I didn’t trust the Brit, yet here I was, about to share a tent the size of a postage stamp with him. I supposed I should leave him to Urqu’s tender mercy, but I wouldn’t. Of course I wouldn’t.
And if I waked to find I was sleeping with a dead man?
I placed my fingers near a pulse point on his throat. An iron grip nearly broke my wrist. “Sorry,” I muttered. “You were so still I was worried.” The grip relaxed. He grunted, and went back to sleep.
So much for dead or unconscious. I was beginning to think he knew what he was talking about when he said he’d walk out of here in the morning.
A while later, while our vic lay cocooned in Raymi’s sleeping bag, trying to catch his breath after being shifted into the tent, I sat beside him, my chin on my knees and decided he had to have a name. “Hey, you” or “Black and Blue” were a trifle awkward. Especially if I was going to sleep with him. Beside him. Practically on him—it was a very small tent.
I was still thinking about it—the name, not the proximity (well, not entirely)—when he got his breath back. “Do you have a gun?” he demanded. I stared. He stared right back. “A gun. Do you have one?”
“Yes, a .22.” He scowled. “It was good enough to kill a fer-de-lance,” I told him a bit defensively. “Your mugger got what he wanted, why should he still be around?”
“Don’t know. I just have a feeling a gun would be good.”
I thought about it and felt the hair on my arms rise. “I don’t suppose you recall if you’re a good guy or a bad guy?”
A pregnant pause while he thought about it. “Sorry. Haven’t a clue,” he said at last. “Except I don’t feel like a bad buy.”
“Great. That’s really re-assuring.” A faint snort came out of the descending gloom. My sarcasm hadn’t missed the mark. “You’re such a Brit, I’ve decided to call you Darcy,” I added.
“You bloody well won’t!”
“I beg your pardon.” I drew out the phrase like a Regency lady who’s just had her foot stepped on at a formal ball. “And why, if you can’t remember anything, should you object to a perfectly good name like Darcy?”
“I’m real, dammit, not some character out of a book. And, besides, wasn’t he the one who had a stick up his ass?”
I stared. “How on earth can you remember that if you can’t remember your own name?”
“The mind’s a strange thing.”
He was little more than a shadow now, a disembodied voice. The whole scene was weird. I couldn’t possibly be sitting on a mountain in the Andes, discussing a Jane Austen novel with an amnesiac stranger who could as easily be a cocaine dealer or a secret agent as the innocent victim of a robbery.
“How about Dickens?” I offered. “Or Sherlock?”
“How about Churchill?”
“Flying a bit high, aren’t we?” I inquired sweetly.
“Make it Sherlock. Darcy’s an effete snob.
“Women through the ages love him.”
After a long moment of silence, I heard a hopeful, “Does that include you?”
I heaved a long-suffering sigh. “It’s just a name, something to say instead of ‘Hey, Brit! I suggest you spend your worry time on the bad guys. You know they haven’t packed up and slunk away. Why else would you ask if I had a gun?”
“Tough gal, right? I noticed who was giving the orders out there.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I may or may not be a Darcy, but it’s certain you’re no fictional heroine, my girl. Which is just as well, because I have a bad feeling about all this. Fever, paranoia? No way to tell. But my gut says someone’s after me. Could be watching us right now. Waiting. And I’m effing sorry about it,” he added with considerable sincerity.
“Señorita Laine?”
I unzipped the tent flap and accepted a steaming bowl of quinoa from Urqu, who informed me my own meal would be ready whenever I wanted it. And did I need help with the señor? Urqu looked so solemn, so aware of his responsibility that I vowed on the spot to recommend him to Roberto as a guide.
“Well?” I demanded as soon as Urqu left. “Which is it—Darcy or Sherlock?” They were both certainly arrogant enough to match my Brit.
“The way my head feels,” he murmured, voice fading to a whisper, “I’d better settle for Darcy. Sherlock would roll in his grave at the effrontery of a my claiming his name.”
Sherlock, who was as much a work of fiction as Darcy. I sighed. “Fine, Darcy it is.”I switched on my flashlight so I could see well enough to feed him.
Darcy made a rude noise. “What’s that?” he demanded. “Tell your bearer to take his effing invalid porridge and stuff it.”
“That’s quinoa, the grain that kept the Inca empire strong. And, believe me, it’s tastier than our packaged trail meals.” I shoved a spoonful toward his mouth. “So eat up and like it.”
The gray eyes, slitted though they were, flashed. I would almost swear his bandage glowed. But he opened his mouth, testing the contents of the spoon suspiciously before swallowing. When he didn’t gag or choke, I offered another spoonful. I knew he’d never admit quinoa was ambrosia on a cold night in the Andes, a stick-to-the-ribs meal worthy of kings. As I shoveled in another bite, I wondered if Urqu had enough left for me.
He did. But if Darcy had secretly hoped for seconds, he was going to be sadly disappointed. Later, after saying goodnight to Urqu and a discreet retirement behind a boulder while visions of fer-de-lances and muggers flicked through my head, I returned to the tent, expecting to find Darcy sacked out for the night. Instead, I was greeted with an abrupt demand to see “my bearer.”
“We don’t use that word,” I told Darcy. “It conjures visions of empire. Brit, not Inca. Urqu is a porter.”
“Whoever the hell he is, get him in here.”
“Why?”
A few mutters out of the darkness, including “idiot female,”and ending with a desperate, “I’m bloody well not going to have you help me take a piss.”
Oh. O-kay, I should have thought of that. This whole situation was just odd-ball enough that my wits must be nearly as scrambled as his. I called to Urqu, then hid in the tent while the two of them did what had to be done. It had been a while since I’d felt so stupid, so alone.
And yet . . . alone was good. I should be praying that Darcy and Urqu were the only other people here in Phuyupatamarca. Unexpected visitors we didn’t need. I did a rapid inventory of our weapons. My .22, a small knife in a specially built sheath inside my boot. Urqu carried a knife big enough to qualify as a machete. And that was it. Other than a few handy rocks scattered here and there.
No satellite phone, no cell service. No handy helicopter rescue service in mountains where air currents were notoriously treacherous. We were reduced to doing things the Inca way. Communication was by shank’s mare over a road once traveled by runners who kept messages flowing throughout the Inca empire. So I’d sleep lightly tonight, if at all. Darcy might not remember his name, but his concern seemed genuine. There might be someone out there who wanted him dead.
But if so, why was he still alive when he’d obviously been lying there, beaten, unconscious, and perfectly helpless, for some time?
I decided to sleep with my boots on.
Darcy returned, crawling awkwardly into his sleeping bag with nothing more than a grunt, while I scrunched into a ball in the corner in order to give him room. I’d had the luxury of this tent all to myself. Now, suddenly, it seemed if I breathed, I was using up Darcy’s air. Or inhaling the carbon dioxide expelled from his lungs. I couldn’t wiggle into my sleeping bag without touching him. If I rolled the wrong way . . .
In the dark he grew to enormous proportions, a nightmare Hulk in black and blue instead of green. And I wasn’t even dreaming. My imagination had gone amuck. Darcy was a complete stranger, who could be absolutely any one or any thing, no matter how despicable, and I was so cozied up with him we might as well have been Siamese twins.
“You’ve got your gun, r
ight?” My whole body jerked at the words out of the darkness, movement Darcy had to feel as clearly as I did. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just checking.”
Dad would not be proud of me. My brothers would laugh their heads off. Little Lainie spooked by some guy who couldn’t even take a piss by himself.
“Fantascapes aims to please,” I told him, not giving a damn whether he understood me or not. “Never fear, you can sleep well. I’ll protect your battered Brit butt.”
I should have bit my tongue. I was conjuring phantasms out of thin mountain air. Ridiculous. All I had to do was settle in, forget why my left side was extra warm, and, like every other night on the trail, I’d sleep the sleep of physical exhaustion and wake to the glory of Inti, the Inca Sun God, rising in the east.
But it didn’t happen. I lay there, still as a rock, wondering at the sounds of night in the high Andes. Wondering who might be out there. Wondering what Darcy looked like under his cuts and bruises. Wondering why I was so certain danger would come from outside, not inside, our tight little tent.
I knew when he fell asleep, his soft even breathing inspiring some asinine motherly urge I must have caught from Hildy. Or was it just my Fantascapes training, dictating that clients must be served to the best of our ability?
Yeah, but Darcy wasn’t a client.
I found him. He was mine. My responsibility, anyway, I hastily corrected. Except . . . it felt like more than that.
Tomorrow I was dropping him off to the authorities at the hostel at Huinay Huayna. Chalk up another good deed for Fantascapes. So long, farewell, good-by-e.
But there was a night and a two-hour hike between me and freedom from my black and blue Brit burden. I felt for the .22, just outside my sleeping bag on my right. There was nothing more to be done. Nothing but wait for the dawn.
The last two nights I’d fallen asleep so fast I never noticed the cold, but tonight it stung. I snuggled farther down in the bag. Darcy’s right hand flipped out, landed on my hip. Stayed there.
I stopped breathing.
He didn’t. He actually let out a little snore. Or was he faking it?
I hadn’t been so wide awake since the brothers took me camping in the midst of the Everglades. With alligators hollering all night long, trumpeting their successes on their hunt for food, while with every roar I was certain I was next on their list.
If I picked up Darcy’s hand, was he going to grab me as he’d done earlier? I decided not to chance it. I left that long-fingered hand lying there, burning a hole through my sleeping bag while my mind whirled, losing more of its edge. After all, there’s no other excuse for letting someone get the tent zipper open before I even noticed.
Did I lose it and fire point blank at a shadow that might be some Quechua kid looking for a few soles? That might, just might, be friend instead of foe?
In combat, maybe. You’ve heard of death by friendly fire? But not here. Not me.
I fired a round over the intruder’s head. He ducked back fast, but I was on him, aiming a kick to his head while he was still scrabbling backward. Surprise. Predawn light revealed our attacker to be Caucasian, not Quechua. He ducked, grabbed my ankle, and I went flying. So did my gun.
Damn!
I pulled out my knife, saw his was bigger, longer.
This was not going well.
I’m so far from ambidextrous, it’s laughable. I had to drop my knife to pick up a rock. My aim, I’m happy to say, is not girl-like. That rock made a three-point landing right where I most wanted to kick him, and our bad guy curled up, moaning and cursing. In . . .
No way. That couldn’t be Russian.
I picked up my knife and was on him before he could recover—straddling his side while he writhed on the ground, the tip of my blade at his throat. He went very still and spat out Russian words I recognized as somewhat south of “fucking bitch.”
Which was very gratifying for what I have to admit was my first truly life and death struggle. (If I didn’t count street muggers and would-be rapists.)
“Okay, who are you?” I demanded. Unfortunately, the words came out more like a breathless Stephanie Plum than a super-competent Annie Walker.
He mentioned my mother again and my doubtful ancestry. I shook my head, doing my best to look sophisticated, professional, and unoffended, while wondering where Urqu was, with his great big machete. I could use some back-up here.
I prodded the area above the intruder’s Adam’s apple, enough to draw blood. “Who. Are. Y—”
And just that fast I was on my back, my head banging against rock, my breath whooshing out into the chill morning air. The Russian was leaning over me, close enough that his blond hair dangled in my face. He smiled. “Bad girl,” he hissed. “But pretty. Maybe I kill the others and come back for you.” He raised his arm to slug me, and paused, hand in the air. Slowly, he sat up, scooted a foot or so away from me.
Wincing, I managed to turn my head. Darcy was standing six feet away, brandishing Urqu’s machete, which was a lot bigger than the Russian’s knife. Enough to give any sensible attacker pause. Particularly when it was now light enough to see that the Russian was almost as bruised and battered as Darcy. And not from anything I’d done to him.
A groan as the attacker got to his feet. Hands in the air, he started to back away. Farther . . . farther. It was pretty obvious he knew Darcy wasn’t capable of running after him. I was on my hands and knees, frantically looking for my gun. By the time I found it, the Russian had reached the trail and was stumbling toward Sayacmarca, picking up speed. I aimed, held the gun steady in both hands . . .
I was still standing there a minute later as he disappeared around a bend.
“What an unnatural female you are,” Darcy drawled. “Can’t shoot a fleeing man in the back.”
I snapped on the safety, dropped my hands to my sides. “And you could?”
He shrugged. “Possibly. But no one expected you to shoot the bloody bugger. That was my Brit humor gone amok.”
Standing straight, Darcy was an impressive sight. He topped me by at least five inches, with the bandages and bruises making him look like something out of a Hollywood horror film.
“So the two of you fought yesterday,” I guessed. “Why didn’t he finish you off?”
“Mystery.” Darcy shook his head. “We’d better check on your bea—porter. Looks like he took a nasty blow to the head.”
Urqu! No wonder he hadn’t come to my aid.
When we finally headed out, a parade of the walking wounded, slogging and stumbling down the long series of steps that led to Huinay Huayna, we felt like we had targets painted on our backs. Where there had been one attacker—assassin?—there might be more. Did our Russian have a satellite phone? Had he summoned cohorts with sniper rifles? Where did danger lie? Behind the next rock? The ones to our rear? Or would they come at us from above?
I felt that bullseye on my back with every step.
Chapter Six
The only thing that came at us was a group of hikers, ten or a dozen, speaking German and breezing by like we were standing still, each head turning to take a look at Darcy and his bandaged head before tromping on down the stone staircase. When their guide paused to ask if we needed help, we sucked it up and assured him we were fine. Ha!
With the ruins of Huinay Huayna looming not far below—its agricultural terraces built on such a precipitous mountainside that they looked like stadium seats in a giant’s superbowl—I was the one who called a time-out. Like a football coach down by a couple of touchdowns in the fourth quarter, I figured it was time to tweak the game plan.
We sat on the ancient stone steps, chins in our hands, looking glum. (Not that Urqu ever looked anything else.) I turned to Darcy. “How’re you doing?”
“I’ve got a few hours left in me. I think.”
“Enough to get to Machu Picchu?”
He lifted his head and stared. “Why?”
“Because I have a feeling you won’t be safe until you pass through the door
of the Brit Embassy in Lima.”
The sun spotlighted his bandaged face, his slitted eyes, his swollen lips. “Bossy little Yank, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t trust whoever’s down there”—he nodded toward the spectacular cliffside ruins below—“to get me where I ought to go?”
“No. But it’s your choice,” I added, as nonchalantly as I could. You call it.”
“You call that a choice?” I widened my eyes at him, and he took a moment watching the last wisps of morning fog evaporate, leaving Huinay Huayna in perfect bird’s-eye clarity below. “You expect me to choose between the Peruvian gendarmes and a woman who did everything to save my Brit butt but shoot a man in the back?”
I toed the grass growing between the Inca paving stones. I bit my lip. I damn near cried.
“I could be Jack the Ripper, you know,” Darcy added pleasantly. “Or an axe murderer. Or maybe it’s a terrorist you’ll be guarding all the way to Lima.”
Telling him I had a gut feeling he was a good guy was a bit too chummy for someone I was likely to be with for a couple more nights on the road. But telling him I was willing to take a chance made me sound like Miss Dumb Babe of the Week.
“Even if you’re Al-Quaida,” I informed him a trifle cooly, “you need me to get off this mountain. Someone to pay for a shower and a roof over your head, the train to Cuzco, a plane to Lima. You’d be really, really stupid to bite the hand that feeds you.”
“That’s a lot of money to front for someone who might not be able to pay it back.”
“Expense account.” I gave him a thumbnail sketch of Fantascapes. I swear I could see his lips twitch, even under the bandages. Okay, so being rescued and bodyguarded by a part-time wedding planner did contain an element of humor.
“Agreed.” Darcy said, and held out his hand. “The Brit Embassy or Bust. Isn’t that one of your quaint Yank expressions?”
“Keep it up and I’ll make it the Russian Embassy instead.”
His only retort was to take off his floppy leather hat—also a loan from Raymi—and start to unwind his gauze bandages.
Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) Page 7
