Willing Hostage Page 8

  “Good morning.” Glade shifted his weight around Goodyear, who lay peacefully curled between his legs. “No one’s following … yet. Any coffee left?”

  “Where are we going?” She handed him the thermos cup and felt a twinge of panic when their fingers touched. What was she doing here?

  “We’re going to get lost.”

  She swigged Maalox to fight the chicken. If they weren’t lost already she didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  “Go easy on that stuff. You’ll have to ration it. No drugstores where we’re going.”

  A winding lane led away to a desolate ranch house far below and the tiny prosaic figure of a woman gathering wash off the line.

  “Why am I going there with you?” She looked back longingly at the woman.

  “Look”—his sigh was impatient—“you are not a much-desired gift from heaven. Like you said, you’ll only slow me down.” And then, almost under his breath, he added, “But I can’t very well let them do to you what they did to Sheila, can I?”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “If I had to, I’d kill you myself first.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I’d be kinder and quicker. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.” He reached across her to open the glove compartment and she shifted her legs to avoid his touch.

  “You’ve killed before.” She couldn’t look at him.

  “Yes.” The glove compartment held a bottle of whiskey, an envelope, and an assortment of tools. He removed the bottle and envelope.

  The fences stopped. The truck rose from a treeless grassy valley to pass through groves of aspen with tall white stalks and shaking lime-green leaves.

  “I knew you were a murderer the first time I met you.” And here she was riding off to nowhere with him and all because some unknown criminals tortured and killed a woman who he said had been mistaken for her and because an airplane had chased her under some bushes. Things had happened too fast and Leah had made another of her famous mistakes by coming with him. She was sure of it.

  “It’s men,” she said miserably.

  “What?” He took a drink and handed her the bottle.

  “Men have constantly ruined my life. You are merely one in a long string.” She dared a drink and choked, wondering again what people saw in the stuff.

  “Don’t spill it.” He grabbed the bottle and capped it. “We’ll have to ration this, too.” His sudden flow of conversation dried up and his look was black as the pickup flew over ruts and rocks and bumps till Leah thought every organ in her body would mash itself to jelly. He was either angry because of her comment on men, or disgusted because she choked on raw whiskey, or he was just planning on how he would kill her quickly if he had to. Had he come to her rescue at the sound of the airplane for her sake or because her presence would give away his own?

  They swooped down on a guest ranch on a river bottom and left it just as fast. Leah looked back wistfully. Surely that ranch would be lost enough.

  “Why didn’t the men with the dogs recognize you when we passed them on the road?”

  He swiped dark curls from his forehead. “They make mistakes, too, I guess. I had my head turned away.”

  A sign read ROUTT NATIONAL FOREST. At least there were signs. How much more lost could they get? But the incredible jolting journey continued.

  “The FBI and the police are after you. That’s two of the four groups. And the goons make three. Welker said he was trying to save your life. If you gave or sold the property to the FBI, would the rest leave you alone?”

  “No. And they’re after us.”

  “Why me? I don’t know anything.”

  “I doubt if Sheila did, either.”

  “She was with the FBI, too.”

  “So I hear. They didn’t used to use women but I’ve been out of the country.… She was supposed to intercept Charlie and talk him into turning me over to Welker.” His smile was bitter. “Charlie was looking forward to the meeting but had no intention of—”

  “Could Charlie have done that to Sheila?” She remembered the grinning man who stood beside her car at Ted’s Place and her own uneasy sensation.

  “No. She was an FBI operative. That would have been too far out of line even for Charlie. He specializes in accidents anyway … and games.” The truck slowed and turned onto a side road at a sign that read TRAPPERS LAKE, 10 MILES.

  “So Charlie’s not with the bad guys. Welker said a company hired them. What kind of—”

  “An oil company.”

  “And everyone is after the property and—”

  “But if they get us they won’t get the property. Because I won’t tell where it is and you won’t know.” His tone was icy.

  “Oil goons, FBI, and the police. That leaves a fourth group.”

  “That’s … another organization,” he said in that muffled way. Those were the words Joseph Welker had used when she’d asked about Charlie. Both Glade and Welker had grown uncomfortable.

  Another sign. WHITE RIVER NATIONAL FOREST. Surely they were lost by now. But did Leah really want to be? Need to be? Her glance slid to the powerful man beside her. In a way he reminded her of Jason … and there had been other Jasons in her life. But no one remotely like this man.

  “This other organization must be even more secret than the FBI the way you and Welker look when it’s mentioned. What is it? The Mafia? Or the CIA?”

  The truck braked. Leah was flattened against the windshield. “The Mafia? The—”

  “Woman, if I answer that one question, will you get off my back? I need to think, damn you!”

  “The CIA? In Colorado?”

  His hands on her shoulders lifted her from the seat. “I can’t think when.…” He shook her once and let go. “I don’t need you. Remember that.” It was almost a whisper. Blood vessels bulged on his forehead.

  She had driven him to the point he had driven her. Leah could feel it. “The FBI, the CIA … is this property-information stolen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a thief as well as a murderer. And you ask me to trust you, go with you for something I know nothing about. Why should I? Sheila is dead and you say she didn’t know. If you hadn’t mistaken me for her, I wouldn’t even be involved at all.”

  “That, Leah Harper, is the only reason you are sitting next to me now. It’s my fault you’re in this. I’ll try to get you out.” He started the engine and the pickup moved down the road. “But I can’t promise anything. For either of us.”

  Men. Always men. Her father hadn’t wanted her mother to be any more than a dependent keeper of his house and family. When he died, Iris Harper had no training to head the family, no economic sense. His oversight ruined them all and eventually led to his wife’s suicide.

  Leah had enrolled in journalism her freshman year in college. There had been eight girls and two hundred and eighty men in the class. The male faculty had cut it down to one girl and two hundred and eighty men in two weeks. The one plucky upstart had stuck it out to graduate with honors. But Leah had moved out of journalism into liberal arts, the catchall for the undecided, unwanted, or undeveloped. And the dabblers.

  “And then there was Clifford,” she said aloud, not meaning to.

  “Clifford.” Glade glanced at her and then past her through the window. The truck slowed to a crawl.

  “At the travel agency,” she explained.

  An entire field of yellow daisylike flowers with brown centers appeared on their left, too large for daisies, too small for sunflowers, alight with sinking sunlight—too vast and bright for any postcard to capture.

  They had stopped. Her companion stared at the field of flowers. Leah wouldn’t have expected a murderer-thief to appreciate the golden glory on the other side of the window.

  They eased forward, Glade scanning the roadsides. The flowers ended at a line of pine forest and then another clearing. At the back of the clearing sat a white wooden wagon that looked like an old gypsy home on wheels. The
truck stopped again.

  “Shepherd’s wagon,” he said and watched it.

  It looked deserted. There was a long handle meant to be hitched to a horse; its end lay on the ground. The wagon seemed to be shut up.

  Glade checked the rear-view mirror and the sky, then turned the truck off the road into the clearing, driving in behind the shepherd’s wagon where they couldn’t be seen from the road.

  “Are we lost now?”

  “No. But we’ll wait until dark before we go on. You can get out and stretch your legs, find yourself a tree.”

  “A tree?” They were nearly surrounded by trees.

  “All that coffee has to go somewhere. Just stay out of sight of the road.”

  “You mean—But I can’t—”

  “Suit yourself. You’re a long way from a flush toilet.” He left the truck and disappeared into the trees. Goodyear crawled out after him.

  Leah sat deserted, staring at her ugly boots, wishing she could get back to the United States of America. He’d taken the keys with him. Finally, she shrugged, opened her door, and crept off into the trees.

  When she returned, Glade was bent over a green backpack on a metal frame. It was like those she’d seen in the restaurant in Oak Creek and before that on hitch-hikers along the highways.

  He looked over his shoulder with a smile of insolence and a raised eyebrow. “Manage?”

  Leah considered answering with a well-placed kick but decided against it. She still wore bruises from her last tangle with this beast.

  “At least you didn’t need a dime.” He drew another pack from under the tarpaulin that covered the back of the pickup.

  Above her the aspen rattled its leaves and Goodyear appeared like an overweight eagle’s nest clinging to a slender silver branch. He returned her stare with cold-blue malevolence.

  Glade scratched his head over a foil packet. “I’ve been gone a long time. I don’t suppose you can cook.” It wasn’t even a question. An assortment of strange packages and metal containers lay at his feet.

  Leah studied him. He wore cowboy boots, but he didn’t look or act or talk like a cowboy. The CIA, FBI, information.… “Are you an enemy agent?” she asked suddenly, embarrassed by the melodramatic question.

  Bewilderment was replaced by amusement on his face and then his smile opened to laughter. “Lady, at this point I don’t know what I am.” He stuffed the varied paraphernalia into the packs. “But I think I’m still an American citizen.”

  His answers always confused her more than they helped.

  He lifted the smaller of the two packs. “Let’s see if this fits.” He put it on her back and adjusted straps around her shoulders and waist. It felt as if it weighed as much as a used car.

  “Are we hitchhiking?”

  “Hardly. These are survival packs.” He put both packs in the pickup and took the envelope that had been in the glove compartment from the dashboard, sat on a rock and examined the papers he drew from it.

  “Nineteen twenty-seven,” he muttered and threw down the first paper. It was mostly green with swirls of brown and white and tiny lines of black. “Department of the Interior, Geological Survey” was printed in one corner.

  He threw the next paper down with a shake of his head and Leah picked it up. It was a letter.

  Glade,

  Sorry about the age of the survey map. The Forest Service is getting jumpy about telling people the whole truth about the last of the wilderness. I don’t blame them. As far as I know this is the last survey map of the area. I’ve included the latest tourist brochure—not too complete or accurate but maybe you can figure things out between the two.

  I did the best I could with the second pack on short notice. She? I see you haven’t changed, after all. You both should be outfitted for as long as I thought you could carry. Don’t forget to leave the note with the truck. Sure wish I knew what the hell you’re up to now. But good luck, whatever it is.

  Ben

  Glade sat staring at the yellow blaze of daisies through the trees. Leah read the letter he held in his hand, over his shoulder.

  Dear Crocker,

  Thanks for the loan of the truck. It sure made the move into my new pad easier. Sorry I couldn’t stay for a beer but this nice lady who followed me out in my car was eager to get back. (Heh, heh.) Next time I’ll stay awhile and we’ll catch us some fish.

  Ben

  Ben’s “pad” must be the cabin where Leah had spent the night before.

  In his other hand Glade held a folded map with ROUTT AND WHITE RIVER NATIONAL FORESTS printed across the top and a picture beneath of a fisherman standing up to his crotch in a lake ringed by snow-capped mountains. It made Leah shiver just to look at it. Surely he didn’t expect her to go fishing.

  Finally, he stirred and spread both maps side by side on the ground. He must have studied them for a half-hour while Leah’s teeth chattered as the last of the sun faded.

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. The brute grew beard like he grew muscle. “We’ve got ourselves a challenge, Leah Harper.” He put the maps in his jacket pocket and stood to stretch.

  “Why do you always call me Leah Harper instead of just Leah?” She was pacing near him and he clamped his hand on her wrist and swung her around so hard she collided with his chest.

  “I’m convincing myself that was Sheila back in the burning car.” His other hand grabbed her hair and snapped her head back so that she was looking up into his face. “And that you are indeed Leah Harper.”

  She saw nothing but cruelty in his eyes.

  “You’d better pray that I become good and convinced,” he said in a tight whisper.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Yowl …” Cat eyes glinted back silver moonlight.

  “Be still, you good-for-nothing creep.” Leah nuzzled her cold face against the warmth of lush fur. “You’re a bad kitty.” She scratched him under the chin until he purred. “And we are involved with a bad and unpredictable man.”

  She stood beside the backpacks and watched through the trees as Glade drove over a small bridge in front of a lodge made of logs. The lodge was lit and so were several cabins to the side of it. People moved behind windows.

  A stream chattered under the bridge. Trees moaned low in the wind. Frogs croaked and crickets answered. A horse whinnied. Wood smoke wafted by, occasional voices.

  She wasn’t alone with him now. She didn’t know for sure that she faced the same danger as Sheila. Might she be in as much danger from Glade?

  Leah could run, elude him and find people here and tell her story, ask for the police and protection. That had to be the wisest course.

  But still she hesitated, even as the truck disappeared into a shadow next to the lodge and car lights moved up the road. Glade would be captured if she publicized his whereabouts by turning herself in. Who of all the people after him would be the first to find him?

  Would the goons torture Glade as they had Sheila to get the information-property? Why should she care if they did?

  The car turned to cross the little bridge; its headlights pierced the shadow that held the pickup, but she couldn’t see Glade.

  Leah moved from one foot to the other, clutching the cat, trying to decide what to do. She didn’t want Glade captured. She didn’t know why. But she did sense that her habit of hesitation was the very fault that had let Welker push her into this position to begin with. Glade had told her just enough to make her unsure but not enough to let her make an informed decision.

  A shadowy figure moved across the bridge and she damned herself and gullible people like her who let people like him and Welker and governments and giant corporations use them and then Glade was across the road, through the trees and beside her and the moment was lost.

  Brushing the cat from her arms, he slung a backpack over her shoulders, and cinched the waistband. He crawled into the other pack and stared at the shadow of Goodyear at his feet. “We can’t leave him here,” he whispered. “He’s so weird, he’s
recognizable.”

  “You aren’t going to kill him,” she said through her teeth.

  “I should. And bury him deep. He’ll only get in the way. Cats are unpredictable.”

  “I won’t let you. I’ll scream.”

  “I can’t anyway. If you think you’re an innocent bystander, that poor cat.…” He scooped the Siamese up in his arms. “I guess once you’ve broken training you might as well go completely berserk. We’re going to regret this, though.”

  They walked in the trees beside the road until they came to a pickup-camper and a roaring fire. A man, woman, and three teenagers sat in folding patio chairs around the campfire and rock music blared from a transistor radio. The couple argued in harsh voices, the teenagers—all boys—looked stony with boredom. A dog barked. Other campfires and vehicles loomed beyond.

  Leah could smell charred steak and so could her ulcer. Goodyear moaned.

  They moved onto the road and walked between campgrounds with the homey sounds of crying babies, music, crackling fires, and human voices.

  Again Leah considered breaking away and causing a commotion. Again she saw the disfigured Sheila and hurried to catch up with the man ahead of her.

  “The trail head is supposed to be straight on to the end of this road. There’ll be a sign of some sort,” Glade whispered.

  “Trail to what?”

  “Escape.”

  “I’ve been escaping for a week and all I’ve done is get in more trouble.”

  “It’s been ten months for me. Faster!”

  “What are you escaping from?” she asked.

  “I’ve told you.”

  “No. You haven’t told me anything that makes sense.”

  They left the campfires behind and walked through dazzling moonlight and oblique shadows. The road curved.

  “Thanks for not bolting back there, if you are Leah Harper,” he said in a shadow.

  “I’m not Sheila,” she said in a patch of moonlight and wondered why she hadn’t bolted.

  “It’s this goddamn cat,” he said in the next shadow. “I’ve heard of fog tactics, but a giant Siamese. I can’t figure an operative with a cat. You even seem to like him, aren’t just using him as a—”