Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay

by Iguana Bay [SIM-339] (lit)

  Panic. Her heart knocked erratically in her chest.

  "Please. Don't kill me."

  She hadn't been aware of forming the pitiful plea, but there it was, hanging between them.

  The voice that came from the darkness above her was heavy with disgust. "That's a good one. Nobody has to kill you. You're suicidal."

  As if driving home his point, lightning crashed again. The man hunched his shoulders and glanced skyward, then back down. "You picked a damn poor place to at­tempt a getaway."

  His voice seemed to hold impatience and exaspera­tion, but no real anger. And that confused her even more.

  Earlier, when she'd been crammed in the trunk, barely able to breathe or move, heart hammering in terror, Sebastian's words had come back to her. There are a lot of people out there who would kill you to get to me.

  Oh, God.

  A sob escaped her, the sound swirling up to join that of the storm. "This is about Sebastian, isn't it? That's why you're doing this."

  "Yes."

  She hadn't expected such a blunt answer, such a chill­ing answer. She hadn't expected him to answer at all.

  "Listen, I swear if you let me go-" She swallowed, formulating the lie in her mind. "If you don't hurt me... I'll change my statement ... I'll say I was mixed up, my watch was wrong. I'll say he made me lie, anything, just don't hurt me!"

  Terror rose in her throat, making her choke on the last word. She felt his firm fingers on her shoulders. He gave her a small shake.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his voice an in­tense whisper. She could feel the heat of him as he strad­dled her, his body pressing intimately into hers. "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated.

  But her hysteria wound higher. "Why would I believe you?" Her voice rose and fell on a half sob. "Why on earth would I believe you?"

  He heaved a sigh and shoved himself to his feet, pull­ing her up after him. "I'd love to stay and discuss this, but I have this aversion to becoming alligator bait or getting struck by lightning."

  "Alligator bait?" Oh, God.

  "Yeah. Right now we're standing smack-dab in the middle of their dining room."

  He dropped her arm and moved away, his dark shape fading, the edges bleeding into the night.

  Suddenly Elise no longer wanted to run from him. She wanted to follow, but her feet wouldn't budge. She wanted to shout, ask him to wait, but her vocal chords wouldn't comply.

  The man's voice came back to her out of the dark­ness, through the pouring rain. "Are you coming or not?"

  She had been thinking about something she'd read on the front page of a grocery store tabloid. The bold-print headline had shouted something about a woman in Utah giving birth to an alien. But directly under that story had been another about an eighty-year-old alligator that had been killed. Inside its belly they'd found all sorts of things ranging from a child's leather strap shoe to a man's div­ing watch.

  Now, with the article fresh in her mind, Elise's legs threatened to buckle. In fact, it almost seemed that she had no legs at all. They had simply vanished. And her head seemed to be floating away from her body.

  Strong fingers closed over her arm; then she was pulled forward, her legs moving stiffly, like a child who hadn't been walking very long.

  "Come on," the man shouted over the deafening noise of the rainstorm. "You may get a kick out of alligators, but they scare the absolute hell out of me."

  How very strange, she thought distantly, trudging along after him. How strange that somebody like him would be scared of anything. And stranger yet that he'd admit it.

  Earlier, when the man had opened the trunk, Elise had figured it was the end, figured he was going to kill her. But obviously that wasn't the case, because this would be the perfect spot for such a crime, a place where alligators would take care of the evidence.

  Now the idea of his having a gun didn't bother her as much, either. If an alligator came up to them, he could shoot it, couldn't he? Or were alligators small-brained creatures that were hard to kill? Would a gunshot simply make it angry? Attract all of its friends? She didn't know.

  Right now she didn't know anything. She felt as if she'd lost her identity, left it at the hotel, or maybe even Wisconsin. She didn't feel like Elise Ramsey, a river rat from the midlands, anymore.

  As they trudged back toward the car, Elise became aware of something weird going on in the space around them. It was like they'd stepped into a force field. The hair on her scalp tingled. The hair on her arms stood straight up, prickly and kind of wavy. She had just opened her mouth to mention the peculiar phenomenon when the man suddenly turned and lunged, propelling her to the ground.

  "Get down!"

  She had no choice. The next thing she knew the air was being knocked from her lungs for the second time in a matter of minutes. With the man's arms wrapped tightly around her, they logrolled over and over.

  A deafening crash-like a bomb exploding-came from what seemed to be the very spot where they had been standing, the sound cracking the sky. Wood splin­tered, and sparks showered down around them, mixing with the rain.

  Elise was dimly aware of an annoying whong, whong inside her head, as if her brain were throbbing against her skull. White and red lights danced behind her eyes. She was tingling and shaking all over. Not on the outside, but the inside. Her tongue felt thick. Her fingertips and toes felt numb.

  She hadn't realized her eyes were closed until she opened them. Everything looked like a negative. She felt as if she'd been staring at the sun. -How very, very strange... .

  Gradually she became aware of hands on her, hitting her. Why, the man was slapping her!

  "Stop," she muttered thickly, trying to push the an­noying hands away. "That hurts." Her voice sounded funny to herself, as if her ears had water in them. "You said you wouldn't hurt me."

  "I was trying to keep you from getting burned." He quit slapping her and made an exasperated sound. "Your clothes were on fire."

  "Oh."

  "Sparks from the tree."

  That explained a lot.

  She felt his fingertips brush across her forehead, lift­ing a lank strand of hair from her eyes and she raised her head to survey the damage done to her suit. The suit that used to be white. The suit that had cost her a hundred dollars. It was torn and twisted and sopping wet, smudged with mud and grass stains. There were charred holes scattered liberally over the entire outfit.

  She felt a hysterical giggle start and swallowed, trying to control it. Looking at the suit, a ridiculous thought came to her: that's what I get for trying to be somebody I'm not.

  She pushed herself up on one elbow and looked around. In a circle surrounding the lightning-struck tree lay scattered chunks of glowing wood, sizzling in the rain that had slowed to a drizzle.

  Beside her the man was crouched on his heels, his dangling hands draped over his bent knees., watching her with his wild eyes. But they didn't seem so wild any­more. His expression was curious, almost thoughtful.

  Elise wondered what his name was. Then she heard herself asking him.

  He started, seeming surprised. "Dylan."

  "Like Bob Dylan?" She'd always liked his songs. "Like Dylan Thomas."

  "You're a poet?"

  "Nooo."

  She couldn't see his mouth. It was in shadow, but she thought she detected a smile in his voice.

  "But there are other similarities," he added wryly. "You’re Welsh," she decided, tracing his ancestry back to dark moors and wild-maned, brooding men who looked like Wuthering Heights' Heathcliff. "I drink too much."

  Her brief attempt at romanticizing him into some brooding hero dissolved. "I see," she said doubtfully.

  The lightning must have short-circuited her brain. She couldn't believe she was lying here, holding a casual conversation with the man who had attacked her, who had wrapped her with tape and tossed her into a trunk. The man with the wild eyes. She had to pull herself to­gether. But it seemed too much of an effort. Just didn't seem worth the tr
ouble anymore. She yawned broadly and made a halfhearted attempt to cover her mouth.

  "You know," she said, suddenly feeling incredibly sleepy, "I used to know a man who claimed to have been hit by lightning three times. But he always exaggerated everything, so I never really believed him."

  Dylan stood. "We might be going for two if we don't get out of here."

  With his help she got to her feet and stood there on weak, wobbly legs. Her eyes were drawn to the shat­tered, burning tree, where scattered bits of still­-smoldering debris lay spread out around it, like a fairy circle. She could smell wood smoke and something else, something that made her think of burnt wiring. "Death's door," she whispered in awe, trying to take it all in, un­able to.

  The man-Dylan-reached out and grabbed her, pulling her after him. As they sloshed along his mut­tered words floated back to her. "Son of a bitch, what a night."

  Chapter 4

  Elise sat in the car, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to catch her breath. What air she managed to pull into her lungs was heavy and wet.

  Click.

  Cold metal handcuffs locked around her wrist. The sound, magnified within the dark, claustrophobic con­fines of the small vehicle, rang with chilling finality.

  She'd gotten away from him once. She could do it again. She just had to bide her time, wait for her drained energy to recharge.

  Click.

  The other handcuff locked around the hinge of the car's bucket seat. "Just in case you get the notion to go for another stroll," Dylan said, his words slightly choppy as he, too, fought to regain his breath.

  For a time there in the sloughs, Elise had sensed a brief camaraderie between herself and this man she knew only as Dylan. They had been two people against the ele­ments. Now they were back to two people against each other.

  Outside, the rain had dwindled to a few occasional large, heavy drops that struck at irregular intervals against the car.

  Fear churned in Elise's stomach, and with it came queasiness. She trembled, and the handcuffs rattled like dry bones.

  Dylan reached back between the bucket seats.

  "Here. Cover up with this." Something soft and heavy landed on her lap. A sweatshirt.

  She pulled it over her as much as she could, tucking her free arm beneath it, drawing the fabric to her chin, more grateful for the cover it afforded than the warmth.

  "W-what-" Her mouth was so dry she could barely form the words. Whatever happened, she wouldn't grovel. She swallowed, ran her tongue over her lips and started over. "What do you plan to do with me?"

  At first she didn't think he was going to answer, but finally he spoke. "I'm not going to hurt you."

  She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she wanted to be­lieve him. But it was obvious he was a dangerous man. His voice was hard; his eyes were hard; his body was hard. How on earth could she trust someone like him?

  "It's not you I want. It's Sebastian."

  The way he spoke Sebastian's name sent a chill down her spine. Two hours ago she'd despised Adrian Sebas­tian, but now she actually found herself pitying the man.

  "I want to see Sebastian behind bars. And you're going to help me put him there."

  The hatred and menace in his voice were undeniable. That kind of hatred didn't just happen. It was cultivated, earned.

  Even though Elise wasn't a willing player, it looked as if she'd been caught in the middle of a revenge game. She'd stumbled into the clutches of a man who appeared to be intent on carrying out some personal vendetta. She didn't know what Adrian Sebastian had done to incur such hatred. She didn't want to know.

  She just wanted out.

  "You're Sebastian's only alibi for murder," Dylan said. "And I want to make sure you don't show up at his trial to testify on his behalf."

  Was that what this was all about? He believed Sebas­tian had murdered that man? Maybe, if she tried to ex­plain ...

  "I swear he's innocent. He was with me the night of the murder."

  "Something I wouldn't brag about."

  She couldn't see Dylan's face, but there was no way she could miss the sneer in his voice, the contempt that sug­gested that he, too, thought she and Sebastian had slept together.

  "Listen, I don't care if he did it or not. That sleaze Zevon probably deserved what he got. I just want Se­bastian convicted for it."

  Heaven help her.

  His voice had taken on a cold edge that made her shiver. Once again he was the dangerous stranger in a dark alley, and she couldn't keep her mind from dwell­ing on her original fear.

  Fear for her life.

  She struggled to remain calm, to reassure herself. She had to keep a level head, be careful to say the right thing from now on. Another chance to get away would come; she only had to wait. Until then, she had to remain calm.

  Calm, calm, calm.

  But an uncontrollable sob tore from somewhere deep inside her.

  Dylan leaned over and grasped her shoulders in a gentle but firm grip. "Listen. Nobody's going to hurt you, okay?"

  How many times had he told her that? But she wanted to hear it again and again. Maybe if he said it enough she'd believe it. Maybe if he said it enough he would be­lieve it.

  "I'm just going to keep you hidden for a few days. That's all."

  Now that he was no longer talking about Sebastian, the roughness was gone from his voice. He was speaking to her like someone might speak to an upset child. But what he was telling her made no sense. If she didn't show up, wouldn't the trial simply be postponed? But if she were dead ... They wouldn't wait for a dead person.

  "Think of it as a vacation," he said.

  A vacation? Was he mad?

  Possibly. Very possibly. Heaven help her, that was what was so terrifying.

  Her stomach felt queasy, her head ached and her thoughts sped frantically along, one after the other, like a tape played at high speed.

  If only she hadn't come to Florida... If only she hadn't let Cindy talk her into going to that party. If only she'd never accepted Sebastian's offer of a ride.

  She didn't realize she was crying until Dylan gave her a small shake. "Hey, come on. Get a grip, will you?" He sounded anxious, worried.

  He could change so swiftly. One second he seemed so cold, all darkness and no light; the next second he was... different. Almost compassionate. Earlier, in the swamps, she'd sensed a wry amusement in him, and now this. She couldn't figure out who he was, what he was.

  But, she argued with herself, she couldn't let down her guard. She couldn't allow the concern she thought she detected in his gruff voice to sway her. It meant nothing coming from someone like him. Someone who had come out of the darkness the way he had.

  He was dangerous. He could change to suit the situa­tion, change in order to get what he wanted. And right now he wanted her to relax and not cause any more trou­ble.

  "Did you hear me?" He shook her again.

  She swallowed a sob and nodded, desperately wanting to believe him. But he had abducted her. That was a felony.

  The nausea she'd been fighting rose in her again, set­tling in the back of her throat.

  Maybe it was because she'd been stuffed into a trunk that smelled of tires and adhesive. Maybe it was because she was scared to death, but suddenly Elise realized she was about to be sick.

  She pushed the sweatshirt aside. With her right hand she groped for the door handle, found it and shoved. The door swung open. She lunged, only to be pulled up short by the handcuff.

  "Sick," she managed to moan, trying to tug away, metal biting into the delicate flesh of her wrist.

  A one-syllable oath erupted from beside her.

  Keys jingled. The tension on her arm slackened, and she tumbled from the car in time to take four steps, dou­ble over and throw up.

  A few moments later she became aware of hands on her waist, steadying her. Like her grandmother had done when she was a child.

  "Better?" Dylan asked, rubbing her back.

  Confused, she could
only nod and slip away from him, out of his grasp. On trembling legs, she took four wob­bly steps back to the car and collapsed in the passenger seat.

  Gum. She needed gum, or a mint. Something to get rid of the bitter taste in her mouth. "My purse," she mum­bled, feeling around the carpeted floor. She stopped, re­membering that earlier her purse had been tossed into the trunk along with her body.

  Elise took a deep breath, closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest.

  The passenger door was firmly closed. Then she heard Dylan moving around outside, toward the back of the car. The trunk opened, closed. Then he was settling himself into the driver's seat beside her. She heard a small click and opened her eyes in time to be blinded by the glare of the dome light.

  The windows were covered with steam, making the in­terior of the car seem totally isolated from the rest of the world. She looked down at herself. Her suit was a wrin­kled, burned, smudged mess. Her shoes were gone, out there somewhere with the alligators, and her nylons clung to her legs in tatters. There were mud smears on the backs of her hands. She rubbed at them, then chanced a glance at the man beside her.

  Of all the-he was digging through her purse! She couldn't stand anyone going through her purse.

  Casually, he pulled out a rat-tail comb. "Just in case you've taken any self-defense seminars." He tossed the comb on the dash. "I happen to value my eyesight."

  He shoved his hand back inside the bag. "Not that I make a habit of going through women's purses. I want to make sure you don't have a gun or a can of mace or any­thing."

  "I don't carry a gun!" How absurd.

  The pile on the dash grew. Pens, scraps of paper, re­ceipts, a brush, a notebook, wadded-up Kleenex, lip­stick. More pens, pencils, half a candy bar...

  Purses were private. He had no right.

  "I assure you, there's no need. There's nothing-"

  He pulled out a pink plastic, tube-like container, opened it and took note of the paper-wrapped tampon inside.

  Good Lord.