“And it’s possible that you could get killed delivering me to Peter Wallace.” He didn’t look at her, his posture behind the small wheel of the bug was relaxed, but Maggie wasn’t fooled. She could see a nerve jerking in his cheek, and his usually warm eyes looked bleak as they surveyed the Texas landscape ahead of them.
“It’s possible,” she allowed. “But not very likely. I’m good at what I do. Not good enough, or no one would have gotten killed at the motel, but good enough to protect both of us.”
“I wasn’t blaming you, Maggie,” he said, and to her amazement she realized that he wasn’t. “But I’ve got to figure out if my life is worth—what is it, nine lives already? And God knows how many more before they’re through.”
“What did you have in mind? Walking into their welcoming arms next time they sneak up on us? I didn’t know you had a martyr complex.”
She was hoping to sting him. Instead, he just smiled. “I don’t want to be the indirect or direct cause of anybody else getting blown away, Maggie. Particularly not you.”
“Very noble. But even if you made the ultimate sacrifice, they’d probably do their damnedest to get to me, just in case I saw anything or you told me anything that might be incriminating. The people who are after you make a habit of killing innocent people. You included. And once they took care of you they’d be after someone else. There’s no way you can win, you can only do what feels right.” She knew she was preaching, but she couldn’t help it.
“And what if I told you that letting them get me is what feels right?”
“Then I’d tell you you’re full of shit. And you’ll do it over my dead body.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”
“Do me a favor then,” she said. “Don’t give me any more problems with these sudden noble impulses. I’ve got all I can handle with the Mafia, the CIA, and the rebels after you.”
“Don’t forget the state police. We’ve stolen a car.”
The tension had broken. “Heavens, let’s not forget the state police,” she said, popping a peanut-butter cookie in her mouth. “If anybody gets you, I’ll have to take the rap alone for this little felony. You can’t give up now, Pulaski. I need you.”
He turned to look at her then. His hazel eyes were warm once more, his sexy mouth curled in a smile, and for the first time in days Maggie remembered his earlier incarnation as Snake, the sex god of the sixties. “Do you, Maggie May? I’ll keep that in mind.” And he turned his attention back to the highway.
six
“Okay, Maggie,” Mack said, pushing the mirrored sunglasses down on his nose to peer at her. “We’re approaching Houston, it’s three-thirty in the afternoon, and you still haven’t told me where the hell we’re going.”
Maggie shifted for the thousandth time in the cramped front seat of the noisy little VW. Beetles weren’t made for any
one nearly six feet tall—she did far better in big American cars, she thought with a nostalgic sigh. It was lucky she had Third World Causes behind her, because she’d have a hard time explaining to Avis just what happened to her rental car. “We’re meeting Peter Wallace,” she said finally.
“You’ve already told me that much. You just haven’t told me where or when. Or why, for that matter.”
“We’re meeting him at his offices at the Travers Hotel in downtown Houston. I don’t know when—my orders were to check in sometime on Friday and he’d be in touch.”
“Why?”
“He’s supposed to have come up with some answers. Jeffrey Van Zandt might be there too. He always knows more than he should.” Her neutral voice would have fooled most people, and she leaned back in the uncomfortable seat, pushing a hand through the wisps of blond hair that were escaping her braid.
“You don’t like Van Zandt.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Maggie answered nonetheless. “I don’t like Van Zandt.”
“You want to tell me why not?”
She considered it for a moment; discretion was second nature with her. But she had learned during the past three days that she could rely on Mack Pulaski more than she’d relied on anyone in years. “I don’t trust him,” she said finally. “He’s a little too charming, a little too friendly, a little too knowledgeable.”
“A little too handsome?” Mack suggested, and she looked at him in surprise.
“I suppose so. I don’t find him particularly good-looking. I guess I see through that artificial smile to the snake inside.”
“Watch who you’re calling a snake.”
“Sorry. There’s really no comparison. The Why’s Snake was an erotic fantasy of delicious temptation. Jeffrey Van Zandt is an oily sleazoid who’s all the more disturbing because he fools so many people.” She stopped for breath, disturbed by how vehement she’d become.
“You think Wallace is wrong to trust him?”