Odd though, her first thought when she looked into the pit was if she'd stepped into it, the spikes would have messed up her legs, and Jerry liked her legs. In fact, he seemed to like her again, at least he liked the way she looked. How ludicrous, worrying about avoiding a pit that could send spikes through her legs because her legs wouldn't look good for Jerry any more...
Thinking she heard something beyond the squawks of parrots, and the rat-a-tat-tat- of a woodpecker, she stopped abruptly, raised her machete in readiness, and said to Bud, "Did you hear that crackling noise behind us? Sounded low... on the trail."
Bud's hand automatically came up to rest on the butt of the pistol on his hip. "Yeah. Could have been an iguana," he replied. "Schribe said some get to be six feet long. There are also wild boar. I'll hang back for a few minutes and listen. You go on ahead and catch up with Schribe." His hand resting on the butt of the gun, he waited and watched.
Andrea quickened her pace and caught up with Inspector Schribe. After explaining why Bud was hanging back, she said, while eyeing the pistols in twin holsters on his hips, "If you let me have one of those guns I'd feel a whole lot better."
"You don't have a permit," Schribe said.
"You're not serious," Andrea replied. "You'd hold me to that, out here among drug kingpins and wild boars and assassins?"
Schribe laughed quietly. "Yeah, holding you to having a permit does seem a little absurd at this point." He slipped one of the pistols from its holster and handed the butt end to her, saying, "Keep the safety on and tuck it in your belt."
"Where's the safety?" Andrea asked, looking up at him.
Schribe eyed her with misgiving. "You've never shot a pistol." It was a statement.
"No," Andrea admitted, "but I can point and fire. You just need to show me where the safety is and how to take it off. I know where the trigger is."
Schribe sucked in a long breath.
"I can do this, inspector," Andrea said. "I just need to know where the safety is."
The muscles in Schribe's jaws bunched, as if he were reconsidering, then he said, while pointing, "The safety's here. Push it this way and it's off. Push it this way and it's on. If someone approaches, slip it off, curve your finger around the trigger, and keep the gun pointed down unless you want to wipe him out. That thing has a hair trigger and it can blow a hole in a man."
Andrea slipped the safety off, then shoved it on again and tucked the gun into her belt. The feel of a steel muzzle rubbing against her hip bone was a constant reminder that this was not a game, that they were moving deeper and deeper into a forest where snipers could be hiding, and that this whole episode in her life had to be a bad dream.
But when she drew in a long, nerve-settling breath, taking with it the scent of fungus and mold and tropical flowers, mingled with salt air from the ocean, she knew it wasn't a dream, but the culmination of a very bad decision to spend time with a man who might add a little spice to her life, when she already had a husband who was the sexiest, spiciest man she knew. Impossible to get along with, but every bit as sexy as Alessandro Cavallaro, thong and all. But she didn't visualize Alessandro in a thong, but Jerry, beefy chest, firm abs, that little line of hair leading down his belly to a tantalizing package in a fishnet thong...
A very bad time to be thinking about Jerry that way, Andrea decided. She looked around again and Bud was nowhere in sight, which alarmed her. She'd expected him to wait a few moments then catch up. "Inspector," she called ahead to Schribe. He turned and waited for her to catch up. "Something isn't right, I can feel it."
"I know what you mean," Schribe replied. He looked beyond Andrea to where they'd been, and said, "Howell should have caught up with us by now. I'll go back and see if there's something wrong. You wait here. And keep your hand on the butt of that pistol." He stepped around her and started back down the trail.
Andrea looked ahead to where the path meandered deeper into the forest then glanced behind, where Schribe was retracing their tracks, all the while feeling eyes on her, eyes that weren't those of forest creatures, but eyes with evil intent.
She waited for what seemed like the better part of a half hour, and still, neither of the men returned. Feeling a rush of adrenaline, along with the first muscle-weakening signs of panic, she slipped the gun from her belt and curved a nervous finger around the trigger and continued up the trail. She considered taking off the safety, then decided against it, afraid if she heard movement ahead she'd shoot then ask questions, and it could be Jerry or her father.
Wanting to catch up with them, she quickened her pace, trusting there were no booby traps ahead since they'd already passed the section of trail she was traveling. A few hundred feet ahead she came upon another exposed pit with spikes released. There was still no sign of Bud or the inspector behind her, and no indication that Jerry and her father were ahead.
And still, she felt watched...
Deciding to hide in the brush and wait for Bud and the inspector to rejoin her, instead of trying to catch up with Jerry and her father, she glanced around and found a small path that looked recently traveled, and wondered if Jerry and her father had left the main trail to see where it went, or maybe even went that way. Glancing ahead, and seeing no one, she started up the narrow path. A short distance ahead, the path came to an end at a thicket of brush. The brush looked disturbed, as if it had been pushed aside for someone to pass through.
Parting it, she looked into a natural grotto. Down a slope from it was a perfectly round hole, obviously one of the blue holes the inspector mentioned. The grotto was also a place where she could hide, and wait. She parted the brush further, but when she stepped through the opening, a large hand clamped over her mouth, and a deep male voice said, in a soft Italian accent, "So, querida, you have come looking for me..."
***
Jerry quickened his pace as they headed back down the trail from where they'd come, in an effort to find the others. "There's no sign of any of them," he said, while glancing over his shoulder at Carter. "They should have gotten at least this far by now. Something's wrong."
"Hell, I should have had Schribe hold Andrea as a material witness just to keep her from coming," Carter said. "I knew there'd be trouble. My only daughter and I might as well have sent her in front of a firing squad."
"Kicking yourself now isn't helpful," Jerry said.
"And going after men with guns, with only machetes to defend ourselves, doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense either," Carter replied. "But we have no choice."
Jerry stopped and raised his hand for silence. "I heard something," he said in a hushed voice. "Isn't it around here where the path splits off to the blue hole?"
Carter nodded. "Right over there. Let's check it out. The path looks more trampled than before."
They made their way up the path, now easily discernible from having recently been trod, but when Jerry parted the brush, a low commanding voice said, "I've been waiting for you men." Alessandro Cavallaro stepped from behind an old growth pine, one arm around Andrea's ribs, a gun pressed to her head. Impulsively, Jerry started for Cavallaro. "Hold it there!" Cavallaro yelled, pressing the muzzle tight against Andrea's temple. "Don't come any closer."
Jerry froze. "What do you want with her?" he asked, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it might burst through his chest. He shifted his gaze from the steely glint of the barrel, and looked into Andrea's eyes, enormously wide in their shadowed sockets.
"I want the stamp, and I want a way out of here," Cavallaro said. He looked at Carter, who'd stepped into the grotto and was standing behind Jerry. "You have a Learjet sitting at the airport, Ellison. You'll be taking me out of here."
"I'll be taking you to hell first," Carter said, hand gripping the machete while raising it to his shoulder.
"Don't test my patience, old man," Cavallaro said. "If you take me to hell, your daughter will come with me. Now drop the machete."
Carter's hand tightened on the handle, as if to hurl the thing, and Jerry was abo
ut to disarm Carter himself, when Carter tossed the machete at Cavallaro's feet.
"That's better." Cavallaro looked at Jerry. "You too." Jerry tossed his machete alongside Carter's. "Like I said, you'll be flying me out of here," he told Carter. "Schribe's going to clear it with customs and the airport so we can leave without any questions asked."
"Where is Schribe now?" Jerry asked, wanting to distract Cavallaro, watching for a chance to rush him, which would be out of the question as long as he had a gun pressed against Andrea's head. But if the man looked away for an instant, he would. He wasn't sure what to expect from Carter though. He could be a loose cannon. Or he could be competent in disarming Cavallaro.
"He's back on the trail, tied up." He looked at Carter. "Along with your body guard. Next time, hire a man who's up to the job. Schribe's also going to call for a boat to take us to Andros Town, and have a car waiting to take us to the airport. After I'm safely away from here, you'll be free to return home."
Jerry didn't think for a minute Cavallaro would simply let them walk away. Andrea's testimony in court could put him away for life, and for that reason alone, Cavallaro couldn't let her go. But for now, they'd have to go along with him until they could jump him. "Let my wife go and take me as hostage instead," he said.
"I can't let your wife go," Cavallaro replied. "She knows too much."
"If you kill her you'd better kill me too then," Jerry said, "because I'll hunt you down and see you suffer a slow agonizing death before I'm done with you." And he meant exactly that.
Cavallaro let out a short, ironic laugh. "I don't want to kill your wife," he said. "I want to take her back to Italy with me. I'd almost convinced her to come before all this turned up. You see, I appreciate her in a way you never did, isn't that right cara mia?" he said in a soft voice, allowing his finger to leave the butt of the gun to stroke Andrea's cheek. She recoiled from his touch, but said nothing. He leaned over her, and said in a quiet, affable voice, "Querida, I do not want to hurt you, but I need the stamp and I'll do whatever it takes to get it. Do you understand what I'm saying?" It was a softly spoken threat.
When Andrea didn't reply, anger flared in Cavallaro's eyes. "The stamp, querida. Where is it?" he said in a harsh voice.
"She doesn't have it," Jerry said. "Let her go."
"She either has it or she knows who does," Cavallaro said. His thumb stroked the handgrip of the pistol as he held Jerry's gaze, a gesture to remind them he was not playing games.
Jerry raised his eyes from Cavallaro's hand, and said, "When Schribe looked in my wife's handbag he found a slit in the lining where you hid the stamp, but the stamp was gone. No one knows who took it or where it is."
"Then I want the handbag." Cavallaro said. "Once it's destroyed, there will be no evidence. Where is it?"
"Scribe sent it to a lab," Jerry replied, realizing too late he should have claimed ignorance. As long as there was a chance the handbag could be recovered and destroyed, Andrea would be safe because her testimony would mean nothing without hard evidence.
Cavallaro leaned toward Andrea and said, "Then I guess you won't be coming to Italy with me after all." His finger curved around the trigger. "You won't be going anywhere but down that blue hole with your husband and father because your testimony could put me away for life. Believe me, it's not the way I want it. I would like to have had you with me in Italy." He glanced down at the blue hole. "The water's at least fifty feet down, so after the fall it will be quick. But I'll give you one last chance to tell me where the stamp is. It's worth over two-and-a-half million dollars. We could live well in Majorca on that." His finger left the handgrip to brush her cheek. "So what's it going to be, cara mia?" he said against her ear.
"Damn you to hell!" Jerry bellowed. He drew in a ragged breath to steady the erratic beating of his heart. "Alright. I know where the stamp is, but I'll have to take you to it because it's hidden where no one could find it."
Cavallaro looked at Jerry, cold and hard. "You're lying."
"Why would I lie—" his eyes shifted to the gun "—with that aimed at her head?"
"Maybe you're a fool." The smooth snick of the cylinder rotating into place broke the momentary silence as the man cocked the gun. He shoved the muzzle harder against Andrea's temple. "You have ten seconds to tell me where the stamp is. Nine... eight... seven..." Andrea closed her eyes, waiting to die...
"I have the stamp." A man stepped through the opening in the brush and into the grotto, a gun in one hand, the other hand pressed against his pocket holding the stamp. "Drop the gun, Cavallaro, and kick it over here," the man said. When Cavallaro didn't follow the man's orders, the man said, "Make no mistake, Cavallaro, I'll be on that Learjet when it leaves today. You can either go with me, or I'll shoot you and toss you down that hole. So what's it going to be?"
Cavallaro eyed the man, hatred and disbelief on his face, and said, "I should have known it was you, Acheson. You're the only one who knew what was going on, the only one I trusted to carry out the plan. I should have figured it out when Stanton didn't make the transfer. But stuffing him in a trunk... That's not your style, so I wasn't sure."
"I didn't have too many options that night. And I haven't been getting enough cut of the action either," the man added, "until now. So what's it going to be?"
"This!" Cavallaro hurled Andrea aside, and in the process, the gun was flung from his hand. Cavallaro threw himself at the other man, and while they were in death grips and rolling close to the edge of the embankment sloping down to the hole, Jerry grabbed the gun and fired a shot to stop them. But he was too late. The men rolled down the embankment together, arms disentangling as they went, while reaching out for something that wasn't there. Their desperate cries echoed as they plunged toward the water below. The sound of splashing water ended their cries. Then silence.
***
Andrea stared out the bedroom window of her parent's suite at Finnigan's Hideaway. She felt oddly melancholy over Alessandro's death, not because she cared anything for the man, but because he was a man who'd had everything going for him—charm, charisma, exceptional good looks—and threw it all away because of a lust for money. Strange how that can twist a person. Jerry also had a lust for money, but he channeled it in a positive way, providing for his family...
"Let it go," Jerry clipped, as he walked into the bedroom. "The man got what he deserved."
Andrea bristled at Jerry's misinterpretation of her feelings about Alessandro. He was reading things all wrong, as he frequently did when he was pissed, which aggravated her. "I don't care anything about Alessandro Cavallaro," she said. "I was thinking it was such a waste of what could have been a good life."
"Yeah, I suppose living in a villa in Majorca and cruising the Mediterranean on a sixty-four foot yacht could have been a good life. Now you'll have to settle for Myrtle Beach."
Andrea glared at Jerry. For some reason she'd expected, after their harrowing encounter in the forest, that things would be different between them. Clearly she was wrong. They were back sniping at each other. "I don't believe I want to hear any more of this," she said, then went to join her parents in the living room.
She'd rather face her father than listen to Jerry's attempts to make something out of nothing, because the bottom line was, Alessandro had been nothing to her from the start, other than a pair of appreciative male eyes, or at least the perception that he found her attractive. But almost any nice-looking man would have been able to fill that role the day they boarded the ship. She'd been primed to take a lover, if only to block Jerry from her mind. But now, she realized no man could take Jerry's place in bed. But out of the bed, Jerry was as impossible as ever...
"Honey, " her mother said. "Sit down and have some canapés."
"I'm not hungry," Andrea replied, her stomach suffering the effects of a deeply disturbing day. First, a near-death experience, then watching two men plunge to their deaths, then listening to the details of how to fish two bodies out of a blue hole using a giant hook, and fi
nally, spending over an hour with Inspector Schribe, while he took her written testimony with all the humiliating details of her interaction with Alessandro, almost as if she were reliving her four days of absolute, and complete madness. The only respite in the entire day was that the inspector didn't require Jerry to be present while she relayed the events of those life-changing days.
And life-changing, they were.
For the first time in years, when she looked at Jerry she saw the hunky male Val and the other women on the cruise ship saw. She wanted Jerry again. And she wanted him to look at her the way he had when she was wearing the swim suit. The way he once looked at her. But a major part of their physical relation was missing. Those rowdy, uninhibited moments before they made love were gone because the fun in their marriage was gone. If they stayed together now, their life would vacillate between having hot, heavy, totally self-gratifying sex, and the vehement, throwing of barbs. It had been their pattern too long to break. At least the throwing of barbs had been. She never would have dreamed, six days ago, she'd want Jerry back in her bed again. And right now, she wanted a dose of hot, heavy sex to relieve the tension.
Her mother handed her a wide-mouth goblet with a slurry of ginger ale and lime juice, and said, "Think of it as a Margarita without the tequila."
Andrea took the drink and stepped to the window. She gazed out at the turquoise water lapping against a stretch of glistening pink sand that reached out in both directions, and thought about all the little private beaches, completely cut off from view by palms and mangroves, and wondered if any of them were occupied by couples at the moment...
…a place for lovers...
She turned from the window in disgust. Would those words, spoken inside her head in a soft Italian accent, always come back to haunt her, reminding her of her foolishness?
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