Moonlight Lady

by Barbara Faith

  He turned away, and the other man stayed. She could see him through the trees, gun leveled as he turned and came toward where they were hidden.

  Sam shoved her down. She gave one fleeting thought to her new white suit and hugged the ground.

  “Did you find her yet?” Reitman called down from above.

  “No,” Benjamin shouted back.

  “Joseph and Stanley are coming down.” Fear and urgency raised Reitman’s voice to a hysterical pitch. “You’ve got to find her!”

  Other footsteps came crashing through the underbrush. Sam’s hand was on her back, holding her still. She heard the hushed voices, steps close by. Steps receding, far enough away so that she could whisper, “Sam, there’s a man up there....” She struggled for breath. “His—his name is Montoya.”

  “Montoya’s up there?” He raised himself, looking at her, his face twisted with anger. “So why’d you run away, Lisa?” he whispered. “Things go bad? Your take not big enough?”

  She stared up at him, not understanding. “What? What?”

  “Don’t play dumb. If you want me to help you, now’s the time to tell the truth.”

  She tried to struggle away from him, but he held her pinned to the ground, his body half over hers. He could hear the voices of the men who were after her, searching in the other direction now.

  “Tell me,” he rasped. “Tell me or so help me God...”

  In the shadowed moonlight that slanted through the trees, he saw the fear in her eyes, the bewilderment.

  “Dammit, Lisa. Tell me the truth.”

  “His picture...” Almost incoherent with fear of the men who were looking for her, and of Sam, she said, “In the newspaper...I saw his picture in the Miami Herald, on the front page, when he—when he was arrested. He’s—he’s wanted for murder, and Howard—Howard is mixed up with him. I heard them talking and then I ran.” Her eyes wide with shock, she looked up at Sam. “My God,” she whispered. “You think—you think I’m—”

  “Keep quiet.”

  Montoya’s voice called from above, “We’re leaving. Joshua, you stay. Benj and the rest of you, come on.”

  There was the clatter of footsteps running up the rickety stairs.

  Sam scrambled to his feet. He couldn’t let Montoya get away, couldn’t lose him. “Come on,” he said to Lisa, pulling her up beside him.

  Her anger almost overcame her fear. “You thought I was mixed up with those people. You thought—”

  “Shut up,” he growled.

  “No!” Raising her voice, so furious she wanted to strike out at him, she cried, “No!”

  A gun exploded. A bullet whistled over their heads. Sam shoved her down, drew his own gun, crouched low. Lisa looked up, saw the Jamaican at the same time Sam did. The Jamaican swung around, gun raised to fire. Sam hit him hard with the butt of his weapon and he fell without a sound.

  Sam grabbed his ankles and pulled him farther into the bushes, then yanked a piece of hanging vine off a tree and quickly tied the man’s arms and legs together behind his back. “Come on,” he said to Lisa.

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “Oh yes, you are.”

  He heard the sound of a motor starting up. A cry,“¡Vamonos!”

  Dammit to hell, Montoya was getting away! Sam grabbed Lisa’s wrist and started running with her. She tried to get away from him and he turned on her, furious because there might still be some of Montoya’s men around. He didn’t have any choice; he couldn’t leave her here.

  “I don’t have time to argue with you,” he said between clenched teeth. “You’re coming with me.” Before she could answer, he started running again, pulling her behind him. She tried to get away, but he wouldn’t let her go. He ran with her, slipping and sliding down the side of the mountain. She stumbled and fell. He pulled her to her feet and kept running, ignoring her protests. Only one thought raged through his mind: he had to get Montoya. Get him before he slipped away.

  It started to rain. The ground was wet. Lisa said, “Wait. Wait, I...”

  He paid no attention. They broke out of the underbrush, cut across a path and ran into the edge of trees. His motorcycle was there. He got on, pulled her up behind him, said, “Hang on,” and zoomed out of the forest.

  She hung on because she didn’t have any choice, because she was stunned by what had happened, terrified. At the same time she wondered what in God’s name she was doing here.

  The moon was obscured by clouds. In the darkness Lisa could barely discern the overhang of trees, the long tentacles of vines that swept down, threatening to ensnare them. Branches and leaves slapped against their faces; the rain almost blinded them. This was little more than a rutted path. How could Sam see where he was going? Where was he going? Dear God, this was so dangerous, so frightening.

  He whipped out onto what looked like the road she’d been on with Howard. Peering ahead over his shoulder, she saw the red taillights of a car.

  Sam hit the accelerator. She pushed her head against his back and tightened her arms around his waist. What would he do when he reached the black sedan? How many men were in the car? Montoya, Reitman, the waiter Benjamin. How many more of them against Sam on an unprotected motorcycle?

  The rain came harder, pelting down on them. Wet hair was plastered to her face and she rubbed against Sam’s back, trying to get it out of her face so she could see.

  He hit a thick patch of dirt, skidded to the side, fought for balance, then righted the motorcycle and sped on. They were headed into the mountains, barreling around curve after curve. She was scared to death, but there was nothing to do except hang on. Automatically she leaned when Sam leaned, and prayed like she had never prayed before.

  She had no idea how long they’d been riding. She was tired, wind-whipped, windblown. The white suit was soaked through and she was cold. It had been warm when she’d started out tonight, but it wasn’t warm now and her hands were cold. She wanted to beg Sam to stop, but knew he wouldn’t as long as he could see the red taillights.

  She looked around Sam’s shoulder and saw ahead the lights of a village—a few houses, nothing else. A dog barked. The black car sped on. The red taillights disappeared around a curve in the road. She wanted to tell Sam to slow down, but knew he wouldn’t. The motorcycle bumped, speeding full-out, onto the rutted street of the village. They raced through it, left it behind. Rounded a curve. Suddenly a black shape loomed in front of them.

  She screamed.

  Sam veered the motorcycle to one side and shot into a field. She hid her head against his back, felt his muscles contract as he fought for control. The motorcycle skidded and she knew they were going to crash.

  As though she’d been shot out of a cannon, Lisa flew off, sailed through the air for a split second, then hit the muddy ground fanny first, rolled and came to a stop facedown.

  Except for the whir of the still-spinning wheels, there was silence.

  “Lisa?” Sam was on his hands and knees beside her. “Lisa?”

  She rolled onto her back.

  “Are you all right?”

  She sat up, dazed. Mud squished through her fingers. She’d lost a shoe.

  “Are you all right?” he asked again.

  “I—I think so. What did we hit?”

  “We didn’t hit anything. A cow stepped out in front of the motorcycle. I swerved to miss it.”

  “You swerved all right.” He helped her up. She felt dizzy, disoriented. “I lost my shoe,” she said.

  The motorcycle was on its side in the mud. Sam heaved it up and looked it over.

  “It’s too dark to see if anything’s broken,” he said. “I’ll have to take it back to the village and check it out in the daylight.” He propped it up and went looking for her shoe. Found it hanging from the branch of a bush.

  “It’s wet,” he said when he handed it to her.

  “Everything’s wet.” She put it on. “Are you all right?”

  “Couple of bruises. Nothing serious. I’m sorry we too
k a spill. Lucky we’re near a village.”

  It was raining. She was covered with mud from one end to the other. Her shoes were ruined and so was her suit. And he had the nerve to say they were lucky.

  She dragged the hair out of her eyes and glared at him through the rain. He ignored the look. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

  He wheeled the motorcycle; she trotted alongside him. And cursed the day she’d come to Jamaica.

  He knocked at the first house they came to. A minute or two passed before somebody called out, “What you want?”

  “We’ve had an accident,” Sam said. The door opened an inch or two and a man, sleepy-eyed, wearing only undershorts, peered out. He opened the door a little wider. When he saw the motorcycle, he said, “What happened?”

  “A cow ran across the road.”

  A woman appeared behind the man. “A cow?” she said. “Oh, Lord! Lord! It be the calf. I know it be the calf.” Her voice rose. “Did you see his eyes? Eyes like balls of fire?” And without waiting for a reply, she put her hands to her head, moaning, “He be back again, bringing the evil with him.”

  “You hush that talk,” her husband said.

  “But he’s here,” she wailed. “He turn his eyes on them and made them have the accident.”

  “You being silly. Now get out of here and go back to bed ‘fore I swat you good.”

  She peered around the man. “You be careful,” she whispered to Sam. “Night like this, with the devil cow wanderin’, there be duppies, too. Get you if you don’t be watching.”

  The man pulled her back and gave her a shove. “Git!” he said. And to Sam, “Don’t pay her no mind. She be talking about duppies all the time.”

  Duppies? Lisa looked behind her, then moved farther up the steps, closer to Sam.

  “We can’t go on tonight,” Sam said. “Is there a hotel in town?”

  “There be no hotel, sir, but Miss Rebecca Adams...” He pointed down the street. “She be living two houses down. She rents rooms. You go right on down there. This be a mighty bad night to be out.”

  Guess so, Lisa almost said. Cows with balls of fire for eyes, duppies—whatever they were, rain and mud and maybe a broken motorcycle.

  Sam thanked the man and they stepped off the porch back into the rain. Two houses down they stopped before a house that was bigger than the man’s had been, but even more ramshackle. “The Jamaica Hilton,” Sam said. He propped the motorcycle against the porch railing, then climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.

  Five minutes went by before it was opened. A woman wearing a wraparound housecoat and a turban and holding a lantern above her head peered out.

  “What you be wanting?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Adams?” Sam asked. “We’ve had an accident. The gentleman two doors down said that you sometimes rent a room.”

  She looked past him to Lisa who was by the cycle. “I only got one to rent. She be your wife?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rebecca Adams stood aside and motioned to Lisa. “You be looking like a drowned muskrat,” she said as Lisa drew near. “Gotta get outta those clothes before you be catching your death.” She motioned toward the motorcycle. “You got a suitcase on that contraption?”

  Sam shook his head. “‘Fraid not.”

  “Then I’ll be giving the lady something of mine. Don’t have nothing for you, mister. But best take off your clothes anyway.” She chuckled. “Being as you’re married I don’t guess that matter much.”

  “Married?” Lisa looked at the woman, then at Sam.

  “Three years last week,” he said.

  Lisa opened her mouth to say something, then clamped it shut when the other woman said, “This way,” and led them through a small living room and down a narrow hallway. She stopped in front of an open door. “There’s a shower out back, next to the outhouse,” she told them. To Lisa, she added, “I’ll bring you a couple of towels and something to put on after you shower.”

  She went into the room and told Sam to hold her lantern while she lit the one on the dresser. When it was lit, Lisa looked around. There was a cement floor, a bed and the dresser. Nothing else. Not even a chair. She glanced at Sam, saw him looking at the bed, and frowned. If he thought he was going to sleep here, he had another think coming!

  Rebecca went out and returned in a moment with two thin towels, a minuscule bar of soap and a Mother Hubbard housecoat for Lisa. “The rain be stopping. You go on back now and take your shower, missus.”

  Lisa took the things the woman handed her, said, “Thank you,” and started out of the room.

  “Better take a flashlight,” Sam said, and took one out of his pocket.

  She nodded her thanks, followed the woman’s “That way,” and went through the house into the backyard. The shower was a boxlike contraption. There was an open shed next to it. She put the Mother Hubbard-style dress on the bench there and stepped into the shower clothes and all, because it seemed simpler to wash the mud off them that way. She pulled the chain to release the water, and when she thought her clothes were reasonably clean, she stripped and, naked, reached out and threw them over the bench.

  Back in the shower, she gave the chain another pull and washed her hair. When she finished, she dried herself with the thin towel, reached out for the Mother Hubbard, put it on and, flashlight in hand, hurried back to the house.

  Sam was standing in the middle of the room. He’d stripped down to his briefs. The rest of his clothes were rolled into a bundle on the floor. Lisa stared at him, horrified. “What do you think you’re doing?” she said indignantly.

  “Trying not to catch pneumonia.” He looked her up and down. “Some outfit,” he said.

  She glared at him, handed him what was left of the soap and turned her back.

  “The flashlight,” he said.

  She gave it to him and he started out of the room. At the door, he turned back and said, “Take whichever side of the bed you want,” and before she could answer, went out and closed the door.

  Damn the man! If he thought for one minute he was going to sleep in the same bed with her, he had better think again. On the other hand... She looked around the room. There simply wasn’t any other place to sleep except on the cement floor. Maybe if he put a blanket down... But there wasn’t a blanket on the bed, only a thin cotton bedspread and a sheet.

  Muttering under her breath that if she ever got out of here she’d never leave Miami again, Lisa took the comb out of her purse and combed the snarls from her hair. Then she got into the bed and pulled the sheet over her.

  Twenty minutes later Sam came in. She peeked at him through half-closed eyes. He had the wet towel wrapped around his waist, but as she watched, he took it off. Her eyes flew open. “What do you think you’re doing?” she cried.

  He reached for the bedspread and wrapped it around himself, toga-style. “Going to bed.” He started to turn off the lantern, but she said, “Leave it on.”

  He almost smiled. “You want to keep an eye on me?” he asked, and when she didn’t answer, he turned the lamp lower, but not off. He crossed the dimly lit room and, pulling back the sheet, got in beside her.

  Lisa turned on her side, as far away from him as she could manage in the narrow bed. This was too impossible, too incredible. She was somewhere in the middle of Jamaica in bed with a man she’d known for less than a week, a man who thought she was mixed up in something terrible. The more she thought about it, the madder she got. She couldn’t sleep and it made her angry when she heard his even breathing to know that he could.

  She sat up and, reaching over, poked him in the chest. “Wake up,” she said.

  “Wha...?” he mumbled. “Wazza matter?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  He swore. “I’m sleeping. Can’t it wait?”

  “No, it can’t. I want to know what this is all about and I want to know now.”

  He swore again and sat up. “All right. I’m awake. Shoot.”

  “I�
�d like to.” She shifted so she faced him. “I want to know what you meant back there at the restaurant when you asked me about my take. My take of what? What were you talking about?”

  “You knew who Montoya was,” he said uncomfortably.

  “Everybody knows who Montoya is if they’re able to read a newspaper. He’s been accused of murder and dealing drugs. He’s a wanted criminal. A...” She stared at Sam. “My God,” she said. “You think I’m mixed up with him. With some kind of a drug deal. Drugs!” She stared at him, horrified. “That’s why you’ve paid attention to me, romanced me.” She swallowed hard. “That’s why you kissed me.”

  “Hang on a minute. I—”

  “Hang on! Hang on? I’d like to smack you!”

  “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? We know that Reitman’s involved and—”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “The Jamaican police.”

  “So they’re after me, too.”

  “Not after you. Not exactly. But they know who you are. They know Philip is a friend of Reitman’s.” He sounded defensive. “Both you and Reitman are from Miami. You come to Jamaica, he shows up a couple of days later, and right away you’re buddy-buddy.”

  “So they thought—you thought that because I’d known him in Miami, I was mixed up in this—this whatever it is?”

  “Lisa, I—”

  “Is Howard a part of it?”

  “Yeah. So we thought...” He was beginning to feel ashamed of himself. “We thought you were in on what’s going down.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s better you don’t know.”

  “Oh, really? Because of your suspicions I’m in this up to my eyeballs, riding on the back of that damn motorcycle with you, landing in a mud puddle with you, here in the middle of Jamaica with you. In bed with you!”

  That struck him as funny and he made the mistake of laughing. When he did, she smacked him.

  The blow landed on his arm. He ducked when he saw another one coming and grabbed her wrists. “Dammit, that hurt,” he said.

  “I hope so!” This was the first time in her life she’d ever fought back. She’d been too terrified of her father, too intimidated by Philip. But now she was angry enough to let loose the pent-up rage she’d held in for so long.