handcuffed and pulled off her body, his cock dripping semen. What was happening?
The music was still blaring; drums, wooden flutes, bells. The lights casts lurid shadows on the bodies, both naked and clothed, that rolled and skirmished on the platform. She was being lifted up, off of Dawson's body, into the air, jostled and buffeted. A heavy heel came down on her bare toes and she cried out in pain. Then someone was throwing a robe around her, wrapping her in cloth, covering her sweat-soaked, cum covered body. Nooooo!
It was Julio! He pressed through the crowd, past the bodies, taking her away from the platform, through the room and out the door.
He took a small, glass-encased syringe from his pocket, bit the end of it off and jabbed it in her arm. 'You're going to be all right now, Jill. You're going to be fine now,' he said to her, taking a handkerchief to wipe the cum from her face. In her ravished state, she was unearthly beautiful. She seemed to have matured into a young woman instead of an appealing young girl.
She looked up at him dazedly. 'What's happening? I don't know why… I'm… it's so confusing?'
'Shhhhh. Don't try to think now. I will explain everything later.' He was taking her out of the house, past the police cars and the vans, down the drive and into the waiting car.
The cool night air felt bracing against her fevered cheeks. She looked up into the star-dotted sky. The antidote was beginning to take effect.
She was introduced to Roy Harris as the car zoomed into the night. 'Miss Conklin, you have done us a tremendous service. We have been after Ernesto Garcia for a long time. The CIA, the FICC, and the governments of the United States and Mexico are in your debt. I'm certain you shall receive a special commendation for this, as well as a substantial monetary reward. I'm only sorry that it was necessary to use you the way we did…'
Use you… the way we did. The words struck her with the force of a fist in the midsection. It hadn't occurred to the naive American artist that she was being used by them!
'Julio…?' She looked up at her bearded lover, tears welling in her big, hazel eyes. She remembered what he had said to her in the study: what a dirty business it is, avenging crime. In order to bring criminals to justice, we must become criminals ourselves at times…
His blue eyes were full of pain. 'Forgive me, Jill. I had no other choice.' She looked at him for another moment, then her hand came down hard on his face. Whaappp! He only winced. She sat back then, between the two men, her head high, hands folded in her lap, big, salty tears rolling down her lovely cheeks.
There was an awkward silence. Then Harris spoke again. 'We've contacted your parents. They'll be waiting for you at the airport. You'll have a good rest tonight, then a debriefing session in the morning followed by a meeting with some very important government officials, who want to thank you personally for your contribution.'
'Will they want a free fuck, too?' she asked dispassionately.
Harris went on, ignoring her sarcasm. 'You'll be flying home tomorrow afternoon.'
'Home?' she echoed softly. A small, derisive laugh began in the back of her throat.
'Yes. You'll be back in Kansas City tomorrow evening, and I know that an awful lot of people will be glad to see you.'
She was thinking, Haven't you ever read Thomas Wolfe, you stupid bastard? You can't go home again. Not after San Francisco and Mexico. Not after Don Ernesto and Julio and everything that's happened. But they knew that…
'Can't you just picture it?' she said ruefully, 'the band, the flashbulbs, the cheering throngs with little American flags in their hands? And the banner: WELCOME HOME, JILL CONKLIN, THE FAMOUS AMERICAN ARTIST.'
