“That’s all right, Maggie May. I’ve gotten used to having you around.” And he caught up with her just as she was trying to decide whether she liked the sound of that or not. “Let’s go steal another car.”
“A Mercedes this time,” she said.
“Maybe. More likely another Beetle.”
“I won’t be able to walk if my legs are cramped into another VW,” she warned.
“I’ll carry you.”
And she was damned if she didn’t like the sound of that, after all.
seven
“You sure know how to pick ’em, Maggie.” Mack surveyed the shabby motel room with more curiosity than actual condemnation. “I think I preferred the Travers.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. Jail would probably be more comfortable too.” She dumped the much-abused shopping bags on the bed, then dropped her aching body beside them. It was the worst motel she’d come up with since they left Utah—even the late, unlamented Lone Star Bide-a-Wee was a model of cleanliness and luxury compared to their current quarters. There were two different patterns of paper on the water-stained walls—cabbage roses on the outside wall, green polka dots on the bathroom wall. The two narrow beds were covered with raveled chenille bedspreads, and the wall-to-wall carpeting showed the paths of a thousand weary feet.
But it was outside the sprawling city limits of Houston, ten miles from a small, run-down private airport, and for the moment they were safe.
Somehow, they had managed to escape the death trap in the Travers Hotel. Through a stroke of amazing good luck the stairway had ended in the basement garage of the huge building. It had taken five minutes to retrieve their aging VW, and then they were off, chugging past the police cars with their lights flashing into the early evening sky. Maggie had been right—someone had sent for the police, and she had no doubt at all that Peter’s killer made the phone call. Mack had read the road atlas, directing her toward Simmons Airfield, and the Lazy Cowboy Doze-Motel had loomed up out of the darkening sky like a beacon.
A somewhat dimmed beacon, Maggie had to admit. “I’m too dirty to sleep and too tired to move. All I want is a hot shower and twenty-four hours’ sleep.”
“Let me go first. There’s a Laundromat two doors down—I can wash the clothes we’re wearing while you’re taking your shower.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t take all the hot water.” The words came out in a tired mumble as she turned and buried her face in the chenille bedspread. For a few blissful minutes all was silent—just the rustle of paper
bags, the rainlike sound of the shower, the quiet little thuds and knocks as Mack undoubtedly tried to fit his large body into a small shower stall. She remembered the turquoise Jockey shorts, and she smiled in her sleep, waiting for his reaction.
The door to the bathroom opened quietly, and Maggie considered staying facedown. But curiosity got the better of her, and she rolled over to stare at him.
He was wearing nothing but the turquoise Jockey shorts. His blond hair was wet and hanging in tendrils around his freshly shaven face. A face that wore an expression of doubt and amusement as he met her gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding, Maggie May,” he said after a long moment.
With great deliberation, she ran her eyes over his body. Hell, it was a great body. Long legs, flat stomach, broad, sort of bony shoulders, and not too much hair. She was tempted to ask him to turn around so she could check out his rear, but she didn’t quite have the nerve. She smiled sweetly.
“I think you look adorable, Pulaski,” she purred.
“Thank you for your thoughtful shopping.” He quickly divested his new khakis of their various tags and pulled them on. Maggie watched the turquoise shorts disappear with a trace of regret. “Your turn at the shower. And believe it or not, there’s plenty of hot water. Dump your clothes on the floor so I can wash ’em.”
“You’re very domestic,” Maggie said as she stumbled toward the miniature bathroom. “Be careful out there.” She couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice.
He paused in the act of buttoning his shirt. “Don’t worry, Maggie. Even if I prefer having you take care of me, I’ve been responsible for myself for years. I won’t let the bad guys get me.”
“Humph,” she said, disappearing into the tiny bathroom.
He was right, there was plenty of hot water and she took full advantage of it, letting the shower scrape the sweat and dust and blood away from her. She heard Mack leave, and the sound of the front door made her nerves tighten in sudden anxiety. He would be okay, she reassured herself. He’d taken care of himself for probably forty years.
Besides, she was absolutely certain that no one had followed them. They were guaranteed a decent night’s sleep, and then she had to get them out of the country. With Peter’s murder, half of her sources had dried up. It was more than likely that someone at Third World Causes was linked up with their hunters—they’d been showing up far too regularly, just when she’d thought they were safe. She no longer knew whom to trust, and she wasn’t about to take chances when it wasn’t just her own life at stake.
She also wasn’t going to worry about it right now. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Right now she was going to collapse on that singularly uncomfortable little bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.
Peter’s blank, dead features suddenly shot into her mind, and a low, keening wail escaped from deep inside her. Quickly she shoved the wet washcloth into her mouth to try to stop the sounds of her sudden grief. And then she leaned against the rusting metal stall, beneath the steady beat of the hot shower, and wept.
She heard the sound of the key in the lock from a distance, hours later. Pulaski, she thought, not moving. The door opened, someone stepped inside and shut it behind him. She waited with sleep-drugged patience for the dim light to flood the room, but nothing happened. The figure moved stealthily across the room. Not to the television, which would have been Mack’s first move. Not to his own bed. But straight toward hers. It couldn’t be Pulaski.
She was suddenly alert, though she kept her body completely still, her breathing even. The small pool of light from the bathroom provided little illumination, and she didn’t dare move her head. When she made her move it had to be fast and accurate. Doubtless it would be her only chance.
Her muscles bunched, ready to spring, as the dark, menacing figure paused above her. The menace was tangible in the air, a threat of death and violence that all the wishful thinking in the world wouldn’t drive away. Why the hell had she left the gun on the dresser?