you’ve been through an ordeal. You’ve suffered some sort of shock. I really must insist that you sit here for a few minutes and pull yourself together. I would not know what to do with you if you fainted in my parlor. Brandy is the extent of my first–aid capabilities, I’m afraid."

"Mrs. Younger, I really—"

"
Maddy
. And the telephone will still be there when you’ve finished your coffee and gotten some color back in your cheeks. Now, drink up." She fixed Julie with a stern glare, and Julie dutifully raised the steaming mug to her lips.

She sipped the toddy, and through a haze of steam and bemusement studied the remarkable woman who was Chayne’s mother.

Chayne’s mother.
Why should it seem so extraordinary? Everyone has a mother. She’d even wondered about Chayne’s, and now here she was, sitting across the kitchen table from the woman who had given birth to him, nursed him, put bandages on his skinned knees…

"Maddy," she asked slowly, "how much do you know about what Chayne does?"

"What he does? For a living?" She smiled. "Of course I know what he does, dear. In a very general way, at least. There’s so much secrecy involved, you know. So much he can’t tell me."

"Doesn’t it bother you?" Julie tried to keep her voice casual, but her head was beginning to swim again. Here was this lovely person, beautiful, in a dark, faintly exotic way, and very young–looking to be a grandmother. So down–to–earth, so warm, and
nice
. How could she condone her son’s illegal activities, no matter how much she loved him?

"Bother me? You mean, not knowing?" Chayne’s mother gave a short laugh that was remarkably like his humorless bark. "My dear, I’d really rather
not
know everything."

"No, I mean his occupation. You know—the danger and…so on."

Madeline studied her for a moment before answering. "Of course it bothers me," she said softly. "Of course I worry." She smiled a wise and gentle smile that made her face look at once softer and older. "Mothers do, I suppose. But I also know  I can’t live my son’s life for him, or ask him to live his life to suit me. He’s not an extension of me, after all, but a grown man, and this is what he’s chosen to do. Perhaps it isn’t what I’d hoped he’d choose, but that isn’t for me to judge. Is it?"

Julie shook her head, unable to answer. Madeline sat back with a sigh.

"Having children can be a real pain sometimes—as you will no doubt find out for yourself one day." Her quiet laughter rippled across Julie’s lacerated nerves. "Do you know what Chayne wanted to be when he was a boy? You’d never guess, to look at him now, but he wanted to be a doctor. He was actually enrolled in premed at Stanford when he went to Vietnam." She stood up abruptly and carried both coffee cups to the sink. When she turned back, Julie saw lines of deep sadness etched around her fine dark eyes. "Vietnam changed him," Maddy said simply, and lifted her shoulders in a resigned shrug.

"Well—you look much better now. Come with me, Julie, and I’ll show you that telephone."

* * *

Alone in a den filled with books and records and cluttered with the dozens of personal oddments that give a room life, Julie sat on the arm of a fat leather chair and stared at the telephone as if it were a coiled snake.

Damn you forever, Chayne. You didn’t have to kiss me to make me remember you.

Her mind was reeling through a montage of memories.

Cobalt eyes, demon bright; a deep voice murmuring, "Buenas noches, Guerita." A tiny scar like a dimple in a chin streaked with white lather. Two pairs of hands, one big and callused, the other small and grubby, holding delicate seashells as if they were precious jewels. A mouth drawn with deep lines of strain, hovering above mine…

And the tactile memories…sensual memories. Of sun–warmed skin and the wholly unique texture of hair and scar; a sigh and a whispered "You do heal me." Of hands and mouth and tongue pouring fire over her body; of silken hair, wet with rain and cool on her heated skin; of strong arms holding her tightly while she cried; of words sighed against her temple, her breast, her thigh.
"Sweet, beautiful Julie…"

This is crazy.
She reached for the phone with trembling fingers and lifted the receiver to her ear. Her hand brushed her cheek; she discovered it was wet.
Damn it, Julie.
She drew a long, shuddering breath and dialed a familiar number.

"Border Patrol."

Julie released the breath in a gust. Thank goodness it was Lupe. "Agent Maguire here," she said in her professional monotone. "Get the chief for me. Code three."

"Code three?" The flat impersonal voice on the telephone cracked and became human. "Julie? What are you doing with a code three? You’re supposed to be on vacation!"

Vacation?
"I can’t explain right now. Just get me the chief."

"Uh…the chief isn’t here right now. Rasmussen’s acting chief."

"Fine. Let me talk to him."

"Can’t. He’s gone home for the day."

Julie closed her eyes and counted slowly to three. "Give me his home number. Please."

She had to wipe her palms on her pant legs before she could dial the number. Tensely she counted rings—four…five…six…"

"Rasmussen."

"Ted, sorry to bother you so late—"

"Who is this?"

"Agent Maguire. I’ve got a code—"

"Julie? What the hell are you doing in town? You’re on vacation."

"Look, I’m not in town, and I’m not on vacation. I’ve been in Baja—"

"Baja! Doing some fishing? Hey, I’ll bet it’s great down there this time of year. What in the hell are you calling at this hour for? I have you down for two weeks’ R&R, and according to my calculations you’ve still got…hell, another whole week."

"Ted," Julie said, getting a grip on her patience, "I am not on vacation. I was—" She stopped. Kidnapped sounded so melodramatic and improbable. It would take up valuable time explaining. She began again. "Never mind. Right now I’ve got a code three. Heading north toward L.A. Last seen on S6 about five miles west of Highway 78. Ford pickup truck outfitted for off–road, customized camper, silver and white. California plates…"

She listened to her voice drone on, giving a full description of the camper and its occupants with cool detachment. When she had finished there was silence on the other end of the line. "Ted? Got all that?"

"Yeah, I’ve got it. Look, Julie, you know we’ve probably lost them. I’ll call the Orange County station and alert them, but unless they happen to go through a checkpoint—"

"They won’t be going through any checkpoints," Julie interrupted, her voice clipped. "These aren’t ordinary smugglers. This is a well–oiled machine. They aren’t carrying ordinary illegals, either."

"What? Maybe you’d better explain."

Julie took a deep breath. "They’re carrying a bunch of terrorists. They intend to hit the Expo in LA. Tomorrow, I think. And they’re armed and dangerous."

There was another prolonged silence. And then he asked, "Maguire, is this a joke? Have you been partying it up or something?"

"Ted," Julie said wearily, "have you ever known me to do something like that?"

"No. How in hell did you get onto something like this? You’re on vacation."

Julie shouted out of sheer frustration, "I’m not on vacation! Who told you I was on vacation, anyway?"

"Chief Patrol Agent Dalton."

"Dalton." Julie pressed a hand to her forehead. "Ted, send somebody out here to get me. Please. I’ve got to get in touch with the chief. I don’t know what in the world is going on."

"Get you? What are you talking about? Julie, the truth now—are you drunk? You sure sound funny."

"I am not drunk! I’m unarmed, out of uniform, afoot and stranded! I’ve uncovered a major smuggling operation, not to mention a terrorist plot to blow up the Pan American Expo, and you keep telling me I’m on vacation! You bet I sound funny!"

"Hey, take it easy, Cottontop."

"Ted." She was almost sobbing with frustration. Why did it lave to be Rasmussen? Anybody but Rasmussen. "Listen to me. People are going to get killed here very shortly if something isn’t done about this."

"I’ll do what I can, Maguire. And you’d better be on the level about this!"

"
Ted."

"Okay, okay. I’ll contact the Expo security people—you know we’re working with them pretty closely anyway, figuring the possibilities for illegal entry during—"

"I know," Julie said patiently. "I was supposed to be working the Expo myself."

"Funny. I have you down as being on—"

"If you tell me I’m on vacation one more time…"

"Calm down, Maguire. I’ll do what I can. But security is tight for the Expo, and I’m sure—"

"What about the CHP? If they can stop—"

"Julie, you know the Highway Patrol isn’t interested in our suspects unless they’re exceeding the speed limit. But look—you take it easy, you hear? I promise you I’ll get this information to LA right away."

"And you’ll come and get me? I’m in Ramona."

"Uh, well, I’m afraid I can’t do that, Julie. See, I’m off duty, and I’m kind of tied up at the moment."

"I take it you’re not alone."

"Right."

"Can’t you send someone? Please, Ted. I’m stranded."

"Well, you know, Julie, I can’t really send a Patrol vehicle when you’re technically not even on duty. I mean, I know you keep saying you’re not, but I have seen the chief’s memo, and it says Agent Maguire is
on vacation
. And if you want my input, you sound like you could use it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to phone in this tip and get back to my own R&R."

Julie was left staring dumbfounded at a dead receiver.

"J
ULIE? ARE YOU
all right?" Madeline Younger moved hesitantly into the room. "I’m sorry, I hope I haven’t disturbed you, but when I knocked and there was no answer I thought—"

"Oh…no, it’s all right. I’m finished. And I’m fine. Really."

"I just wanted to ask if you’d care for something to eat—a sandwich, maybe?"

"Oh, no. That’s very kind of you, but I’m not hungry, thanks anyway."

"Julie, are you sure you’re all right? You look quite shaken. I know I probably shouldn’t ask…"

Julie shook herself and pasted a stiff smile on her face. She felt like a gargoyle. "I’m just tired, I guess."
Your son is about to kill people, Mrs. Younger.
"And I really can’t intrude on your hospitality any longer. I have to get back to Chula Vista." How? She had no money, no one she could call at midnight on a Friday and ask to drop everything and drive nearly a hundred and forty miles, round trip, give or take a few!

What am I going to do? I can’t ask this woman for help. I can‘t!
Mrs. Younger, your son is going to help kill a lot of people and I’m trying to put him in jail—probably forever. Won’t you please help me out?

 Tears stung her eyelids and she stood up abruptly, knocking the phone askew.

"You know, Julie," Madeline said thoughtfully, "I really do think you’d better stay here tonight. It’s too late to do anything tonight anyway, and you look awfully tired. Why not stay and get a good rest and do what you have to in the morning?"