William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

"No calls," said Scanlan. And then: "Why are you taking your pistol into the bathroom with you?"

  "Marine Officer Candidate School," Welsh said sheepishly. "You never separate yourself from your weapon because, the way life works, whenever you don't have it with you is when you'll need it."

  He set the pistol on the toilet tank and cranked on the shower. With any luck the hotel had a little hot water left.

  Welsh was soaping himself up when he heard the bathroom door open. She must have forgotten something.

  Then the curtain opened and Margaret Scanlan stepped naked into the shower with him. Welsh was so utterly stunned that he almost swallowed his tongue. He opened his mouth and couldn't get any sound to come out.

  "I just didn't feel clean enough," Scanlan announced calmly. "Hope you don't mind."

  Welsh blinked hard, the way fighter pilots pulling a lot of Gs do to keep from passing out. He decided that saying absolutely anything right then would be unforgivably stupid. Instead, he very gently put his arms around her waist, drew her close, and kissed her deeply. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  It went on for some time, and Welsh thought he felt his brain melting. He was leaning against the back of the shower, her weight on him and the water beating down. When Scanlan released his tongue, he said, "I have to warn you. I'm very dirty."

  She smiled tike the Mona Lisa. "I'm counting on it."

  They continued their embrace. One of Scanlan's thighs moved slowly between his. Welsh was massaging her neck with one hand and lightly stroking the small of her back with the other, the water lubricating their contact.

  They laughed softly whenever their lack of sexual familiarity broke up the rhythm of the kissing. Scanlan took up the soap and began lathering him up, a little too vigorously from his perspective.

  Welsh was tracing small wet circles around her breasts. "Easy there, ma'am. I've been in the jungle a long time."

  "We wouldn't want the shower to be over while you're still dirty," she said, her breath running short.

  Welsh paused to nuzzle her neck, then claimed the soap and dropped to his knees. "Do you usually wash from the top down, or the bottom up?"

  Perhaps it was the location of his head, but every word he said made her jump. "I usually start at the top, but since you're already down there..."

  Without moving his head, very much that is, Welsh began to slowly soap her calves.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Welsh woke up the next morning feeling as if he'd been beaten with a baseball bat, but pleasantly so. He had woken up, so even though it seemed unlikely, he must have gotten some sleep.

  Scanlan was sitting naked at the desk, looking through the newspaper. Welsh tried to raise himself off the bed, and his vertebrae popped like castanets. He groaned and fell back.

  Scanlan bounced up, leaped onto the bed, and landed on top of him. Welsh wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that was both genuine affection and an attempt to minimize injury. He'd encountered this phenomena before. After making love all night she was full of piss and vinegar, ready to go out and hang new gutters on the hotel. He, on the other hand, felt as if it was going to take a couple of bellboys and a hand truck just to get him to the bathroom.

  Scanlan kissed him and said, "Good morning."

  "Good morning," Welsh replied. She shifted her weight on him, and he groaned again.

  "Are you all right?" she asked, patting his chest sympathetically, as if he were damaged goods.

  "I'm ruined," he declared with a smile. "But in a good cause. As far as epics go, last night made the Odyssey seem like a road trip to the nearest Wal-Mart."

  Scanlan laughed so hard she fell off him. Welsh found the strength to lunge over and plant a kiss on one buttock.

  That warmed up his muscles to the point where he felt limited movement might be safe. He limped across the room to visit the bathroom and brush his teeth.

  When he returned he crawled back on the bed and kissed her again.

  She ran her hand through his hair. "I know what you want to ask me, but won't."

  "What's that?"

  "Why I jumped your bones in the shower."

  "Sure, go ahead and objectify me," Welsh exclaimed in mock dismay. "Like I was a piece of meat or something."

  She smiled and tugged on his hair in reproach. "A woman knows when a man finds her attractive. I was ready to handle that at all the worst times, but you were always very proper and gallant."

  "Thanks. You make me sound like a real mouse."

  Scanlan yanked his hair again. "No, it was the right thing to do. And you've done everything exactly right. And unless someone forces you to be otherwise, you're very gentle and sweet."

  "Sweet?" Welsh said skeptically, interrupting her.

  She kissed him hard and nibbled his lower lip on the way out. "Yes, very sweet. A lot of men try to act dangerous. You don't. But you're the most dangerous man I've ever met."

  "Strictly by necessity. After all, look how dangerous you've become."

  "The attraction was mutual, and this seemed as good a time as any. I hope you weren't shocked."

  "No, actually, I was aroused. I'd been thinking along similar lines, though I have to admit nothing so spectacularly direct. But I knew that while we were in the jungle sex would be the last thing on your mind."

  "Of course, it was so hot and filthy. Didn't you feel the same way?"

  "Oh, no. Guys can get horny standing in a pile of garbage."

  Scanlan shook her head fondly.

  Welsh lay back on the pillow with his forearms over his eyes. "I feel so used."

  "I'm sure you're already over it."

  They laughed together, and kissed again. She laid her head on his chest, and he put his arms around her again.

  "You're a very strange man, Mr. Welsh, and I'm very glad I met you."

  "The feeling is mutual, Ms. Scanlan." Then Welsh found himself kissing the pillow as she sprang out of his embrace.

  "We have to get moving and make arrangements to get out of here," she said.

  "This is payback for the jungle, right?" Welsh said into the pillow. "I knew it would happen sooner or later."

  "I'll go down and see about the plane tickets. You try and get your strength back." She slapped him on the fanny and got dressed.

  "I knew this was going to happen," Welsh repeated into the pillow.

  Scanlan took the elevator down to the lobby, to the little travel agency office there. She had her story ready. She needed two one-way tickets to Mexico City, the first available flight out. Some friends were sick, the vacation had to be cut short. The credit cards were maxed out, so she had to pay in cash. There was no problem. And dollars were accepted everywhere in Cancun.

  When Scanlan returned to the room with the tickets, Welsh was showered, dressed, and packed.

  The desk had an orange and beige Transporte Terrestre airport van waiting outside for them.

  The international airport was south of the city. Welsh persuaded the driver to make a brief stop near a secluded stretch of beach. He ran down to the water and scattered a paper bag full of pistol and suppressor parts and bullets into the surf. Then they continued on to the airport.

  The jet took off on schedule, and as it gained altitude over the pure blue ocean, the knot in Welsh's stomach began to straighten out. As soon as the seat-belt sign went off, a pair of screaming children began running up and down the aisle, watched by smiling indulgent adults.

  "Too bad you threw the guns away," Scanlan murmured in his ear.

  He almost came out then and there and told her he loved her. But he didn't have the guts. Physical courage was easy. He pretended to doze off.

  All of a sudden they were moving with unimaginable speed compared to the previous week and a half on the run.

  When they landed at Mexico City, Welsh went into the men's room and shaved off his beard, leaving behind only a vacation mustache. While he was doing that Scanlan did some comparison pricing before going to the airport bank to
change sufficient dollars into pesos. Then she purchased two more tickets.

  By late afternoon they touched down in Tijuana, just across the border from the United States of America.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  In the Tijuana terminal they dumped their duffels in an airport locker and tossed the key into a trash can. American citizens crossing the border for a day didn't usually return to the U.S. carrying suitcases. At least not if they wanted to avoid being examined by Customs.

  Now unencumbered, they left the terminal and hailed a cab. "San Ysidro," Welsh said to the driver. It took them a minute to haggle over the price of the ride.

  Welsh had the driver stop a short distance from the San Ysidro border crossing. It was a sandstone-colored building on a palm-tree-lined road. The pedestrian crossing was a bridge over the traffic gates.

  As soon as she saw the building, Scanlan grabbed hold of his arm. "I'm having second thoughts. Are you sure it's such a great idea to cross the legitimate way?"

  "Maggie, this is the U.S. border, not the Iron Curtain. We don't need to work up any James Bond scenarios. Besides, it gets damn cold sneaking around the desert at night, and you never know who you might bump into."

  "Okay, okay."

  They started walking. Welsh said, "Don't worry, this is the last hurdle."

  "What?"

  "Okay, the last big one."

  "That's more like it. I think I've got my courage back up; how are you feeling?"

  "I think I've been scared shitless so much lately that I'm not noticing it anymore."

  They fell in at the rear of a fairly long queue waiting in the Nothing to Declare line. The crossing had all the charm of a cattle chute; just the United States of America's way of saying that no one really asked you to come.

  Scanlan slung the shoulder bag casually under her arm. They chatted casually, in good American English, a clean-cut young couple wondering if they'd get back to San Diego in time to make their dinner reservations. The line moved steadily forward.

  They approached the uniformed agent. "Are you folks American citizens?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir," Welsh replied, displaying the first page of his passport.

  "Thank you," the agent replied, glancing at it. "Did you make any purchases in Tijuana, ma'am?" he asked Scanlan.

  "No, I didn't," she said, smiling brightly and showing her passport. "I really wanted to get one of those stuffed armadillos, but my boyfriend talked me out of it. He said I ought to…"

  Welsh nearly swallowed his tongue.

  "Thank you," the agent said, probably wanting to forestall a lengthy conversation.

  "Thank you so much," said Scanlan. She took Welsh's arm, and had to give it a little tug to get him moving toward the turnstile. Then they passed through it, into the United States of America.

  Outside the building they kept walking, as if not knowing what else to do.

  "I don't believe it," Scanlan whispered. "I feel like crying."

  Welsh was breathing normally for the first time in several minutes. "I've really got to hand it to you, Maggie, you've got solid-brass balls. When you started talking about freaking armadillos I almost blacked out."

  "It seemed like the thing to do at the time," she said sweetly.

  "You shouldn't put that kind of stress on my adrenal gland."

  "Oh, don't be such a worrywart." Welsh wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.

  "Now why did you do that?" she asked, smiling.

  "Well, I didn't think it would be a good idea to kiss the ground."

  She hit him on the chest. "You know, I never realized the border was so open," she exclaimed, just like an aggrieved taxpayer. "We could have been international terrorists."

  "Now, Maggie, don't you think it's just a little ungrateful to complain about something so damn convenient?"

  "I suppose you're right."

  A hundred feet from the border they climbed aboard the San Diego Trolley, which left for the city every fifteen minutes.

  Scanlan nestled up against Welsh and used him as a pillow. "What's next on the agenda?"

  Welsh put his arm around her. "A couple of bus tickets to L.A., and a pizza."

  She looked up at him. "How did you know I wanted a pizza more than anything?"

  "Are you kidding? It was written all over your face. Besides, after I pay for the bus tickets that's all we can afford."

  "What do you like on your pizza?"

  "Everything or nothing; I'm easy."

  "Hmmm. Let me ask you something. Do you like anchovies? Careful now, this is one of those crucial relationship questions."

  "I know, I know," said Welsh, with appropriate gravity. "Now, I realize this is a minority viewpoint, but the answer is yes."

  "Damn. I do too. I've always relied on them to keep other people away from my pizza."

  "That's just another risk you're going to have to take."

  "Are you going to call your friend when we get to San Diego?"

  Welsh nodded. "I know he'll come through; he's an old Marine Corps buddy. I just hope he's home."

  At the Santa Fe Depot in San Diego, Welsh went off to make a telephone call and returned smiling. "Our luck is holding up just fine," he said.

  A cab driver took them to a pizza place he personally recommended. Welsh and Scanlan celebrated their safe return to the United States with a pizza with everything on it, including anchovies, and a couple of beers. Then they caught a bus to Los Angeles.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  "At first the newspapers and TV said you'd been kidnapped," said Nelson Albertson as they relaxed over drinks in the living room of his apartment in Studio City. "They had all these pictures of your car burned to a crisp, Guatemalan soldiers and police running around saying you'd been ambushed by guerrillas. The Ambassador made sure everyone knew he was awfully sorry, and that it wasn't his fault. Back here, your Senator threw himself in front of the cameras to say what a great guy and a dedicated son of a bitch you were. It was all very touching."

  "You know," Welsh mused, "I always had the feeling that a lot of people would like me better if I was dead."

  "And rightly so," Albertson replied. He was a native Californian madman with brown hair and classic Celtic features. Welsh could hardly recall him without a smile on his face, even when complaining about the ways of the Marine Corps, which he'd done with both operatic brilliance and no regard for who in authority might be listening. The classic aviator, who put up with the military in exchange for those glorious times the canopy snapped shut and everyone left him alone to fly the jet.

  "Thanks, Nelson," said Welsh. "But I can see why people would buy the story. It does look like we were stopped on the road and grabbed, then the bad guys pushed the jeep down the hill and torched it."

  Albertson leaned over to talk to Scanlan. "When there were no ransom demands, everyone figured you were dead. Our friends called to cry about it, but I told them not to bother. Being dead would be too easy for Rich. No, he'd have to walk his butt out of the jungle. So my phone rings, and there's Rich going, 'Hey, Nelson, come pick me up at the bus station.' You're such a dick," he said to Welsh.

  "I know," Welsh replied. "But thanks for the ride anyway."

  "It was worth it just to hear the story."

  "Rich tells me you fly for the airlines," Scanlan said.

  "Yeah. The plane pretty much flies itself, but when you tell the attendant you're too cold, I turn up the heat. Then ten minutes later when you're too hot, I turn up the air. Then when you complain it's too cold again, I snap out and start screaming get off my back."

  "The way you describe it, I can almost feel the romance of flight," said Welsh.

  Nelson's wife Donna, a beautiful, willowy strawberry blonde, had been listening tolerantly to the exchange. "This is the usual Nelson and Rich Show, if you hadn't guessed," she told Scanlan.

  A copper-colored cat stopped the conversation by springing up onto the couch, settling in Welsh's lap, and immediately falling asleep. The exp
ression on Welsh's face caused Nelson to break up in the middle of a slug of beer. He left the room before it began spewing from his nose.

  "Cats instinctively know I don't care for them," said Welsh. "They do this just to screw with me." He turned to Donna. "Do you still have the other one?"

  "Nickels is around somewhere," said Donna.

  "You'll never see it," said Nelson, returning from the kitchen. "Animal's seriously neurotic, hides from strangers. Pretty amazing actually, when you consider it's the size of a small bear. A small fat bear."

  "We've talked about this," Donna warned him. Then, to the rest of the room: "Nelson tried to kill Penny the other day."

  "The animal fell off the balcony," Nelson protested vehemently. "It's a cat. Why would I throw it off a balcony when I know it's just going to land on its goddamned feet anyway?"

  "Stick to that story, slick," said Donna.

  "Rich tells me you were in the Marines together," Scanlan said diplomatically to Nelson.

  "We were roommates at the Basic School," said Nelson.

  "Which is something in the Marine Corps?" said Scanlan.

  "They send every brand-new second lieutenant to the Basic Officer Course at Quantico," Albertson explained. "It lasts about six months, and it's called the Basic School. So you get prospective aviators, such as myself, and prospective grunts, like Rich, all lumped together."

  "What exactly do they teach you?" Scanlan asked.

  "Applied chickenshit and how to be miserable in the woods," said Nelson.

  "Every Marine officer gets basic instruction in infantry tactics," Welsh explained. "The aviators think getting sweaty and rained on is beneath them."

  "It is beneath us," said Nelson.

  "You sound as if you didn't like it much," said Scanlan.

  Nelson got up from the couch. "I'll be right back."

  "And you're getting your MBA?" Scanlan said to Donna.

  "Next year," Donna replied. "Right now I'm an accountant at a computer-software company."

  "Where are you going to school?"

  "I haven't decided yet. Nelson wants it to be somewhere with good hunting and fishing. I think he mentioned the University of Wyoming." Donna gave them a sweet, when-hell-freezes-over smile.