Sarah's eyes flicked to the girl, and if looks were bullets Wendy would have been dead before she hit the floor. Only part of it was due to the continuing dull pain in Sarah's hip. "Thank you, Epifanio," she said, rising from the desk. "I'll take care of it." Switching to English, she said to the girl, "Won't you come in?"
The girl swallowed visibly and, with a nervous glance at the overseer, tottered stiffly into the room.
Sarah frowned. "Are you ill?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. I've just been driving for a very long time." The girl gave her a nervous smile. She dropped into the chair that Sarah had indicated like a sack of potatoes.
What a wuss. "Hungry?" Sarah asked crisply.
"Yes, ma'am."
She asked Epifanio to tell his wife to bring sandwiches and fruit juice and watched him go before she sat down again. Then she looked across the desk at her—no, at John's visitor.
"You're from MIT," she stated. John's recruits had been sending reports every other day, but there had been no word in over a week. Obviously something had gone seriously wrong. Perhaps wrong enough to send a messenger. "What happened?"
It was hard, but she kept the anger out of her voice as much as she could. This child was so spooked she'd probably faint if she had any idea how close to killing mad Sarah was. She should reserve her anger for John, who had obviously given out just a little more information than he should have. Forcing herself to seem calm, Sarah leaned back and waited for the girl's explanation.
God, what a bitch, Wendy thought. It had never occurred to her that John
wouldn't be home when she arrived, and she longed for him now more than she longed for sleep. If she'd thought about his mother at all it was as a distant presence to whom she would be brought after she'd explained everything to him and at least had a shower.
She hadn't felt this much like an importunate intruder since her first interview at MIT.
Well that was nothing, Wendy told herself, squaring her shoulders, and I'll get through this. After waking up to find one of her heroes blown to pieces in front of her and the police after her for the murder, one overbearing woman shouldn't be too hard to take. But, oh, how she longed for John.
She took a deep breath and rapidly gave John's mother a succinct report. By the time she finished she was slurring her words in exhaustion. Just then a motherly-looking woman came in with a tray of food.
John's mother cleared a section of the desk and said something in Spanish. The woman gave Wendy a thorough looking over and a slight smile.
Wendy could feel her color rise. She'd never felt—she'd never been so grubby in her life. She actually smelled! Tired as she was, the embarrassment she felt was almost too much. Tears welled up in her eyes and she looked down, hoping to hide this final humiliation from John's hard-assed mother.
I will not cry! she thought fiercely. I will not.
Sarah poured juice into the glasses, glancing at Wendy from under her lashes.
The kid looked like she was going to break down and bawl at any moment. My
God, what a wuss! What did John see in her?
She handed Wendy a glass of juice and the girl took it with an almost inaudible
"thank you."
Sarah sat down and took a sip from her own glass, watching Wendy take careful sips of the juice. "Not thirsty?" she asked. "You don't have to drink it."
The girl glanced up, then looked down again. Yes, her eyes were red and her eyelashes moist, a real crybaby.
"I haven't eaten or drunk anything for a while," Wendy said at last, her voice sounding surprisingly strong. "And I'm nervous, so I'm just being careful." One corner of her mouth lifted and she raised her eyes to meet Sarah's. "I wouldn't want to be sick all over your parquet floor."
"Thank you," Sarah said, her chin resting on her fist. "It's not my floor, but I appreciate the thought." She straightened up and crossed her legs, taking a sip of her juice. "What I don't appreciate is that you're here, and why."
Wendy dropped her gaze to her drink and went absolutely still as once again, color flooded her cheeks. She tipped her head to one side. "I guess"—her eyes met Sarah's—"that we thought you might be able to tell me what to do."
"Because of being unjustly accused and all?" Sarah asked with a wave of her hand.
Wendy nodded, her gaze unwavering; something in her eyes told Sarah that she had caught the sarcasm and didn't like it.
"To be honest," Sarah said, picking a speck of lint from her skirt and smoothing down the fabric, "I don't think I've ever been unjustly accused."
She grinned at Wendy's undisguised astonishment. "I've done it all." she said breezily. "I've bombed, I've run guns, I've smuggled drugs. Extortion, bribery, destruction of property- assault and battery." She ticked her crimes off on her fingers. "I'm guilty, guilty, guilty. I've never killed anybody—anybody human—
I've never been involved in a kidnapping—not that I didn't have opportunities—
and I've never sold myself. But other than that…" She shrugged, watching for the girl's reaction.
"Even better," Wendy said after a moment's pause. "If you're guilty of all that and you're still not in jail, you could probably write a book on the subject."
Sarah was taken by surprise. So, maybe the kid does have a spine, she thought.
She hoped so if John was in any way involved with her. Still, she'd come here in trouble and so possibly dragging trouble behind her. "One of the ways we've stayed out of jail is by not allowing people being chased by the police to come directly to our door," she said pointedly.
"Nobody knows where I am," Wendy said. "The closest anyone could trace me is Sao Paulo."
"That's closer than I like," Sarah snapped.
"Look," Wendy said carefully, "I didn't stop driving once I left Sao Paulo. I bought a bunch of food, which ran out the day before yesterday, and juice, which ran out last night. I haven't stopped or spoken to anybody since I left the border
except three times to buy gas. And since I got lost twice on lonely roads with no human beings around for as far as the eye could see, and since from here that's pretty far, I seriously doubt I was followed. Okay?"
Sarah felt herself relax marginally. She chose a sandwich and started to nibble.
To her amusement the girl seemed to take it as a signal that she, too, could begin eating and chose one for herself. Well, I suppose she's right. I don't approve of her being here after all.
"Nonstop?" Sarah said, raising her brows. "All the way from Brazil?"
"Yes."
"Quite a drive," Sarah commented.
"Especially if you get lost," Wendy agreed, nibbling delicately at the home-baked bread.
"Did you have to ask for directions?" Sarah asked casually. Wendy looked up at her, impatience briefly plain on her face. "No," she said carefully. "I worked it out by myself." She put the sandwich down and then looked Sarah full in the he face. "I would never do anything that might cause John the slightest risk."
The two women locked gazes and Sarah felt a sinking feeling in her middle. No doubt this is how every mother feels when her son gets his first serious girlfriend. And, if anything, Wendy, here, appeared deadly serious. I wonder how John feels about her? Was he going to be thrilled to see her, or was he going to react as though she was a stalker."
That thought sent another spasm of uncertainty through her gut. After all, she had only Wendy's word that she'd been framed. And do I know anything about her? Nooo. John had barely mentioned her name. She waggled her foot thoughtfully. He could be shy about confiding in his mother about it, or he might be as surprised and dismayed as she was to find out that he had a girlfriend.
And… there was a time when I was a student with a part-time job, too. And then my world fell apart.
Well, she'd find out when he got home. In the meantime…
"You look exhausted," she said. Wendy looked up at her. "Why don't we take this"—she stood, wincing slightly at the pull of the healing wound, and picked up the t
ray—"upstairs. I'll show you your room for tonight. There's a bathroom en suite, so you can have some privacy. Just leave the tray outside the door when you're finished."
Wendy stood, still a little wobbly. "Thank you."
Sarah glanced at her. The kid was dead on her feet. I know what that feels like.
She'd felt that way often at the end of a hard trip. We'll see, she thought, and turned to lead the way upstairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA
Wendy couldn't sleep. She had, perhaps, dozed a bit, but for the most part she had simply lain still, too tired to move, too wide-awake to truly rest. Her cramped body felt as though she was still in motion. Very distracting.
She had heard people moving about downstairs for some time, and an occasional voice speaking Spanish. But things had quieted down now that darkness had fallen.
I wonder what time it is. Not late, she thought, perhaps nine o'clock. But for farm people that must be the same as midnight. They had to be up with the sun, didn't they? She listened carefully and heard no human voice, though the night was alive with the sound of insects. Different insects from the ones she was familiar with. The air smelled different, too, dusty and spicy, kind of like a kiln did when baking pots.
She heard a car in the distance and smiled to herself; she hadn't realized that she'd missed the sound of traffic. She tracked its progress by ear and her heart began to beat faster as it approached. It must be John!
Wendy wanted to spring to her feet and dance down the stairs to meet him at the door. Indeed, that was her intention, but she couldn't seem to gather the energy to do so and lay on the bed urging herself up, too paralyzed by exhaustion or uncertainty to get her muscles in gear.
The car drove by the house and her heart sank. She'd been mistaken after all; it was somebody else coming home. Wendy sighed, feeling discouraged and out of place. I shouldn't have come, she thought. She was suddenly amazed that she'd had the nerve to do so. John had no obligation to her. How dare she throw herself at him like this? What in God's name had she been thinking?
She covered her face with her hands and groaned aloud. I'll leave in the morning, she thought. Before or after she'd seen John? One part of her longed to see him,
to hear his voice and to hold him in her arms. Another cringed with embarrassment and dreaded seeing him, fearing rejection. Wendy sighed and dropped her arms to her sides.
What's done is done. Face the music and move on. Certainly Sarah Connor would like her to move on; there'd been no mistaking that.
Her head lifted slightly and she strained her ears. Had that been tin: sound of a distant door closing':' It might bu John's mother finally coming upstairs.
Assuming she had a room upstairs.
Maybe she's coming up to smother me with a pillow to round out her list of crimes. In a way, Wendy supposed that would simplify things. And Sarah had certainly looked like she wanted to kill her for a split second there. Not that I intend to let her.
Wendy sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, surprised at how much better she felt. The dizziness was gone completely, though her limbs still felt heavy. She stood up, the old nightgown that Elsa, the housekeeper's niece, had loaned her falling softly to midcalf. Tiptoeing to the door, she released the latch carefully, letting it swing open slightly.
She heard a man's deep voice and the sound of booted footsteps downstairs.
Then her heart leaped; that was John's voice, followed by his laugh. Sarah rushed out of the office and shushed them. That was followed by a tense silence. After a moment Wendy heard stealthy footsteps on the stairs and she closed the door and hurried back to bed, lying down and forcing her breath to a steady, slow, and audible rhythm.
She caught herself falling asleep despite her excitement and thought, I should have tried that before. Wendy counted slowly to a hundred before she dared to open her eyes to slits and tried to see if anyone was at the door. Unfortunately she was facing away from it. Note to self: Next time think about position. After a few more tense moments she decided to risk turning her head.
No one was there. Her heartbeat decelerated but by no means returned to normal.
Wendy sat up slowly and once again tiptoed across the room. She opened the door, holding her breath, half expecting to find herself staring into Sarah's disapproving eyes. Still, no one was there. Wendy let her breath out slowly in relief.
Slipping through the door, she slunk to the top of the stairs. From there she could hear voices. They seemed to be coming from the office where she'd met Sarah, but they were muffled by the room's heavy door. Wendy crept down the stairs and made her way to the office. The hall was dark and she had to steer her way past dimly seen obstacles, not always successfully. Despite the pain, she thanked God that stubbed toes made no sound when they contacted mahogany furniture.
Once she reached her goal she found herself stymied by the thickness of the elaborate door. She couldn't make out a word, but the tone of John's voice was not happy. Wendy stood straight, biting her lower lip, then she took a deep breath and moved down the hallway to the room next to the office. The door to this room was open and it, too, had French doors opening onto a walled garden.
She tried the knob and found them locked, but she located the key by feel.
Screwing her eyes shut and clenching her teeth, she turned the key with the greatest care, slowly, slowly easing the latch back. At last, without a click, the door stood unlocked. Wendy shook her hands out and just stood for a moment,
letting her galloping heartbeat slow.
The way my luck is going, she thought, the hinges will scream like a banshee.
She turned the knob and opened the door; it moved silently and cool night air washed over her, prickling the skin of her bare arms. Peeking out, she saw that the doors to the office were still open and at last she could hear what was being said.
"She's not a stalker, Mom." John's voice sounded weary, as though he'd already said it again and again.
"How do you know that?" Sarah challenged. "And how did she know how to find you?"
Dieter was sitting behind his desk, looking grim as he watched mother and son argue. John was seated in one of the guest chairs while Sarah paced the floor like a caged tiger.
"She found out where I was a few minutes after I first contacted her," John admitted. Then he ducked his head, looking up at his mother from under his eyebrows as he waited for the explosion.
There wasn't one. Sarah stood absolutely motionless and looked at him. "Do the rest of your little friends in Massachusetts know where we are?" she asked quietly.
"No, Mom. Just Wendy, and I asked her not to tell, so I know she didn't."
"You know she's not a stalker and you know she'd never tell anyone where we
are. How did they know to send her to Brazil?"
"I told Snog that if he ever had an emergency and needed to get to me, to meet me in Sao Paulo." He looked his mother in the eye, though the steadiness of her stare made him want to flinch. "It's one of the biggest cities in South America,"
he explained, "and it's far away from here. Which makes it perfect for a meeting like that."
"Except that your little playmate didn't wait for you in Sao Paulo, she came directly here!" Sarah folded her arms across her bosom and took a deep breath.
"And it's not like she's accused of murdering some nobody. Ron Labane was a celebrity."
"She didn't kill him, Ma."
"How can you be sure of that?" Sarah asked as she resumed her pacing. "How well do you actually know her?"
"Well enough," John said, standing in her path. "She's not a killer." He lowered his head to look directly into her eyes. "Do you think I don't know one when I see one?"
"It's not an exact science," Sarah snapped. "You can't point at someone and say, There's a killer, or at someone else and say, There's someone who wouldn't kill to save their own life. If you think you can you're kidding yourself." They stood eye to eye for a long mo
ment. "Why do you think she couldn't have killed him?"
"First, because she thought the sun rose and set out of his ass. Second, because she had no reason to. Third, because there's nothing in her experience that would
make her a killer."
"You don't know that she didn't have a reason," Sarah argued. "You haven't even spoken to her."
"Well, if she did have a reason then it was self-defense," John shouted. He struck his chest. "I know her! I trust her; and that should be enough for you."
They both stood there, glaring at each other and breathing hard.
"What really matters," Dieter said calmly, "is whether or not she was followed."
"There's been no sign of anyone." Sarah looked away from her son and moved toward the desk. "She says she drove straight from Sao Paulo and only stopped three times for gas. She says she didn't ask for directions and that she kept checking to see if anyone was behind her. Which I believe because she was obviously scared as a rabbit."
"Of course she is!" John snapped in exasperation. "Weren't you?"
Sarah spun on her heel to face him, her mouth open for a retort.
"No," Dieter said.
They both looked at him, their mouths open.
"There's no point to continuing this argument. You've both totally lost your focus." He tipped his chair back and took a whisky decanter and a cut-crystal glass off the low filing cabinet. "The truth is, we won't know anything until we've spoken to the girl."
"I spoke to her," Sarah snapped, pointing to herself.
Dieter poured himself a measure of the single malt and replaced the decanter. He swirled the rich liquor around the glass and then took a sip, closing his eyes with pleasure. "I've been looking forward to that all day," he said. Then he put the glass on the desk and pulled his chair forward. "If you met her with that fire in your eye, Sarah, I doubt that you got much information out of her."
"Thanks a lot," she said, clearly wounded by his remark. "But I got enough out of her to know she's a liability. We've got to get rid of her."
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