The Marchand Woman

A chip of light came in from the hall closet. It was all the light she wanted; she was afraid of attracting attention to the house. When she finished her ministrations she painted his face with iodine. Here and there he was still oozing droplets of blood but that would stop soon. She let him keep the wet cloth to dab at himself.

He said, “We’ll have to go to the police. We’d better get moving—the longer it takes, the less chance Harry has.”

When she didn’t answer he took it as a sign that she hadn’t heard him. “We’ve got to call the police. There must be a phone in that village we came through. Listen, they’ll keep Harry alive a while but in the end they’ll find out what they want to know from him, or they won’t find out but either way they’ll kill him, won’t they.”

There was a plea in his tone. She perceived that he had gone up against something, up there in the jungle, and it had cracked him open; he wasn’t much good for anything now.

Anders touched his face with the cloth. When he took it away he looked at the dark stains and winced like a galley slave. Then his face collapsed into defeat. “I’ll stay here if you want to go call the cops.”

His voice set her teeth on edge. She turned half away from him, trying to think, frowning, snapping her thumbnail against her front teeth.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Anders muttered. “Who’s going to care. Harry hasn’t got a family. Just another funeral nobody’ll go to.”

He’s got me. “Shut up, let me think.”

“What for? Call the cops.”

She was trying sluggishly to reason it through. Finally she said, “That’s not the way.”

“What are you talking about? We know where they are now. I mean I can lead the police right to them. And they’re not going anywhere—they think Harry was alone, they think nobody else knows where they are.”

She was ready to retort but when she looked at him she knew it would be pointless. He was far gone past the edge; she had no idea how long he might have gone without sleep but in any case he was in shock, shivering as he slumped stuporously in the chair; berating him would serve no end.

She said, “Listen to me, Gle

“Yeah—barely.”

“If we take an army of police up there Rodriguez will make a bloodbath of it and Harry will be the first casualty.”

“Harry’s dead already, breathing or not. There’s no way to get him out of there now. At least we can end this.”

“Maybe you’re ready to kiss him off just like that. I’m not.”

Anders tried to get to his feet. “Then if you won’t do it I will. It’s my job—”

“This is a marvelous time for you to suddenly remember your responsibilities.” She snatched up the revolver.

“You’re out of your mind.”

“And you’re out on a limb. I may even be able to save your ass, Gle

“What the hell do you think you’re going to do?”

“I’m going to get Harry out of there.”

His bitter laughter followed her away down the hall.

Chapter 19

At daybreak it was still raining when she brought Anders and Emil Draga out of the farmhouse. Draga’s feet prodded the earth tentatively; he was still blindfolded and manacled. Anders rubbed his jaw and came to a stop when he reached the Bronco. “What now?”

“Get in. You drive. You know the way.”

“Up there?”

She pushed the Cuban into the back seat and wasn’t particularly gentle about it: Rage swirled in her and Emil Draga was the nearest available target.

Anders stumbled. He reached for the door handle for support. The bruise around his eye was big, dark and ugly. He looked half dead. It was more than just the physical injuries; probably he was suffering from some sort of shock not to mention exhaustion and fear and dejection. She didn’t know anything she could do about it except snap at him to keep him awake and functioning.

“Go on—get in. You can drive.”

“I can try,” he muttered, and hauled himself up onto the seat.

She went around and climbed in and sat sideways with her gun and half her attention on Draga. He sat twisted awkwardly because his hands were cuffed behind him. But he was a big brute and his feet were free now and she didn’t trust him to stay still.

The Bronco lurched uphill and she sat in a chilled fury with the revolver in her fist, thinking it out. They had Harry up there—hostage or dead. Very well. Now she had a hostage, too. They’d have to tread easy where Emil Draga was concerned: The power of his grandfather’s wealth would force them to take no chances with Emil’s life and as long as she had her gun to his throat she could go among them and stay alive long enough to get Harry out if Harry was alive. If Harry wasn’t alive she’d use Draga as her shield to get out of there and then, she thought, God help me I’ll kill him.

But it wasn’t going to come to that because she couldn’t really believe Harry wasn’t alive.

Because if he was dead it was her fault.

Emil Draga sat rigidly upright, his shoulders wedged in the corner between seat and window, and Anders wrestled drunkenly with the wheel, driving poorly, failing to anticipate rocks and potholes in the trail; Carole clung one-handed to the armrest.

They rolled onto a flat shelf of rock and Anders pointed vaguely to the right. “That trail’s a phony. We wasted two hours on it yesterday.” He swung left into the bed of a stream and the four-wheel-drive whined high. He was hunched forward, using the wheel for support; he was past the end of his endurance and she steeled herself against pity.

“How much farther?”

“Maybe an hour, hour and a half.”

“Describe the camp again for me.”

“What can you possibly accomplish except to get our stupid heads blown off?”

“Tell me about the camp. Do it now.”

The trail grew steeper and narrower. They had to use the winch. Somewhere in the run of the next hour the rain stopped but she didn’t notice, partly because her mind was elsewhere and partly because the trees kept dripping long after it quit raining. When the sun shot a ray through a hole overhead she said, “Where are we now?”

“Not too—” Then the truck ran into something and came to a dead stop, pitching her against the dash. The revolver clattered to the floor and she felt around for it while Anders stared at her stupidly. The engine had gone dead and he was twisting the key but nothing happened: The starter didn’t grind, nothing happened at all.

She found the revolver. “What is it?”

“How do I know? It’s gone dead.”

“Well get out and look under the hood!”

“I’m no mechanic, lady.” But he got out anyway and lifted the hood. He looked in from one side and then went around to the other side and looked there.

She got out of the car. “What is it?”

“Maybe a wire got knocked loose somewhere.”

“Find it. Fix it.”

“I’m looking, damn it.” He reached in tentatively, touched something and jerked back with a little cry.

“Did you find it?”

“No. It’s hot, that’s all.”

“Oh for God’s sake.” She peered in under the hood, as if that would do any good, and after a moment closed her eyes and forced herself to fend off this added frustration and get a grip on her composure. All right, the son of a bitch truck had broken down, it wasn’t that important, they weren’t far from their destination anyway—she went back to the door and reached in and wrenched the blindfold off Emil Draga’s head.

Draga winced and squinted in the unfamiliar light, cowering as if he expected a bullet.

Anders said, “What the hell are you doing now?”

Ignoring him she stood back and waggled the revolver at Draga. “Come on. Out.”

Draga backed out slowly, reaching for the earth with one tentative foot, presenting his big rump to the gun.

Anders said, “Put the blindfold back on him. He’s a dangerous son of a bitch.”