Midnight Rainbow by Linda Howard
Grant knew how to wait; patience was second nature to him. He could hold a position all day long, if necessary, ignoring physical discomfort as if it didn’t exist. But the silence and lack of motion in the shed began to grate on his nerves, because it wasn’t what he’d learned to expect from Jane. Was she planning something?
Eventually the rain stopped, and the steamy heat began to build again. “Are we going to sit here all day?” Jane finally asked fretfully, breaking her long silence.
“Might as well. I don’t have anything better to do. Do you?”
She didn’t answer that, or ask any more questions, realizing that he wasn’t in the mood to tell her anything. She was so hungry that she was sick, but there wasn’t any food in her pack, and she wasn’t about to complain to him. She dropped her head back to her knees and tried to seek refuge in a nap; at least then she could forget how miserable she was.
She actually managed to sleep, and he woke her at twilight, shaking her shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, pulling her to her feet. Jane’s heart stopped because just for that moment his touch was strong but gentle, and she had the crazy hope that he’d cooled down and come to his senses while she was napping. But then he dropped her arm and stepped away from her, his face hard, and the hope died.
She followed him like a toy on a string, right in his footsteps, stopping when he stopped, always the same distance behind him. He went boldly into the center of town, walking down the streets as if no one at all was looking for him, let alone a small army. Several people looked at them oddly, but no one stopped them. Jane supposed they did look strange: a tall blond man with a bruised, swollen face and a rifle carried easily in one hand, followed by a woman with wild tangled hair, dirty clothes and a backpack buckled to her belt and swinging against her legs as she walked. Well, everything seemed strange to her, too. She felt as if they’d gotten lost in a video game, with crazy neon images flashing at her. After a moment she realized that the images were real; a street sign advertising a cantina flashed its message in neon pink and blue.
What was he doing? They were attracting so much notice that Turego would have to hear of it if he asked any questions at all. For all Grant knew, Turego could have the local law enforcement looking for them under trumped-up charges; Turego certainly had enough authority to mobilize any number of people in the search. It was as if Grant wanted Turego to find them.
He turned down a side street and paused outside a small, dimly lit cantina. “Stay close to me, and keep your mouth shut,” he ordered tersely, and entered.
It was hot and smoky in the small bar, and the strong odor of alcohol mixed with sweat permeated the air. Except for the waitress, a harried-looking girl, and two sultry prostitutes, there were no other women there. Several men eyed Jane, speculation in their dark eyes, but then they looked at Grant and turned back to their drinks, evidently deciding that she wasn’t worth the trouble.
Grant found them space at a small table at the back, deep in the shadows. After a while the waitress made it over to them, and without asking Jane her preference, Grant ordered two tequilas.
Jane stopped the waitress. “Wait—do you have lime juice?” At the young woman’s nod, she heaved a sigh of relief. “A glass of lime juice, instead of the tequila, please.”
Grant lit a cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame. “Are you on the wagon or something?”
“I don’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“We’ll get something to eat later. This place doesn’t run to food.”
She waited until their drinks were in front of them before saying anything else to him. “Isn’t it dangerous for us to be here? Any of Turego’s men could have seen us walking down the street.”
His eyes were narrow slits as he stared at her through the blue smoke of his cigarette. “Why should that worry you? Don’t you think he’d welcome you back with open arms?”
Jane leaned forward, her own eyes narrowed. “Listen to me. I had to buy time, and I did it the only way I could think of. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to explain it to you beforehand, but I don’t think Turego would have let me call ‘time out’ and huddle with you! If he’d tied me up, too, there would have been no way I could help you!”
“Thanks, honey, but I can do without your sort of help,” he drawled, touching his left eye, which was puffy and red.
Anger seared her; she was innocent, and she was tired of being treated like Benedict Arnold. She thought of pouring the lime juice in his lap, but her stomach growled and revenge took a distant second place to putting something in her empty stomach, even if it was just fruit juice. She sat back in her chair and sipped, wanting to make the juice last as long as possible.
The minutes crawled by, and Jane began to feel a twitch between her shoulder blades. Every second they sat there increased the danger, gave Turego a better chance of finding them. The abandoned truck wouldn’t fool him for long.
A man slipped into the chair beside her and Jane jumped, her heart flying into her throat. He gave her only a cursory glance before turning his attention to Grant. He was a nondescript character, his clothing worn, his face covered by a couple of days’ growth of beard, and his smell of stale alcohol made Jane wrinkle her nose. But then he said a few words to Grant, so quietly that she couldn’t understand them, and it all clicked into place.
Grant had advertised their presence not because he wanted Turego to find them, but because he wanted someone else to find them. It had been a gamble, but it had paid off. He was no longer in the business, but he was known, and he’d trusted his reputation to pull in a contact. This man was probably just a peripheral character, but he would have his uses.
“I need transport,” Grant said. “Within the hour. Can you manage it?”
“Sì,” the man said, slowly nodding his head for emphasis.
“Good. Have it sitting behind the Blue Pelican exactly one hour from now. Put the keys under the right seat, get out, and walk away.”
The man nodded again. “Good luck, amigo.”
That hard, lopsided smile curved Grant’s lips. “Thanks. I could use some about now.”
The man blended in with the crowd, then was gone. Jane slowly twirled the glass of juice between her palms, keeping her eyes on the table. “Now that you’ve made your contact, shouldn’t we get out of here?”
Grant lifted the tequila to his mouth, his strong throat working as he swallowed the sharp-tasting liquid. “We’ll wait a while longer.”
No, it wouldn’t do to follow the other man too closely. George had always told her how important it was to make contact without seeming to. The man had taken a chance by walking up to them so openly, but then, Grant had taken a chance by making himself so available. It had probably been clear that the situation was desperate, though Grant looked as if he was thinking about nothing more important than going to sleep. He was sprawled in his chair, his eyes half-closed, and if Jane hadn’t noticed that he kept his left hand on the rifle she would have thought that he was totally relaxed.
“Do you suppose we could find a bathroom?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
“In here? I doubt it.”
“Anywhere.”
“Okay. Are you finished with that?” He downed the rest of his tequila, and Jane did the same with her lime juice. Her skin was crawling again; she felt that tingling on the back of her neck, and it intensified as she stood up.
They threaded their way through the tangle of feet and tables and chairs to the door, and as soon as they stepped outside Jane said, “I think we were being watched.”
“I know we were. That’s why we’re going in the opposite direction of the Blue Pelican.”
“What on earth is the Blue Pelican? How do you know so much about this town? Have you been here before?”
“No, but I keep my eyes open. The Blue Pelican is the first cantina we passed.”
Now she remembered. It was the cantina with the flashing neon sign, the one that had given her such an intense feeling
They were walking down the small side street into a yawning cave of darkness. The street wasn’t paved, and there were no sidewalks, no street lights, not even one of the incongruous neon signs to lend its garish light. The ground was uneven beneath her boots, and the sour smell of old garbage surrounded her. Jane didn’t think; her hand shot out, and she grabbed Grant’s belt.
He hesitated, then resumed walking without saying anything. Jane swallowed, belatedly realizing that she could have found herself sailing over his shoulder again, as she had the first time she’d grabbed him from behind. What would she do if she no longer had him to cling to in the dark? Stand around wringing her hands? She’d already come a long way from the child who had sat in a terrified stupor for days, and perhaps it was time for one step more. Slowly, deliberately, Jane released her grip on his belt and let her arm drop to her side.
He stopped and looked around at her, darkness shrouding his features. “I don’t mind you holding on to my belt.”
She remained silent, feeling his reluctant curiosity, but unable to give him any explanation. All her milestones had been inner ones, attained only by wrenching effort, and this wasn’t something she could easily talk about. Not even the frighteningly expensive child psychologist to whom her parents had taken her had been able to draw her out about the kidnapping. Everyone knew about the nightmares she’d had, and her abrupt, unreasonable fear of the dark, but she’d never told anyone the details of her experience. Not her parents, not even Chris, and he’d been her best friend long before he’d been her husband. In all the years since the kidnapping, she’d told only one person, trusted only one person enough. Now there was a distance between them that she’d tried to bridge, but he kept pushing her away. No matter how she wanted to throw herself into his arms, she had to stand alone, because soon she might have no choice in the matter.
The fear of being alone in the dark was nothing compared to the fear that she might be alone for the rest of her life.
He wove a crazy path through the town, crisscrossing, backtracking, changing their route so many times that Jane completely lost her sense of direction. She chugged along doggedly, staying right on his heels. He stopped once, and stood guard while Jane sneaked in the back of the local version of a greasy spoon. The plumbing was pre-World War II, the lighting was a single dim bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the carcass of an enormous cockroach lay on its back in the corner, but she wasn’t in the mood to quibble. At least the plumbing worked, and when she turned on the water in the cracked basin a thin, lukewarm stream came out. She washed her hands and, bending over, splashed water on her face. There was no towel, so she wiped her hands on her pants and left her face to dry naturally.
When she tiptoed out of the building, Grant stepped from the shadows where he had concealed himself and took her arm. They weren’t far from the Blue Pelican, as it turned out; when they turned the corner, she could see the blue and pink sign flashing. But Grant didn’t walk straight to it; he circled the entire area, sometimes standing motionless for long minutes while he waited, and watched.
At last they approached the old Ford station wagon that was parked behind the cantina, but even then he was cautious. He raised the hood and used his cigarette lighter to examine the motor. Jane didn’t ask what he was looking for, because she had the chilling idea that she knew. He closed the hood as quietly as possible, evidently reassured.
“Get in, and get the keys out from under the seat.”
She opened the door. The dome light didn’t come on, but that was to be expected. Doing a little checking on her own, she peered over the back of the seat, holding her breath in case there was actually someone there. But the floorboard was empty, and her breath hissed out of her lungs in relief.
Leaning over, she swept her hand under the seat, searching for the keys. The other door opened, and the car swayed under Grant’s weight. “Hurry,” he snapped.
“I can’t find the keys!” Her scrabbling fingers found a lot of dirt, a few screws, a scrap of paper, but no keys. “Maybe this isn’t the right car!”
“It’ll have to do. Check again.”
She got down on the floor and reached as far under the seat as she could, sweeping her hands back and forth. “Nothing. Try under yours.”
He leaned down, extending his arm to search under his seat. Swearing softly, he pulled out a single key wired to a small length of wood. Muttering under his breath about damned people not being able to follow simple instructions, he put the key in the ignition and started the car.
Despite its age, the engine was quiet and smooth. Grant shifted into gear and backed out of the alley. He didn’t turn on the headlights until they were well away from the Blue Pelican and the well-lit main street.
Jane leaned back in the musty-smelling seat, unable to believe that at last they seemed to be well on their way. So much had happened since that morning that she’d lost her sense of time. It couldn’t be late; it was probably about ten o’clock, if that. She watched the road for a while, hypnotized by the way it unwound just ahead of the reach of their headlights, tired but unable to sleep. “Are we still going to Limon?”
“Why? Is that what you told your lover?”
Jane sat very still, clenching her teeth against the anger that shook her. All right, she’d try one more time. “He isn’t my lover, and I didn’t tell him anything. All I was trying to do was to stay untied until I could catch one of them off guard and get his gun.” She spat the words out evenly, but her chest was heaving as she tried to control her anger. “Just how do you think I got the pistol that you took away from me?”
She felt that was a point that he couldn’t ignore, but he did, shrugging it away. “Look, you don’t have to keep making explanations,” he said in a bored tone. “I’m not interested—”
“Stop the car!” she shouted, enraged.
“Don’t start pitching one of your fits,” he warned, slanting her a hard look.
Jane dived for the steering wheel, too angry to care if she caused them to crash. He pushed her off with one hand, cursing, but Jane ducked under his arm and caught the wheel, wrenching it violently toward her. Grant hit the brake, fighting to keep the car under control with one hand while he held Jane off with the other. She caught the wheel again and pulled it, and the car jolted violently as it hit the shoulder of the road.
Grant let go of her and wrestled with the car as it slewed back and forth on the narrow road. He braked sharply, finally bringing the car to a complete halt so he could give his full attention to Jane, but even before the car had completely stopped she threw the door open and jumped out. “I’ll get myself out of Costa Rica!” she yelled, slamming the door.
He got out of the car. “Jane, come back here,” he warned as she started walking off.
“I’m not going another mile with you, not another inch!”
“You’re going if I have to hog-tie you,” he said, coming after her, his stride measured.
She didn’t stop. “That’s your remedy for everything, isn’t it?” she sneered.
Without warning, he sprinted. He moved so fast that Jane didn’t have time to run. She gave a startled cry, twisting away as he reached her; his outstretched hand caught her blouse and Jane jerked as he stopped her. It was doubly infuriating to find herself so easily caught, and with a fresh burst of rage she threw herself away from him, twisting and doubling her lithe body, trying to break his grip.
He caught her wildly flailing arm and pinned it to her side. “Damn, woman, why do you have to do everything the hard way?” he panted.
“Let…go!” she shouted, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding her arms pinned down. She kicked and shrieked, but he was too strong; there was nothing she could do as he carried her back to the car.
But he had to release her with one arm so he could open the car door, and when he did she twisted violently, at the same time lifting her feet. The combination of the twist and the sudden addition of weight broke his grip, and
Tears spurted from Jane’s eyes as she scrambled to cover her breasts, holding the ruined cloth over them. “Now look what you’ve done!” Turning away from him, she burst into sobs, her shoulders shaking.
The raw, hard sobs that tore from her throat were so violent that he dropped his outstretched arms. Wearily he rubbed his face. Why couldn’t she cry with sedate little sniffles, instead of these sobs that sounded as if she had been beaten? Despite everything that had happened, he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her head to his chest, stroke her dark hair and whisper that everything was going to be all right.
She whirled on him, wiping her face with one hand and clutching the ruined blouse to her breasts with the other. “Think about a few things!” she said hoarsely. “Think about how I got that pistol. And think about Turego. Remember when he came up behind you with the rifle, and I warned you? Did you notice, before you shot him, that his face was bloody? Do you remember the way his nose was bleeding? Do you think it was the altitude that made his nose bleed? You big, stupid, boneheaded jackass!” she bellowed, so beside herself with fury that she was shaking her fist under his nose. “Damn it, can’t you tell that I love you?”
Grant was as still as stone, not a muscle moving in his face, but he felt winded, as if he’d just taken a huge blow in the chest. Everything hit him at once, and he staggered under the weight of it. She was right. Turego’s face had been bloody, but he hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. He’d been so damned angry and jealous that he hadn’t been thinking at all, only reacting to what had looked like betrayal. Not only had she done some quick thinking to avoid being tied up, she’d charged to his rescue as soon as she could, and when he remembered the way she’d looked when she came through that door, so white and wild—Turego’s goons were probably lucky that he’d gotten free first. She loved him! He stared down at her, at the small fist that was waving dangerously close to his nose. She was utterly magnificent, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, her face filled with a temper that burned out of control, yelling at him like some banshee. She clutched that ridiculous scrap of cloth to her breasts with the hand that wasn’t threatening his profile. Indomitable. Courageous. Maddening. And so damned desirable that he was suddenly shaking with need.