by Anne Stuart
That was the last thing Libby wanted. Alf would use any excuse to shoot John, and she needed him as alert as possible if she was going to help him.
“I’ll come with you,” she offered hastily. “The tranquilizer gun’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? Point and shoot?”
“Ever used a gun before, little lady?” Alf said, mocking her.
“Skeet shooting champion three years in a row,” she said, a barefaced lie. She’d never touched a gun in her thirty years and would have happily spent the next thirty without that experience.
“All right,” Mick said. He was sounding a little out of it as well, and his drugged bottle was half empty, too. He went over to a tall closet, pulled out a rifle and handed it to her. “Simple as pie. Just don’t get excited and shoot me in the bum by accident.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said. If she’d had any experience with guns that probably would have been an easier task. She could have just shot Mick and Alf with the drugs, instead of trying to sneak it into them. At least it appeared to be working.
She stood in the doorway, the cold steel of the gun cradled in her arms, watching as Mick made his unsteady way toward the gurney. John was lying there, motionless, and she held her breath, half afraid he might be conscious enough to grab at Mick.
But he lay still as Mick fumbled with the wrist and leg restraints. “Sleeping Beauty,” Mick muttered beneath his breath, eyeing John warily.
He took the gun from her as the door closed, putting it back in the closet. It took him two tries to open it. Alf was already standing by the door, weaving. His bottle of beer was now empty.
“I’m going to bed,” Alf said. “Been a long day.”
“So it has,” Mick agreed, squinting at his watch. He moved it closer to his eyes, then farther away, clearly unable to get it into focus. He gave up, giving Libby a sweetly loopy smile. “Come along, Doc. Dangerous things in here.”
Alf had already shuffled off down the corridor, safely forgetting her existence. Libby grabbed a handful of CD-ROMs and followed after them. The moment she stepped through the doorway the lights in the observation room automatically dimmed, and the door slid shut behind them.
“Better lock the door, Mick,” Alf called over his shoulder. “Don’t want the doc making another mistake and wandering where she shouldn’t.”
“I don’t know how, Alfie,” Mick said plaintively, but Alf just kept going, walking with a faintly rolling gait like a sailor who’d just made landfall.
Mick turned and looked at her owlishly. “You won’t do anything you shouldn’t?”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” she said cheerfully. “Where do you guys sleep?”
“Down one level.”
“You thinkin’ of visiting?” Alf rumbled from far away. Obviously he wasn’t that drugged yet.
“In your dreams, Mr. Droggan,” she said flatly.
His chuckle drifted back. “Been there. Done that.”
He disappeared down a flight of stairs at the end of the hall, and Libby waited until Mick had followed after him. She didn’t want to wait too long—there still might be some daylight left if she got John out now.
If only she didn’t feel so guilty about drugging Mick and Alf. Well, not that Alf made her feel particularly guilty, but she wasn’t quite sure what kind of dosage she’d given them. Something strong enough to halt a prime specimen like John might be a bit much for two couch potatoes like Mick and Alf.
She waited, holding her breath. And then she heard a loud crash.
“Damn,” she muttered, racing down the hall after them, skittering down the stairs to the lower level. The hallway looked identical to the one above it, to all the hallways in this strange compound. Except for Mick’s figure sprawled on the floor outside the open door.
She knelt down beside him, feeling for a pulse, so desperate that she almost missed it at first. There was a loud, growling noise from the room beyond, and she looked up to see Alf spread-eagled across a bed, snoring loudly.
A moment later she found Mick’s pulse, slow and strong, and she almost wept with relief. “Mick,” she said, shaking his shoulder.
He made a “mmff” noise, not even opening his eyes. She tried again, but he had passed out.
She couldn’t just leave him there. If it had been Alf it would have been a different matter, but obviously Alf’s bigger build had enabled him to get farther before the drugs had kicked in. She put her arms under Mick’s and began to drag him into the room.
For such a slight man he weighed a hell of a lot, though it was probably because he was a dead weight. She got him halfway into the room and had to give up, exhausted. He lay on the floor, a peaceful smile on his face, and she was tempted to get him a pillow and a blanket, then decided against it.
She was hoping against hope that they’d simply figure they’d had too much to drink, that they wouldn’t realize she’d helped them along. Of course, that was probably ridiculous on her part. After all, when they woke up, John would be gone, and at least Alf had the brains to figure out he couldn’t have done it on his own.
She could come up with some sort of convincing story if she put her mind to it, she supposed. Something about John escaping when she opened the door to check on him. Alf wouldn’t believe her, but what could he do about it?
Her career would be in tatters, of course. Edward J. Hunnicutt was not the sort of patron you crossed. At this point she really didn’t care. She wasn’t going to let them play their torturous games with John anymore. She didn’t care how high a price she had to pay.
The door closed quietly behind her when she stepped back into the hall, and the conjoined snores of Hunnicutt’s minions were almost inaudible. She took a deep breath, then started back down the hall. She had to work fast.
She’d already dressed wisely, in loose khaki cargo pants, a T-shirt and sandals. She needed to be able to move, and move fast, with an unpredictable force like John. She could only hope he was conscious enough to walk out of there.
The door to the observation room slid open, the lights set on half power, and she almost went straight to the habitat, thinking better of it at the last minute. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, John,” she said out loud, grateful for the sound of her voice breaking the ominous stillness, “but a girl can never be too careful.” She took a small handful of the remaining tranquilizer darts and shoved them in her pocket before heading for the habitat.
The door slid open as she neared it, a little too quickly for her peace of mind, and she hesitated, afraid to take that final step. “I must be out of my mind,” she said in a voice so low no one else could hear it. Not that it mattered—there was no one there who could understand anything she said. “I’m destroying everything I spent my life working for. I’ll never get a job in academia again—I’ll be lucky if I find a job flipping hamburgers. Then again, that’s probably not even an issue since John will probably break my neck.”
There was an answer from the jungle beyond that portal. The mocking call of some bird, laughing at her predicament. “Typical,” she muttered. “But I’m not turning back now.”
She was about to step over the portal when she remembered the damned door didn’t open automatically from the inside. Not when the wild man was roaming free. Grabbing a chair, she blocked the doorway with it, keeping it open, as she stepped into the steaming heat of the habitat.
He still lay on the gurney, unmoving, even though his fetters had been loosened, and she knew a moment’s panic. What if they’d shot him so full of dope that he wouldn’t be able to move until Alf and Mick started coming around? Was she destroying her career for nothing?
Not for nothing. Her father had spent his life in the service of others, helping wherever he could. He taught her the price and the glory of idealism, of doing what you think is right no matter what the cost. She’d let him down before by retreating into her academic ivory tower; she wouldn’t let him down again. She was doing this in memory of her father and all the peopl
e he’d helped. So all she was helping was a savage who could neither talk nor understand, who might very well be so damaged from his capture that he’d never be able to live free again. It was worth the risk.
“John?” Her voice wobbled slightly in the darkness. He didn’t stir, not even a muscle, and she had no choice but to move closer, within reach. He hadn’t grabbed her the last time, when he’d loomed over her in the darkness. There was no reason why he’d hurt her now.
Except that she had no guarantee that reason comprised any part of his makeup. And she’d come too far to turn back now.
She came up to the gurney and made herself touch his shoulder. Smooth, warm flesh, resilient and strong. “John,” she said in a low voice. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
The only thing that moved were his eyelids. His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, and he stared up at her. She had no idea whether he had any idea what she was saying, but she kept on, hoping some part would penetrate.
“I’m going to help you get away. That’s what you were saying this morning, wasn’t it? You said ‘help me,’ didn’t you? And I’m going to. I’m not going to let them drain your blood or hunt you with guns or use electric shock on you. You’re going to be free again.”
He didn’t move, his expression the same, uncomprehending blank. His eyes were dark in his face, and he stared at her, soundless. Mindless?
She took his hand in hers, remembering the strength in his long fingers, determined not to show fear. “Come.” She tugged at him.
He sat up on the gurney, slowly, looking around him. She took a step away, waiting for him to climb down off the stretcher, but he didn’t move. Just stared at her.
“Come on, John,” she said. “Come on.” She slapped her thigh in a beckoning motion, and then laughed. “God, I’m treating you like a dog. ‘Here, Lassie, come on, girl,”’ she mocked herself.
He didn’t even blink.
“Please, John,” she said, not bothering to disguise the pleading note in her voice. There was always the possibility that he understood a language other than English. If so, he’d at least recognize the need in her voice. “I’m not even sure of the way out of here, and the sooner I get you going the safer you’ll be. Please?” She held out her hand to him, trying to ignore the fact that it trembled.
She didn’t know whether he’d understood her or was just ready to move. He slid off the gurney, and there was no drugged slowness to his movement. He didn’t take her hand, but he waited, as if expecting her to lead the way.
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Come with me.” She went to the door, pushing the chair out of the way, standing in the portal, waiting for him.
The few moments he waited seemed almost endless. And then he moved, crossing the expanse of phony jungle habitat, moving past her in the doorway, his body brushing against her.
And he was free.
Chapter Seven
She led the way down the long, white corridors, up the narrow flights of stairs, with John moving silently behind her, so silently that she twice glanced back to make certain he was still there. That he hadn’t wandered off in a drugged daze. She needed to get him out of the house, into the relative freedom of the uninhabited island before Mick and Alf regained consciousness. She wasn’t really sure what she was going to do beyond that.
By the time she reached the pristine front entrance of Edward J. Hunnicutt’s jungle fortress her heart was racing. For some reason John’s presence behind her, looming over her, didn’t frighten her the way it should have. He was little more than a wild animal, she still bore the marks from when he’d practically crushed her wrist, and Alf’s cast was impressive indeed. Not to mention the nasty rumors of Dr. McDonough’s untimely demise. Had John been responsible for that? And given the fact that McDonough had tormented him with electric shock and God knows what else, could she really blame him?
It wasn’t up to her to pass judgment. She needed to free him, it was that simple. Once she let him out of the compound he was no longer her responsibility. She would have followed her conscience, done what she knew was right. It was up to John and his lifetime of surviving in the jungle to take care of the rest.
She half expected the front door to come equipped with some kind of security system. No alarms would wake Mick and Alf from their drugged stupor, so she wasn’t worried, but to her surprise the door slid open without hesitation when she approached it. Obviously Hunnicutt had great faith in the remoteness of Ghost Island.
It was growing dark, the sky overheard was a deep indigo, and she blinked, trying to become accustomed to it. She’d never had particularly good night vision, and this remote island made it even worse, with no ambient streetlights to help her focus.
John had come up beside her, and he stared out into the gathering night. “There it is,” she said. “Freedom. Mick and Alf won’t come to for hours now—you should be able to just disappear into the jungle. Someone will probably come after you again, but at least this time you’ll know they’re coming. You’ll have a fighting chance. I wish there was something more I could do to help you, but I’m a city girl. You’re on your own out there.”
He stepped through the door, then turned back to look at her. It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for her to follow him.
She laughed lightly, nervously, shaking her head. “No, I’m not coming with you. You’re going alone. I’d just get in the way, and besides, I’m not made for jungle life. You’d better go now. You don’t want to waste even a moment of time.”
He didn’t move, didn’t respond, just waited for her. Then he held out his hand to her.
There was no denying he had beautiful hands. Long, well-shaped fingers, like an artist’s. Not the clublike hands of a savage. No denying that when he disappeared into the jungle an odd, dreamlike part of her life would disappear with him.
She shook her head again, the only way she knew how to communicate with him. “No,” she said. “I’m staying here.”
He simply took a step forward, caught her hand in his iron grip and yanked her forward, across the threshold, into the dense tropical evening, and began dragging her along after him.
She’d forgotten how strong he was. And how damnably impervious to anything she might say. All her protests fell on uncomprehending ears, all her struggles were useless. He dragged her after him, into the jungle, and there was nothing she could do to stop his inexorable advance. She tripped and fell, but he simply hauled her up again and continued onward, and she stumbled after him, trying to control her panic.
The night was alive around them, the tropical birds screeching overhead, the air so thick and humid it was practically breathing. The thick growth brushed against her, but John moved ahead like a stalking panther, seemingly unaware of his unwilling partner. She wondered if she could bite him, but he was moving so fast, keeping her at arm’s length behind him, that she would have had to scamper to catch up enough to sink her teeth into him, and the logistics didn’t seem possible. Sooner or later he’d slow down, sooner or later he’d have to loosen his grip, and then she’d run.
They were moving deeper and deeper into the tropical growth, and she was having a hard time catching her breath, both because of the pace and the density of the thick, humid air. “You really…ought to…let me go,” she panted. “I’ll just slow you down. I can’t…imagine why you’d want to take me…with you.”
It was harder to keep up with him while she was trying to argue, and since he was paying absolutely no attention it was undoubtedly a waste of what little energy she had left. However, if she dropped from exhaustion he’d have to leave her, and the sooner the better. They were already so deep in the jungle she was going to have a hell of a time finding her way back to the compound. She might have to count on Mick and Alf coming out with a search party, and it wouldn’t be her they were looking for.
She tripped again, going down hard, and he turned around and stared at her, his eyes black as midnight in the twilight forest. And then,
before she realized what he was doing, he reached down and pulled her up, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put me down! Drop me, damn it!” She fought like crazy, kicking, pounding his back as he continued to move deeper into the jungle, seemingly oblivious to her struggles. His shoulder was hard beneath her stomach, but punching the smooth, muscled skin of his back wasn’t having any effect apart from unsettling her, so she tried to wiggle, kicking at him.
To her utter astonishment he smacked her butt, hard, never slowing his rapid stride through the undergrowth. She was so startled she stopped struggling. Her panic began to recede, as it was replaced with a slow-burning, fiery hot rage that made her speechless. It was no loss—he couldn’t understand a damned word she said, but the moment he put her down she was going to blister him with every insult she could think of. And then she’d kick him in the balls.
It had always looked so romantic in those old pirate movies, where some dashing Hollywood hero would carry the heroine off over his shoulder like a trophy. In truth, it was damned uncomfortable. Each smooth step jarred her stomach, and she wondered what he’d do if she threw up down his back? Probably wouldn’t even notice.
And besides, she wasn’t nauseous, but uncomfortable. She was trapped with a savage, being dragged off into the jungle, and for what? No good deed goes unpunished, Richard always used to say. This time he was proved right. Unless it was punishment for drugging Alf and Mick.
If so, it was a little extreme. She’d only done to them what they’d been doing to John, in spades. Surely fate wouldn’t condemn her for an act meant only to help?
Fate didn’t seem the slightest bit disposed toward her at the moment, as she went bouncing along through the ever-thickening forest, tossed over the wild man’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The forest seemed endless as they traveled deeper, deeper into the jungle. The night grew black around her and she couldn’t even see the trees that surrounded them. It was just as well John was carrying her. She wouldn’t have been able to find her own way—she’d probably walk smack into a tree if she had to rely on her own two feet.
