“I saw mud on the floor. He must have tracked it in from the creek bed out back. That’s the only mud around here I know of. The mud was tracked through the kitchen and stopped outside that door. He’s still down there, I guess. I locked the door from this side.”
“What do we do?”
“Is there another way out of the cellar?”
“The old coal chute in the back of the house. Don’t use it anymore but it still works.”
“We have to move. Now. Where’s that videotape you’re supposed to send Franklin?”
“Right there on top of the dresser in that FedEx envelope. I was just fixing to take it into town.”
“Grab it and let’s get out of here.”
“What about the basement?”
“He’s either already outside and coming around the house to kill us both or he’s still locked inside down there and really pissed off.”
“Daisy. You must be freezing. Take this coat.”
She did. They descended the steps as quietly as they could. The door at the bottom of the steps was still locked shut. They tiptoed past it and then ran for the front door.
“C’mon, let’s run. My truck’s halfway down the drive.”
They left the old house in a hurry.
When they reached the two cars, Daisy went over to the black rental car and peeked inside. Nothing on the seat had been moved. The driver had to be still in the basement. She fired both barrels of the shotgun, blowing out the two front tires.
“I can’t shoot and drive at the same time,” she told June, holding out the shotgun.
“Give me some ammuntion,” June said, taking the Sweet Sixteen and a couple of shells. She quickly loaded the shotgun and snapped the barrels shut.
They jumped in her truck and Daisy turned on the headlights and stuck the key in the ignition. Just as she twisted it, three starburst patterns exploded on her windshield, covering the two women with chunks of safety glass.
“He’s over there!” Daisy cried, “See him? Coming around that mule stall. He’s got a rifle!”
The yellow beams picked up a large man in a dark coat, now racing toward them. He was trying to shoot on the run. Rounds were hitting the truck, but the gunman was too dumb to stop and take a stance before he tried to shoot anybody.
“Okay, okay, take it easy,” June said, “I’ve got this one.”
He was less than a hundred yards away. She leaned out the window with the shotgun, aimed, and pulled both triggers.
The gunman staggered a few more steps, went down hard.
“He didn’t think I’d shoot,” June said, collapsing against the seat. “I didn’t either.”
“You got him!” Daisy said, “Let’s get out of here!”
June leaned her head back on the seat said, “Oh my Lord.”
Daisy got the pickup turned around in a hurry, and they tore off down the bumpy dirt road back to the highway.
“What time is it, Daisy?” June said a few minutes later, her eyes fixed on the empty two-lane road ahead. She was doing eighty.
“ ’Bout nine-thirty.”
“I mean exactly.”
“Nine thirty-two. Exactly.”
Daisy mashed the accelerator to the floor. “If we hurry, we can still make the FedEx machine in time for the last pick-up at ten.”
53
KEY WEST
H awke stripped off all of his clothes on his way to the head in the aft owner’s stateroom. He caught a mirrored glimpse of his naked body stepping into the green glass shower. Six months in the jungle on starvation rations were not an especially good way for a man to lose weight. When he’d been admitted to Lister Hospital, he’d weighed only 143 pounds and his body had been wracked with malaria and other exotic bugs.
Now, two months later, he’d reached his fighting weight of 180 pounds, give or take the odd ounce or two. God knew he was trying. Eating right, lowering his alcohol intake, and maintaining the strict daily exercise regimen in the ship’s small gym had started to yield dividends. He was rapidly gaining in upper body strength and increased muscle mass. The salt air and sunshine had been working wonders on him, body and, perhaps, his battered soul.
He leaned toward the glass and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He hardly recognized himself in the mirror anymore. His black hair was cut short in a military brush cut and he was clean-shaven. Save the stark white band around his middle, the tropical sun had deepened his skin color to a dark and healthy tan.
Physically, at least, he was definitely on the mend. The septicemia and malarial symptoms had diminished considerably, as well as the insomnia. He was sleeping better and the nightmares had ceased altogether. To his surprise and delight, the prior evening he’d successfully completed a six-mile night swim in heavy surf off a deserted Key West beach. He was trying to run at least five miles a day on the sandy beaches. Running in sand got you in shape in a hurry.
For all that, he was not yet nearly as fit as he liked to be before going into the field.
But this assignment wouldn’t wait. He wouldn’t even have time to wish Conch a proper farewell. He’d gotten a message that she’d called earlier. He hadn’t called back. He didn’t want to say good-bye over the telephone. An image came to him, unbidden, Conch, her lustrous auburn hair splayed out upon his pillow.
Hawke suddenly realized that he desperately needed a shower.
A cold shower, to be brutally honest, to purge all the thoughts of overwhelming desire that featured so prominently in his recent dreams now that he’d recovered. He was uncomfortably aware that a woman had elbowed the nightmare jungle demons aside, fighting for his nightly attentions. The beauteous and brilliant Consuelo had appeared. The scent of her, the touch of her hand sometimes lingered upon waking.
Instead of cold, he reached for the chromium handle marked HOT.
There was a circular rain-head fixture above his head; a hundred or so tiny apertures created the hot needlelike streams he craved whenever he bathed. The temperature was exactly as advertised and he closed his eyes and let the rain-head hammer the tension out of him. Steaming hot water streamed down on his head and shoulders and he stood under the downpour willing his mind and body to unwind.
Relax, he told himself, leaning his head back against the glass wall and controlling his breathing. There was no time for women in his life. Affairs of state beckoned, far more urgent and demanding than mere affairs of the heart. When it was over, if he were able, he would tend to the latter.
He squirted some of the sharp-smelling L’Orange Verte body shampoo into his hands, lathering his hair, face, chest and shoulders. Yes, relax, old sport. Focus on the mission. Prepare for battle. Take up the sword. Why was he so bloody distracted tonight of all nights? Two reasons, obviously. The second reason was a very special boat just delivered for the high-speed run down to Brazil.
The first reason?
He didn’t even want to think about the first reason now.
But the boat, yes, he could think about her all right. He’d ordered her especially for this assignment and she was a wonder. She was one hundred and eighteen feet long with a beam of only thirty feet and could accommodate a crew of twenty. She drew only four and a half feet of water, a draught that should suit his purposes perfectly. He was planning a speedy trip up the Amazon, with a quick stop at Manaus to reprovision and pick up some equipment he’d need in the interior of the rain forest.
An Italian design group with the wildly improbable name of ‘Wally’ had created the sleek Italian offshore powerboat to his unique specifications, adding armor and weaponry to what was more typically used as a high-
