by Ruth Wind
He slammed backward with a roar, and even in the dark, I saw the line of blood spring open across his face. I didn't wait to see if he'd recover, but slammed him again a second time, and turned around to climb out the window.
With a roar, he grabbed for me, catching my coat as I tried to dive out the window. He was a big guy, all right, and it didn't take a lot for him to yank me upward, clear off my feet.
It took even less for him to toss me toward the wall. My shoulder slammed into the dresser and I nearly dropped the trophy. I managed to shift sideways soon enough to avoid smashing my entire face into the drawers.
I knew how to fight, thanks to a stint in a truly dangerous school in Rio when I was fifteen, where "gangs" took on an entirely new meaning. My father was at the worst of his decline that year, blaming himself for my mother's death, drinking and carousing and generally attempting self-destruction. It was very nearly successful. When he finally emerged from his insanity, he had to spend two weeks in the hospital, recovering from "exhaustion."
It very nearly killed me, as well. The neighborhood required more than a girl of fourteen is generally required to deliver. Luckily, I wasn't a quitter, and I'd at least had the advantage of living in many places, fitting into many cultures. This one was closed, but I learned enough to get by.
Tonight, I had cause to be thankful for the lessons in street fighting.
It had been a very long time, but there are things you never forget. As soon as my feet touched the floor, I curled my body and then sprang upward as he tried to grab me, and swung back with the trophy, aiming for his knee. It connected with a sound like a knife into a chicken—thunk. The man made a strangled, choking cry, and I dived for the door, pushing away from him, scrambling across the floor to get away.
With a cry, he grabbed my hair and one ankle, his enormous hand like a vise around the bones. He yanked, and I went down, flat on my belly. My chin hit the floor, slamming my teeth together. The Katerina jammed upward into my breast so hard I got tears in my eyes, but there wasn't time for weakness.
With a growl, I used the leverage of his foot on my ankle to swing around, and brought the trophy down on his head. I felt the impact through my whole arm, and this time, he collapsed.
I didn't wait to see if it lasted—I scrambled for the door, bringing my trophy weapon with me. An absurd little voice, as if it were a commercial for trophy-as-weapon, said, "It's two weapons in one—club and knife."
What more does a girl need?
At the door, I had the great good fortune to meet contestant number two, coming to the aid of his compatriot. In a flash of light from somewhere beyond—headlights?—I saw his balding head and grim, piggy eyes. I recognized the man from the rental counter at the airport. Some instinct made me head backward. He was a giant, one of those hulking, neckless guys who do very well in American football.
I had to think fast. When those girl gangs would narrow in on you, it would usually be three girls, and they'd trap you in a little alley or narrow spot where they could kick your ass without anyone seeing. The only way to survive was to either run away, or fight back as long as they were kicking you practically to death. If you submitted to the beating, they'd kill you.
That was the choice here. Even with the heavy weapon, I couldn't bring this guy down. The girl gangs usually stopped short of death, but I didn't think this guy would mind much if he left a dead body or two behind.
That left the dash.
One good thing about fighting guys versus fighting girls, though—you can always get a man to double over for a second. I scrambled backward to the bed, as if I were afraid, and when he came toward me, I swung that trophy at his trophy for all I was worth.
Bull's-eye.
He dropped and I made a break for it, dashing around him and down the hall.
Rain was pouring in the caravan through the open front door, blown by the gusts of wind onto the linoleum. Damn, Alan would be so mad at me!
Running, I grabbed my purse off the counter and looped the long strap over my head, so the bag was nestled close to my waist, securely fastened to leave my arms and hands free. Hearing someone come behind me, I didn't bother with anything else, and dashed out into the blinding rain.
My feet landed in a puddle of sucking mud, nearly taking me down. I righted my balance, yanked my right foot out of the muck, and tried to get my bearings.
There's rain, and then there's Scottish rain. This was blinding, sideways, driving rain, the misery of which one must experience at least once. I literally could not see at thing, and for a minute, couldn't even figure out where the car was parked.
I heard men, grunting, fighting nearby, perhaps. Someone shouted in a heavy Scottish accent, "Get her! She's got the fucking jewel!"
I had a second to wonder how they knew, when Luca shouted, "Sylvie, go!"
"Luca?"
"Go!"
His voice was thin, nearby, but when I whirled around, I couldn't see him at all. "Where are you?"
Then the wind took a breath, the rain started falling downward instead of sideways, and I spied the car, perfectly illuminated just long enough for me to put my head down and dash toward it, dash being hyperbole here, since my feet were squishing, sticking, slipping in the mud. I was soaked to the skin, but the rain offered as much protection for hiding me as it threw blocks in my way.
I got to the Spider, water pouring down the back of my neck, down my spine, icy cold. I scrambled for my keys, got them out and managed to get the door unlocked. Offering an apology to the car gods, I threw myself into the seats, knowing the wet would ruin the gorgeous interior. I reached behind me to close the door—
And was knocked sideways by a hammy fist with plenty of bone inside of it. The punch landed on the side of my head, and my keys went flying into the interior of the car somewhere. It felt like my head was slammed nearly off my body. Stars sparked on the edges of my right eye. For a second, I was blinking, stunned.
A gust of rain slammed into my face, driving salt water up my nose. I choked, started coughing. It shook the daze off my brain, and when the goon's hand closed around my upper arm, I was ready, shoving the sharp end of my elbow into his gut, then kicking with a backward, inexpert dodge. He shoved himself between me and the door, yanking with his Frankenstein-sized fist while I wrapped one arm around the steering column and held on. With my right elbow, I slammed backward as hard as I could. It was impossible to get leverage, and I growled in frustration. "Let me go!"
"C'mon, gerl," he said, "just let me have it and we'll be done w'ye."
I put my foot against the inside of the car and flung myself backward, hoping to break his grip. He slapped me, hard, and I tasted blood inside my mouth.
"Bastard!" With a growl, I bent over and bit down on his hand with all my might. He cried out and let go, and I shoved him backward, closed the door, and locked it. He slammed his fist into the window, and it cracked a little but didn't break. I yelped, and found myself ducking in case he punched all the way through. If anyone could, he'd be a good candidate.
He kicked the door, slammed a fist on the roof. Scrambling on the floor in the dark, my breath panting out of me in moist heat, fogging up the windows, I finally found the key on the floor of the passenger side.
Frankenstein slammed his fist into the window again, and I knew if he got to the windshield, I'd be in big trouble. Even if he didn't break it, he could easily damage it so badly I wouldn't be able to see out. With shaking hands, I got the key in the ignition and started the car. The engine caught with a roar. The sound steadied me, the feel of the wheel, the seat, the machine all around me. I flung the car into Reverse, away from him, took one second to fasten the seat belt, then slammed the car into gear and headed up the narrow spit of gravel to the main road.
Such as it was—a narrow ribbon of pavement circling the edge of the hills, with cliffs on the left, plunging down the rocks to ocean below, the fields and hills to the right, black and unfathomable in the darkness. It wound and loop
ed up the west coast, this road, climbing and descending in ways that could be dizzying under the best of circumstances.
And these were hardly ideal circumstances. Even I was intimidated. The rain came over the car in waves, as if the ocean itself had become airborne. It was only a little better than being out on my own feet, because at least the windshield had wipers to give me a glimpse now and then of the road, and the headlights pierced the grim weather a hint.
I headed north, with the eventual goal of Troon, not far north of Ayr. A part of me knew I was headed for Androssan, though I had no hope I'd get that far on such a grim night. It was about ten kilometers or so to Alloway and then Ayr, with a string of villages that would give some light, anyway. If I could get that far, maybe to a small stretch of area that had a few lights and population, maybe I could wait out the rest of the storm.
No one appeared to be behind me. It was only the dark and the rain and me in the car, alone in the gruesome weather. Wind buffeted the little vehicle. I smelled the ocean, sharp and strong. I straightened in my seat, shook off the cold as the heater started to pump out warm air, and settled myself in to drive seriously.
I turned on the radio, without much hope of a signal, but a mournful Celtic tune came out of the speakers. It was company of a sort. Maybe we'd get some upbeat drums or fiddles after a time, rather than just grim tales of disaster and despair and love gone wrong.
What was it about Gaelic folk songs, anyway? I let my mind turn it over—something to think about besides the very real possibility of plunging over a cliff to my death in an Alfa Romeo with a priceless jewel tucked in my bra. I thought of the quote from Yeats: "Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy." Certainly seemed to hold true of Scots, as well. All that drama and tragedy sung in the old songs.
A gust of wind caught the car and I swerved to correct. Tires hit the wet road just right, and the wind caught the tail of the car, and I was suddenly whipping around in a circle on the narrow, cliffside road, the car completely out of control.
Chapter 11
Diamonds were also used as a poison. The stones were ground to a powder and put into the enemy's food and drink. Many prominent people's deaths were attributed to diamond poisoning.
—Margaret Odrowaz-Sypniewski, B.F.A.
It happened so fast, I hardly had time to do the usual inward screech—ay yi yi yi yi!—before instinct kicked in.
Never lose your head, my father's voice said. Steel nerves, they said of him, and the sound of his voice in my mind steadied me. He used to take me to safe places where he'd lead me to deliberately losing control of the car, so I would learn how it felt, and would know, in the very cells of my body, how to regain control.
Letting go of my high, taut nerves, I fell into the feeling of the car itself, the sensation of the frame around me, the tires on the road, the engine humming through the machinery of the car. My hands and arms, my feet and legs, my eyes, my body, became an extension of the vehicle. I downshifted and steered into the spin, bringing it down from the dizzying height of the punishing, whipping turns. As long as I didn't go over the edge, everything should be okay.
The car slammed into the hillside, hard enough to jolt my teeth, but it was finally enough to stop the spin. I let go of my breath, listened to the sound of the car around me. For a minute, I paused, feeling the heat of fear leak out of my lungs, the cold clamminess of certain death ease away from my forehead.
Inexplicably, I thought of my cat, Michael. A gigantic, silvery, fluffy Siamese mix, he was the opposite of the aloof and complaining cat of legend. He loved me, followed me from room to room. Sulked when I took out my suitcase to go away somewhere. I'd left him with my best friend, Janine, and I was sure she was taking good care of him, but it hurt me to imagine how he'd feel if something happened to me.
It made me furious, suddenly. How had I ended up in this mess, with Frankenstein's thugs on my tail on a very bad night in the west of Scotland?
The answer, as it so often was, couldn't be blamed on anything but me running away from my life. Running from San Francisco and my ex-husband, who was quickly marrying someone else, before even a full year had elapsed. Marrying money, which is what he'd thought he was doing with me. A fair assumption, since my father is so rich. And it's not like I'm poor or even struggling, but my father spends a lot, spends fast and furiously and I'm not likely to have much of an inheritance unless he dies early before he has a chance to spend it all. And only then if the wife-of-the-moment doesn't have some great team of lawyers.
It's always humiliating to lose out to another woman, but there's nothing quite like realizing you were being used. Paul tried to tell me, too, which is why I still haven't spoken to him until now. He pointed out, quite accurately, that my ex was a gold digger. We had a huge fight; I kicked him out of my wedding rehearsal, and in a snit, he flew back to Paris that night, missing my wedding entirely.
Which wounded me more than his eventually correct assumptions that Timothy was wrong for me.
Staring now into the dark, with the sound of the sea crashing to rocks somewhere not very far away, our fight suddenly seemed absurd. He'd tried to contact me several times, but I'd steadfastly avoided him.
Why had I felt so betrayed?
The answer, lurking somewhere in my memories of Arran, suddenly felt too dangerous. The one thing I most certainly did not need was two-bit psychology. I had enough problems.
Beneath me, the engine still rumbled quietly, apparently unhurt. The weather seemed to be easing. I realized I'd been staring out the windshield, waiting for my heart to slow down, and I could actually see out for most of the swipe of the wipers.
Improvement, anyway.
On such a grim night, I wasn't terribly worried about traffic coming up on me one direction or the other, but it was better to get moving anyway. I turned the car around and headed, at a moderate pace, toward the north once again. It wasn't great, but it was a lot better. The car seemed to be all right, despite the bumps and bangs she'd taken the past hour.
I patted the dashboard. "Sorry, baby. You deserved better."
In my coat pocket, my phone suddenly started to ring. I grabbed it and pushed the speaker function. "Make it quick, it's pissing rain and I'm driving."
Paul's voice came through, staticky, but audible. "Sylvie, is Luca with you?"
"What if I said he's right here beside me?"
"Stop playing games. Is he or not?"
I flushed. "Not. Long story."
"He is very dangerous, Sylvie."
"Funny, he says the same thing about you."
"I will admit this was not the most straightforward way of attaining a prize," he said. "But you know I am not a killer."
"Neither is Luca."
"Is that what he told you? Who do you think killed Gunnarsson?"
Damn. I'd bought Luca's story, hadn't I? My head ached with the tangled levels of play at work here. "I don't know."
"Sylvie, I know he is the kind of man who makes young women swoon. But be very wary."
"I am, all right? He's not with me."
"I want to help you, Sylvie. Where can I meet you?"
The car shivered on a rocket of rain. "Hold on," I said, and put my concentration on navigating a steep curve. At least the road was heading away from the very edge of the cliffs. "I'm taking the Katerina to the police."
"Are you? Then why are you driving all over the country tonight?"
"I got distracted," I said, and it was true. It was also very plain that exactly what I needed to do was get the Katerina to the Glasgow police. "I'm going to Glasgow now."
Silence met that statement. "You have her?"
"Yes."
"You know it would mean a great deal to me to hold her for only a moment. Will you give me that chance, Sylvie? I will not ask you to do anything else. Just let me see her, touch her. One hour."
I made a skeptical noise. "Please. You won't hold her for an hour. You'll tak
e off and I won't do anything because you know—"
"What? I know what, Sylvie? Hmm?"
"Stop it," I said sharply. "Luca underestimated me because he doesn't know me. You know better than that. Don't try the charming routine, all right?"
Surprisingly, he laughed. The sound was wildly distracting, and I had to take a breath to keep my attention on the road. Just ahead was a wide spot for letting faster cars pass and I pulled into it so I could talk without killing myself. "I don't have a lot of time, Paul. There's a good chance I'm being followed, and I need to get to Glasgow before I get killed by thugs."
"What are you talking about? What thugs?"
"I don't know. Three guys followed me—or Luca—to my cousin's holiday caravan. You remember Alan McPheator, don't you?"
"Of course. But who were the men who followed you?"
"I don't know, Paul! They broke in, and I took off." The reality of this whole situation was beginning to annoy me, and now that I was away from the heady presence of Luca's luscious voice and beautiful eyes, I no longer felt any conflict. For lots of reasons, the least of which was my career reputation, I had to get the Katerina to the inspector in Glasgow. "Look, I'll call you later, all right?"
"Sylvie," he said, and there was command in the word. "Will you let me see it? One hour, I promise you."
"What will that do, Paul? Except frustrate you?"
"You know better. It will please me. I will not ask you to compromise your values. I will not stand in your way if you must take it to the police. It is only that I have gone to a great deal of trouble to find this gem, and I only wish…. the intimacy of holding it, seeing it. I know you understand that."
A thousand things were pounding through me—Luca's curls and smell of oranges, my reputation, hanging now by a very slim thread indeed, the lingering low roar of airplane engines that seemed to always take a day or two to go away.
