Escape Out of Darkness (8 page)

Not quite trusting her voice, she nodded against him. She knew she should move away, say something light and amusing, laugh it off. But she couldn’t move; she could only huddle closer for warmth and comfort and hope this wasn’t as dangerous as the darkness and the death.

He made no move to let her go. If he was wearing anything at all, it was only those absurd Jockey shorts, but there was nothing
sexual in his embrace. “I’m sorry,” he muttered against her hair. “I forgot about the damned light, tonight of all nights. Are you sure you’re okay?”

She tested her voice. It came out raw and rusty, a perfect twin to Mack’s ruined voice. “I’m sorry …” she whispered, but his hand moved and covered her mouth, gently.

“Shhh,” he said. “It was my fault. I knew you were afraid of the dark, but I didn’t know it was this bad. Like an idiot, I forgot.”

“It’s not usually this bad,” she said slowly, pressing her face against the warmth of his arm. “At one point I had it beaten entirely. It must have been Peter that set it off.”

His arm tightened imperceptibly. “Were you in love with him?”

She thought about it. Exhaustion had swept over her body in the wake of her panic, and she lay there, dreamy, comfortable. “No,” she murmured. “What we had between us was over, and had been for a while. But we did love each other, as good, dear friends. Damn them.”

“Damn who?”

“Whoever did that to him. Damn them to hell.” She buried her face against him, snuggling closer. Never had she felt so safe, so protected.

“Are you going to be all right?” She could feel his muscles tense beneath her hands, feel his tentative withdrawal.

She raised her tear-streaked face for a moment. “Don’t leave me,” she said, for the second time in her life, and she hated herself for her weakness.

But Pulaski didn’t take advantage of it. “I won’t,” he said simply, pulling her back against him. “Go to sleep, Maggie. Tomorrow you can be Superwoman again. Tonight you can ask for help.”

With the cocoon of Mack’s warm, strong body curled protectively around her, Maggie did as she was told.

If Lonesome Fred was an unprepossessing sort of pilot, his twin-engine prop plane was even less encouraging. Both of them were beaten, battered, and had clearly seen better days. Lonesome Fred had a stubble of beard, mirrored sunglasses, and spoke in a laconic, stoned voice; his plane was decorated with decals, bullet holes, and the hardly reassuring painting of a mule on the fuselage.

She turned accusing eyes on Mack. “I can’t say much for your transportation,” she muttered under her breath as Lonesome Fred busied himself with a casual check of their flying machine.

He shrugged, his smile warm in the bright Texas sunlight. “What can I say? He assures me the plane flies like a dream and we’ll be in Honduras in a matter of hours. Given the worth of his usual cargo, I’d expect it to be reliable. Come on, Maggie, you know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. She’s probably got the cleanest engine this side of a factory.”

“I checked while you were busy giving Lonesome Fred his exorbitant fee. It’s absolutely filthy, gunked up with oil and crud, and we’re all going to die,” she said prosaically.

Mack grinned at her. “At least we’ll die together. Chin up, Maggie. We’ll be safe enough.”

“Sure we will,” she said in a gloomy voice. “I think I’ll walk.”

She wasn’t serious, but his sturdy hand beneath her elbow didn’t leave her much choice. “All aboard, Maggie May.” He
pushed her up into the plane, shoving her butt with unnecessary force. She stumbled into one of the seats, grimacing at the smell of fuel and vegetation and stale beer. Mack took the seat behind her, leaning back with a casual air she envied.

The engines could have sounded smoother, but at least both were working. And despite Lonesome Fred’s unpromising demeanor, he seemed to know what he was doing once he climbed into the cockpit of the plane, his sweat-stained Stetson pushed back on his lined forehead, his mirrored sunglasses balanced above the grubby, weak chin. He was smoking as the plane took off, roaring down the runway and bouncing over potholes, and Maggie turned away to stare fixedly out the greasy window.

“I didn’t know you were afraid of flying, Maggie.”

“Along with being scared of the dark?” she snapped back. “I’m not a bundle of neuroses, Pulaski.”

“I didn’t say you were. Are you afraid of flying?” he persisted.

“No. I’m just a few hours short of getting my license. I’m afraid of death traps and strange pilots and … oh, my God.”

“What?”

“Lonesome Fred is smoking a joint the size of a cigar!”

Mack shrugged. “He says he flies better stoned.”

“Hey, passengers,” Fred’s sleepy voice issued from the pilot’s seat. “You guys know how to swim?”

“Why do you ask?” Maggie demanded in a dubious voice.

“I don’t carry parachutes. I figure it shows a lack of basic trust in my baby.” He patted the instrument panel and some of the ash fell from the thick joint. “So just in case we have any trouble, I like to fly over water.”

“Do you often have any trouble?” Maggie had to ask.

Lonesome Fred shrugged, and the plane lurched as it continued its unsteady ascent into the bright Texas sky. “Now and then,” he said dreamily. “Now and then.” And he began to whistle the theme song from
The High and the Mighty
.

“Great,” Maggie said, sinking back. “Pulaski, I’m too young to die.”

“Don’t worry, Maggie. He may not carry parachutes, but he has life preservers.”

Maggie sneered, leaned back in her seat, and tried to ignore the rough-sounding engines, the inane whistling from their stoned pilot, and the man behind her. She traded one set of worries for another. Jeffrey Van Zandt would be somewhere in Honduras, most likely near the border. Someone had mentioned a little town, and if she had a moment of peace and quiet it might come back to her. Though how helpful Van Zandt would end up being was always questionable, unless he thought they might have something to offer in return.

No, she was being too harsh. Van Zandt was the one who’d brought Pulaski to Third World Causes, Ltd. in the first place. He had responsibilities, and an interest in the outcome. Besides, he’d know better than anyone how deep the rebels were involved in drug smuggling. And how tolerant the U.S. Government was of that involvement.

What if they didn’t find Van Zandt? What if they ended up in a camp of rebels, all with a grudge against a man who’d seen more than he was supposed to have seen? A lot of people wanted Mack, and most of them wanted him dead. The CIA, the rebels, the Mafia, and now the Houston police. And the only chance they had of getting them all off their tail was to find out who was behind the drug deal and get him to call off his vultures.

That had to have been Peter’s plan. As far as Maggie could see, there was no way out of the mess Mack had unwittingly landed himself in without very careful negotiations and access to the source of power behind it all. Peter had had access, and had died because of it. Van Zandt would have knowledge and access, and if he failed them she didn’t know what else she could do. Except find some place to hole up with Mack until the heat died down.

Damn, she hated feeling so helpless. But Peter’s death had thrown everything in an uproar, and she had to face the fact—even with Van Zandt’s help her time with Mack was far from
over. It was going to be a long time before she saw her mother’s swimming pool in Laurel Canyon.

Not that a few weeks with her mother was the answer to her need for peace and quiet. Sybil Bennett wasn’t a restful woman. Exuberant, loving, and imaginative, yes. Feckless, ruthlessly self-centered, and narcissistic, yes. But never restful.

And there was no way to tell who’d be in residence in the big white pseudo-Italian monstrosity of a house that Sybil had held onto through good times and bad. There’d be Queenie, of course, Sybil’s devoted maid cum housekeeper cum nanny. For as long as Maggie could remember Queenie had been there, her ample bosom ready to be cried upon, her common sense ready to be leaned upon. Whatever failings Sybil had as a mother, Queenie had more than made up for them.

Any or all of her three sisters might be there. Jilly was still in college, and she spent most of her summers back in California. Holly was busy with her career as a model, but she and Sybil had always gotten along the best. Vanity was one trait Sybil could identify with. And Kate was commuting between Chicago and L.A., working with a small regional movie company based in the Midwest. With luck, Sybil might have a full house. Not to mention whatever young man was currently enjoying her favors.

No, it would be hectic, exhausting, and wonderfully innocuous after the past few days of blood and bullets. And within a week Mack Pulaski would be as much a part of her past as Randall Carter, albeit a less painful part. But it didn’t look as if a trip to Laurel Canyon was anywhere in her near future.

She should never have bought him those damned Jockey shorts. It had been meant as a joke, and he’d taken it as such. But the sight of him in them had been unnerving to say the least. And if she was going to spend months, weeks, or even days hidden away with him, their involvement was going to change. And she didn’t know if she was ready for that change.

Her love life, such as it was, had never been spectacularly successful. Granted, it had gotten off to a hideous start when
she was sixteen. And her involvement with Randall hadn’t been much of an improvement. Randall Carter had taken her trust, her ridiculous faith in human nature that even her stepfather hadn’t managed to shake, and destroyed them, tossing away her love with a casual disregard, unlike the usual care he reserved for rare and precious things. But then her love hadn’t been rare and precious to him, it had been a disposable commodity—useful for a time, but only temporary. It hadn’t been temporary for her.

Her marriage had been doomed from the start—a rebound alliance to a terminally nice guy who was as far from Randall as she could get. And then a discreet couple of affairs, just to prove she was healthy, ending with Peter Wallace.

He was typical of the men she’d chosen since her eight-month marriage. Charming, gentle, undemanding, he, like all the others, had ended up backing away. She couldn’t blame them. After her disastrous mistake with Randall, she kept all her passions carefully banked. She couldn’t afford to let them flame out of control ever again.

Control. A nasty word. Maggie sighed, peering out the greasy window. They were heading over the ocean now, the greeny-blue of the Gulf a dubious safety net beneath them. The acrid scent of Lonesome Fred’s marijuana cut through the gas and diesel fumes that filled the cabin, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. She could swim, and swim well. She could only hope to God she wouldn’t have the chance. Not unless it was in a nice big chlorinated pool in a Honduran Holiday Inn, if such a thing existed.

“Hey, passengers.” Lonesome Fred had stopped his whistling, but his voice was still cheerfully stoned. “Where are we heading? Honduras is a small country, but I need to have some idea of the general area.”

“By the Nicaraguan border. If you can find an airfield …”

“Lady, I don’t need no airfield. Leave it to Lonesome Fred.” And he leaned back and began to whistle again.

“Leave it to Lonesome Fred,” Mack agreed behind her.
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, Maggie? You didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Maybe,” she said dubiously. “But I have the feeling that as long as I’m awake and paying attention, this thing will keep flying. Ridiculous, I know.”

“Ridiculous,” he agreed. She could feel his hand toying with the rough braid she’d fashioned. It felt suspiciously like a caress, but that was unlikely. He’d been paternal, calm, and almost businesslike that morning. No sexual tension whatsoever, all day long, and she was missing it.

Brooding on whether Mack wanted her or not was a good enough diversion. She needed to get her mind off the mess they were in, to stop going back and forth between possibilities and impossibilities. Sexual fantasies and frustrations could keep her mind off the pilot at least. With a sigh, she sank back down in the cracked leather seat and shut her eyes.

“Maybe not so ridiculous after all,” Mack’s voice rumbled in her ear. She opened her eyes with a start, looking up into his grim face. There was no laughing warmth in his hazel eyes. Something was wrong.

“What?” she murmured groggily, pulling herself up. The seat belt held her back, and she suddenly remembered where she was. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve lost the engines, man,” Lonesome Fred called out from the cockpit, sounding completely unruffled. “Looks like you’re gonna get your chance to swim.” And he lit another joint.

With a shriek of rage, Maggie leapt for the front of the plane, but the seat belt jerked her back. She struggled with it, slapping away Mack’s restraining hands. “Leave me alone, Pulaski,” she snarled. “I know how to fly, better than that idiot at least. Maybe I can get them started again.”

“No time, Maggie. Grab this pillow and put your head down. Now, goddamn it!” he added at her mutinous expression.

She could feel the plane gather speed as it hurtled toward the ocean. “Take your own seat, too, then,” she snapped.

“It doesn’t have a seat belt.”

“Oh, my God,” she moaned. “Then hold on to me.”

“I think your chances would be better if—”

“I don’t give a damn what my chances are. Hold on to me or I’ll unfasten the seat belt and beat Lonesome Fred into a pulp as we drop into the ocean.”

He laughed, and if the sound was slightly forced, his hazel eyes warmed for a second. “You’re a hell of a woman, Maggie May,” he said.

“I know.” She smoothed the pillow in her lap. “Put your arms around me and your face on the pillow. Who knows, maybe we’ll survive.”

“Who knows?” He followed suit, kneeling beside her. His arms were strong and hard around her, and quickly she pressed her torso down on top of his, bracing herself for the impact.

“Geronimo!” Lonesome Fred shouted from the cockpit, and a second later they hit the water.

The force of their impact was tremendous, knocking Maggie back, ripping her arms away from Mack. She felt his body fall away from hers, and then everything blacked out, for minutes … for seconds. …

And then reality, unpleasant as it was, cropped up again. Mack was fumbling at her seat belt with desperate haste. Blood was pouring from a cut on his forehead, and cold water was lapping around her ankles. “Come on, Maggie,” he muttered under his breath. “We haven’t got much time.”

She slapped his hands away, unfastening the seat belt with only slightly more efficiency. “Where are the life preservers?”

“Gone.” He jerked his head toward the opposite side of the plane. The wing had broken off when they landed, and parts of the plane were floating rapidly away as the water poured in the side. “And this damn thing is going to sink momentarily. Let’s go.” He yanked her hand toward the raw opening in the body of the plane.

“But Lonesome Fred …”

“Dead. His neck broke when we hit,” Mack said shortly. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

She didn’t even hesitate. She gave Mack a shove out of the plane, grabbed their knapsack, and dived after him into the greeny blue Gulf waters, which were damned cold for a Caribbean summer.

They both sighted the piece of wing floating in the choppy current at the same time. Maggie struck out for it, still holding the knapsack, but Mack reached it first.

The cold water had slowed the bleeding to a mere trickle, and Mack held out a hand to her, pulling her the last few feet to the wing and taking the knapsack from her, looping it around his wrist. “Are you okay?”

Maggie shook her wet hair out of her face. “All in one piece. What about you? Anything besides that cut on your forehead?”

“I don’t think so.” He squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight toward the slowly sinking plane. “I guess Lonesome Fred died the way he wanted to. Fitting coffin too.”

“Pulaski, at this moment I really don’t give a damn about Lonesome Fred,” Maggie said in a dangerous voice. “Do you have any idea how far from land we are?”