by Hazel Hunter
“Left in a hurry,” Clark muttered.
Could the cuttings still be here?
Clark couldn’t help but feel a small hope. He immediately upended the suitcase on the bed. The contents spilled into a pile and he threw the suitcase to the floor. Clothes, a pair of shoes, socks, underwear–nothing useful. He quickly went back to the suitcase and opened each zipper on the luggage. In the outermost pocket, he found a plane ticket for the return flight, still two days from now. So, he apparently didn’t think he’d be caught. Clark crumpled the paper in his fist. Though he stared at the pile of belongings, he no longer saw them.
It had all been a pretense. There were no investors that would save the company. There was no future for Peterson Rubber. If something seemed to good to be true, then it probably was.
He thought of Jean.
He’d actually fallen for her–hard. He shook his head and grimaced. Even now he could see her face, remember the feel of her lips. She’d been perfect–so much like Linda and yet not. In fact, the more he’d been with Jean, the more different they seemed. For the first time since Linda's death, he’d managed to stop thinking about her. Instead, he’d thought of Jean and also the investor audit. He shook his head again.
“All a lie,” he muttered.
He must have been desperate to have been fooled so badly. As he blinked, the pile on the bed came into focus. It was time to finish his search and head out to help Annan.
He stalked to the bathroom. On the sink there was the usual travel assortment: a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a razor. On the counter next to it, there was a black toiletry travel kit, partially open. Clark grabbed it and emptied it on the tile. Several items tumbled out and he quickly ran his hand through them, spreading them out. Aspirin, shaver blades, a hotel soap, kleenex, antacids, and…a bright orange prescription bottle. He picked it up. George Liew, methylenedioxymethamphetamine.
“Forgot your prescription, George,” Clark quietly sneered.
He scowled down at it. Wait a minute–a methamphetamine? He read the label out loud.
“Methylene Dioxy Methamphetamine.”
MDMA?
“Ecstasy?” he whispered, frowning.
George was taking ecstasy? What in the world for? This kind of thing was popular in Bangkok at rave parties. Though Clark had never been, he had a hard time picturing George Liew at a rave party with a wild crowd of twenty-somethings.
Clark twisted off the cap and shook a couple of tablets into his hand. George and a methamphetamine. Why does a thief need his mood altered? Like a shot of liquid courage maybe? Except MDMA wasn’t named ecstasy for nothing. Ecstasy is what it promoted.
Why would George want ecstasy?
Wait. He stared hard at the pill in his hand.
On the plantation tour today, he’d seen a pill like this. Clark held it up between his index finger and thumb. George had handed one of these to Jean. He’d called it an electrolyte.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jean sniffed and wiped her eyes yet again. She sat with her back against the wall, several feet from the door, with her knees drawn up to her chest. She’d been crying on and off since Clark had left her there.
The fury on his face!
She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth to stifle a sob.
She’d been used, from the very start. The fact that she’d been plucked from a sea of more experienced auditors finally made sense. Kind Dr. George Liew? He was a thief. There were no investors. The only reason to come to Peterson Ranch was to steal rubber plants and she’d been nothing more than a distraction for Clark.
Except that she’d actually fallen in love with him–almost before she’d met him. Like a true forensic auditor, she’d gotten to know him. But in person, he had been so much more.
And she’d felt him return that love.
Hadn’t she?
Or had he been seeing Linda, his dead wife?
God, what a mess. She shook her head.
There was sound from the door. It was opening!
She scrambled to her feet.
Clark had come to his senses–believed what she said.
“Clark!” she said, as the door opened.
But it wasn’t Clark.
“You,” she said, stopping.
George Liew was holding a metal can and he closed the door behind him.
“Well,” he said. “This is a surprise.”
“What are you doing here?”
He smiled, a strangely wicked curl to the lips, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses.
“I take it Clark didn’t believe you,” he said.
“Thanks to you,” she spat.
George’s face was impassive–no longer the smiling, jolly scientist.
“You have a decision to make,” he said, as he unscrewed the large cap from the top of the can. “You can come with me, help me escape, and I’ll double your fee.”
“Help you?”
He ignored her and started to pour the contents of the can over the nearest raised bed, dousing everything in reach.
“Or,” he continued. “You can stay here and die.”
“What are you doing?” Jean said, alarm growing.
He walked quickly along the beds and covered the small tree trunks, tossing liquid out with arching, jerking motions.
Now she could smell it. Gasoline!
“Stop!” she yelled, pushing away from the wall next to the door and taking a step toward him. “You don’t need to do this!”
“Oh but I’m afraid I do,” he said, calmly, backing up, shaking gas all over everything but careful to keep it away from himself.
“You already have what you came for!” she screamed.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, I do. But now I need to leave.”
The can was almost empty.
Leave? Jean thought. No. I can’t let him do that. He can’t get away. I have a chance to help Clark.
Without thinking, she moved down the row toward him.
The smell of gasoline was strong now. He wasn’t looking at her. He was upending the can.
She ran. He was only a few yards away. She was almost on him but he must have heard.
With perfect timing, he turned and swung the can into her stomach. It landed with a hollow metal thud.
Air rushed out of her lungs as the blow rocked her back and she doubled over. The pain was excruciating and she felt her knees wobble and collapse. Only a hand on the nearby seed bed saved her from falling all the way to the ground. She couldn’t breathe–didn’t even have the energy to clutch her midsection. She only knelt, her head bowed down as the smell of gasoline burned her nose and filled her gaping mouth.
“I take it that’s my answer,” she heard George say. “It’s better this way. The fire is my new distraction and it destroys the remainder of the plants. Plus, your death will be an accident.”
She swayed as the wave of pain washed over her. George brushed past her but, with what little strength was left, she reached out for his foot. George tripped.
• • • • •
As Clark stared down at the pill in his hand, the look on Jean’s face flashed into his mind. That hadn’t been acting. She’d been as shocked about the theft as he had.
What is going on?
On the tour this morning, George had given her a pill, this pill. Not an hour later, Jean had overheated and passed out. Then, she’d recovered quickly and the doctor hadn’t found anything wrong.
“Right,” Clark muttered. I’ll bet the blood workup will tell a different story.
He turned back toward the bedroom, still gripping the pill.
So they’d picked Jean because of her looks but she hadn’t known that. She had no idea who she looked like. Clearly she’d done her job as a forensic auditor. She’d known virtually everything about him. But she’d probably never found any pictures of Linda. As far as Clark knew, there weren’t any public pictures of her. Their wedding had been private, here on the plantation. Neither of them
put photos on the internet. Even the ranch didn’t have a web site.
And Jean had admitted submitting photos for her interview.
Why would she do that if she were guilty?
Clark stood in the middle of George’s room as fury started to build anew.
As calculated as her looks had been to appeal to him, there was no guarantee she’d feel the same way. He opened his fist and looked at the pill. So George had doped her. That would explain a lot–the fevered fainting spell, the way she seemed at war with herself, maybe even the way she’d seemed attracted to him. His jaw clenched.
They’d both been used–by George.
It was time to find that bastard.
• • • • •
As George fell, he watched the metal gas can tumble away from him. For a moment, he had the wild idea that it might create a spark and the whole thing would go up. But it didn’t. Instead, it landed on one corner and simply tumbled, just as he crashed onto his knees and hands. He felt a sudden shooting pain in his right wrist.
“Ahh!” he cried out, immediately taking it off the ground.
Even without the weight of his body on it, the pain lanced up his arm.
“Ahh!” he cried out again, panting.
He tried to close the fingers of his right hand but that was even more painful. His wrist was broken.
“Where are the cuttings?” he heard from behind him.
Still on his knees, he had just started to turn as something knocked him forward. It was Jean. She’d managed to get up and was trying to tackle him. She landed on his back as he hit the ground, his broken wrist pinned beneath him.
“Ahh!” he screamed again.
“Where are the cuttings?” she yelled.
Her arms circled around his neck. With her extra weight, he couldn’t push up, especially with one arm. But the pain in his pinned arm was so excruciating that he immediately rolled to get off it. He rolled fast and hard, Jean still on his back. Together, they thudded into the wood wall of a raised bed, with her sandwiched between him and it. He had to outweigh her by fifty pounds and the choked grunt that escaped from her let him know his tactic had worked. Her arms went slack around his neck and he rolled onto his knees.
Cradling the broken wrist, he finally stood. He looked behind him. Jean was trying to get up. She had grasped the edge of the raised bed and was standing, her back to him.
“You bitch!” he yelled.
He balled the fingers of his left hand into a fist and made an awkward swing. Though he’d intended to hit her in the head, the blow landed in her upper back. Even so, it sent her forward, doubling her over the edge of the wood with a sharp cry. His hands were no good for this so he did what he should have done from the start. He kicked her. His entire shin came up under her midsection, lifting her with the blow. A loud grunt shot from her lungs as her body arched upward. As she came down, George drew his foot back to kick her again but realized he was wasting precious time. No longer able to hold on, Jean came down on her knees and slumped forward with her chest against the raised bed.
With his left hand, George dug in the right pocket of his pants and brought out the old woman’s lighter. He turned and ran the several yards to the front door before he spun around. Jean was where he’d left her except that she’d slid all the way to the floor.
Bitch! Now you get to die.
With a click, he ignited the lighter and touched it to the nearest tree. In a great whoosh, flames immediately shot up its length. He jumped back and shielded his face from the sudden heat. As he watched, the flames spread to the next tree. He tossed the lighter to the floor, turned, and opened the door. The plaza was clear. He ran for the garage.
JUNGLE FEVER
An Erotic Expedition Novella
PART 3
By Hazel Hunter
CHAPTER EIGHT
As the door to the greenhouse shut behind him, George Liew ran. Though the garage wasn’t far, the plaza between the buildings of the Peterson rubber ranch was completely open. Anybody looking for him would spot him immediately. And everybody was looking for him.
Phuket Island in Thailand had proved to be the perfect place to develop the next generation of rubber plant and the perfect place to steal those plants. But the well-planned theft had gone awry when George had tripped a silent alarm. Now, with his right wrist broken, it was going to be a challenge just getting out.
Each jarring footfall made George wince with pain but he ran anyway. All he needed to do was get in the waiting Jeep and go. He checked over his shoulder, glanced around the plaza, and stared at the back door of the large main house. The only person he really needed to worry about was Clark Peterson and the last time he’d seen him, he’d been running into the main house. He looked at the garage. Almost there.
Clark had obviously figured out by now that Jean had been there to distract him, so that no longer worked in his favor. Soon, though, Clark would have much more than her to distract him.
George ran into the relative protection of the garage and leaned heavily on the Jeep. In a moment of panic, he touched his back pocket. In the scuffle with Jean, he’d fallen and broken his wrist. But the only important thing was the specimen case. His left hand finally landed on it in his right back pocket. He exhaled loudly. Three pristine buds of the most advanced rubber tree ever bred were his. And, according to his buyers, worth billions. His fee, ten million per preserved functioning bud.
“Thirty million,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
He heard a moaning from the front of the Jeep. That would be Mrs. Juntasa. He’d knocked her unconscious and dumped here there earlier when she’d arrived home. Not only did she have the keys to this Jeep, she’d had a lighter. The lighter he’d already put to use. Now it was time to use the keys.
He didn’t bother with the old woman. Not again. It was time to go.
He fished the keys out of his left pocket, opened the driver door, and sat down. It was awkward using only his left hand, especially when he wasn’t left-handed, but eventually he got the keys into the ignition and the engine started. Now all he had to do was drive a stick using only his left hand.
“Thirty million,” he muttered.
Feet on clutch and brake, he reached across his body and put the Jeep into reverse. He backed and spun the wheel as the Jeep cleared the garage. At the front of it, he could see Mrs. Juntasa, still lying where he’d left her. The kick to the head had assured she wouldn’t be making trouble any time soon.
Suddenly, George saw someone in his peripheral vision. He swiveled his head right and saw Tam, the old man-servant. George had thought it was Clark and his heart had leapt into his throat. He was a second recovering as the old man teetered toward him but, like Mrs. Juntasa, he was slow.
George threw the stick shift into first and gunned the engine. Gravel spewed from the back wheels and the vehicle lurched forward. Tam was left in a hail of rocks, dirt, and dust. George was finally on his way.
• • • • •
Clark bolted out the back door and headed straight to the garage but what he saw there brought him up short. Both Tam and Mrs. Juntasa were seated on the ground. The two elderly servants of the Peterson Ranch, with their white hair and weathered skin, looked like a match set. But something was wrong. Mrs. Juntasa was holding her head and Tam was supporting her from the back.
“Tam?” Clark said as he knelt beside them.
“I think she’s all right, Boss,” said the old man.
All right from what?
When Mrs. Juntasa looked up at him, he saw the injury immediately. An angry red welt and dark bruise had formed on her forehead.
“What happened?” Clark said, taking her hand.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice quavering. “I went to town for the shopping…” She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay,” Clark said squeezing her hand. “That’s okay, Mrs. Juntasa.” He paused. “Open your eyes for me,” he
said. “I want you to look at me.”
Though she still held her head, she turned her face directly toward him and opened her eyes. Clark stared for a second at the black pupils in the dark irises. They were equal and appeared normal. Probably no concussion. Even so, she might have a fracture. She needed to see a doctor. He glanced around the garage. All that was left was the motorcycle.
“Tam,” Clark started.
“I called the doctor,” Tam said, nodding. “And the police.”
Clark breathed a sigh of relief. Count on Tam to keep his head.
“Good man,” he said, patting him on the back.
“It was George Liew,” Tam said.
Clark immediately tensed.
“You saw him?”
“Yes, Boss. He took the small Jeep.”
Clark stood.
“Headed for the gate,” Tam said.
CHAPTER NINE
The sound of crackling was dim in the distance. Although Jean heard it, the sound didn’t really register. Instead, a dull ache in her stomach made her hug herself. Slowly, she opened her eyes to a strangely tilted world. She was lying on her side. With some effort, she pushed up onto her elbows and raised her head. This was the greenhouse.
She looked up the row of raised seed beds that she lay between and suddenly the crackling hit home.
“Oh my god,” she muttered. “Fire.”
Gripping the edge of the raised wood bed behind her, she shakily got to her feet. Three of the rubber trees near the front of the greenhouse were burning!
She needed to get out!
The only door was just past the trees. She lurched forward, stumbling, but used the seed bed for support. As she neared the flames, she got as far away from them as she could, moving to the opposite side of the row. Even so, the heat that radiated from them was fierce. She put up a hand to shield herself and ran. In moments she was at the door. She turned the knob and pulled. It was locked.
“No.”
