Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  “I'd have kept my word if I had to,” she said stonily. “I don't know anything about medicine, Ransom. You've scarcely moved for two hours. For all I knew, you were dying! I'd have done anything to get what you needed! I had to ... You might ... I...”

  Her voice broke. Tears welled up in her eyes without warning and flowed down her smooth cheeks.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered, his heart aching at the sight of her tears.

  “I couldn't bear...”

  “Shhh, it's all right.”

  All the fight drained out of Ransom. He wrapped his arms around her and held her. Pride stiffened her spine for a moment, but then she gave in, buried her face against his bare shoulder, and wept openly. He rubbed her back and pressed gentle kisses into her hair, silently urging her to let it all out.

  She was always so brave, so smooth, so focused, he hadn't even stopped to consider how frightened she must be, and how alone she had been since he'd been beaten unconscious back at the pension. Her acceptance of the guard's proposition should have told him she had run out of ideas and was at the end of her rope.

  “Maddie, Maddie...” he murmured against her hair. “I'm sorry, sugar.”

  “Oh, God, the blood, all that blood...”

  “Mostly from my nose,” he guessed ruefully.

  “And they just kept kicking you!” She pulled away, gulping back her sobs. Her nose was red. Tears streaked through the dust on her face. He tried not to grin at her appearance. “Are you badly hurt? Is anything broken?”

  He took a deep, experimental breath and winced. “Definitely bruised. They didn't manage to break anything though, for all their showing off. Amateurs.”

  “Amateurs?” She hiccupped.

  He finally gave up and grinned. She scowled at him.

  “Yeah, amateurs,” he said, easing himself back down onto the little cot in the corner of their small, oppressive cell. “A good fighter can bust half your ribs with about a tenth of the effort those two guys put forth. They mostly got me in the legs and shoulders and...” He winced again and concluded, “And butt.”

  “And your head,” she added shakily.

  “What a hell of a day it's been,” he grumbled.

  “Quite.” She sat down next to him, picked up a piece of torn cloth, and blew her nose.

  “That's my shirt!” he said in surprise. He frowned. “Or what's left of it.”

  “They wouldn't give me any bandages, and I was trying to stop the bleeding and clean you up.” She looked him over. “There's a cut on your forehead, too, that bled all over your face.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don't think this shirt would have ever been the same, anyhow,” she said.

  “No, probably not,” he conceded. She must have used her teeth to tear it into strips. “Everything happened so fast when I woke up and heard you talking to that guard, I didn't even wonder why I was half-naked.”

  He looked around. The cell was about the size of a small bedroom. The narrow cot and single chair indicated that it was intended for one occupant only. Madeleine must have convinced the guards to let her stay with him and tend his injuries. He hoped they wouldn't move her to her own cell now. He couldn't possibly protect her if they were separated; even together, it would be touch and go.

  A seatless toilet squatted at one end of the room, right next to a filthy sink. The toilet was probably the source of the odor he'd been noticing. He glanced at Madeleine and hoped she'd be able to set aside her modesty for practical considerations. He certainly could, and he said so.

  “Oh. Now?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh. Nature calls. Excuse me, milady.”

  He walked to the toilet and unzipped his muddy trousers. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that her back was discreetly turned. When he was done, he sat next to her on the cot again.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Oh! Local army headquarters, at the south end of the village.”

  “What's the layout of this place in relation to where we are now?”

  “I was so scared I probably missed a lot,” she admitted.

  She hadn't missed much, he concluded, after she spent five minutes answering his questions. They were in the heart of a walled, wired military compound. The odds were against their escaping successfully. Fear filled him, clouding his wits, because what he had said to her was true; she was in danger from these men. He had to get her out of here. But how? He had to pull himself together and think.

  “It's all my fault,” she blurted suddenly, surprising him.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You were right. I should never have gone into town without you.” She told him about her encounter with the soldiers. “If I hadn't attracted attention to myself, if I hadn't told them I was a friend of the President's, then none of this would have happened. They'd have never even known about us, if I had stayed inside the pension. And you...” She added in a heartbroken tone, “They'd have never, ever known about you if it weren't for me.”

  “Water under the bridge, Maddie,” he said dismissively. “We wouldn't even be in Doragua if that terrorist attack in the city hadn't delayed the start of our trip. We wouldn't still be here if Miguel hadn't stolen the car. It doesn't do any good to—”

  “If only I'd given them my money. Oh, why didn't I just give them my money?”

  He took her hand. “Because most people raised in a Western democracy naturally object to military and government officials bullying them and stealing from them.”

  “But what would you have done?” she asked. “Would you have made a spectacle of yourself the way I did?”

  “I doubt you made—”

  “I did,” she said morosely. “I was such a fool.”

  “Stop it,” he ordered. “Pull yourself together. This isn't helping either of us.” In fact, it was tearing his heart out. He couldn't stand to see her condemning herself like this, blaming herself for their imprisonment and his injuries.

  “But I...” She swallowed and nodded. “Sorry. You're right. This isn't helping anyone.”

  He admired her resolve, knowing that she didn't summon it easily right now. “Hindsight is a waste. As far as anyone knew, you were doing the smartest, safest thing when you used Veracruz's name as a shield,” he pointed out. “How the hell were you to know he would fall from power by lunchtime?”

  “The meeting with Escalante!” she said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “When I called the Palace this morning, Veracruz was at Seguridore headquarters for a meeting with—”

  “Escalante set a trap for him,” Ransom realized. “Away from the Palace.”

  “Because you had made the Palace too secure for Escalante to attack Veracruz there.” A thought struck her. “Do you think he knew Veracruz was planning to get rid of him?”

  “Hell, considering that even we knew, it seems likely that he found out. But I'd say he's been planning this for a while, and learning of Veracruz's plan only made him move sooner than intended, that's all.”

  “What makes you think he's been planning this?”

  “Captain Morena,” he replied. “The army is supposed to be loyal to the President, not Escalante. Yet this army captain knows Escalante has seized power and knows that it won't be announced until tomorrow. And one of Morena's first moves was to act on a report by one of his men and arrest us—friends of Veracruz. Escalante has obviously been secretly securing support from army officers, probably with bribes and promises of promotion and power.”

  “That makes sense,” she said slowly. And it explained the day's horrifying events. “What do you think Morena intends to do with us, though?”

  “I don't know.” He thought it over. “These cells are small and poorly guarded, and there are only four of them.”

  “So?”

  “So I think this is just a temporary holding area, not a permanent prison.” He gingerly rubbed a swelling lump on his head. “Since Morena arrested us in the hope of garnering favor with Escalante
, I'd say his next move is to notify Escalante that ... Oh, shit.” He met her eyes, and despite the fear he saw there, he had to be honest with her. “He'll notify Escalante that we're in custody. And Escalante hates me with a passion, Maddie.”

  “I know.” Her voice was thin.

  He shot to his feet. “We've got to get out of here.”

  “But we're Americans,” she argued. “Surely even Escalante wouldn't dare—”

  “He can have a Seguridore blow us away with a Chinese-made AK 47 and claim that rebels got us after the President's chauffeur abandoned us in the hills.” Ransom put the chair in front of the cell's single window, a little barred opening set very high up in the wall. “He can get away with it, Maddie. We've got to get out of here.”

  “Can we?”

  He climbed up on the chair, reached for the bars, and pulled himself up with the strength of his arms. One brief look was enough to assure him that it was useless.

  “Not that way,” he said. “Even if we could do something about the bars, it's a thirty foot drop right into the central courtyard. Full of soldiers.”

  “What about—” She fell silent as they heard someone unlocking their cell door.

  Ransom pushed Madeleine into the wooden chair and stood in front of her. A new guard—big, with a brutal face—opened the door, then stepped back. They heard Morena call him Alvarez. Then Morena entered the room, followed by two Seguridores. Ransom met their hard stares as the captain told the men that these were the prisoners and described with relish how they had resisted arrest.

  One of the Seguridores was very young, and so handsome as to be almost pretty. He told Morena in clipped tones that the prisoners were to be ready for transportation to Seguridore headquarters first thing tomorrow morning, and that they expected the utmost discretion from the captain and his men. Moreover, they expected the prisoners to be in acceptable condition; Escalante wanted them for himself. The captain guaranteed it. He was practically kowtowing as the two men left the cell. Their voices could be heard briefly in the anteroom, giving similar, somewhat more explicit warnings to the two on-duty guards.

  Then Morena turned and grinned at Ransom. “They were sent from their post in Santa Clara to escort you to Montedora City, and they tell me His Excellency President Escalante is reported to be very pleased about the identity of my prisoners.” He looked Ransom over for a moment, then remarked, “A private escort to Seguridore headquarters. Tell me, what did you do?”

  “I made it hard for Escalante to kill Veracruz.”

  “Ahhhh.” Morena wagged his finger at Ransom. “Choosing the winning side makes all the difference.”

  Ransom glanced down at the captain's ankle. “Ah. You took the ankle holster, too, I see. After I was unconscious, no doubt. How's the fit?” His voice was politely curious.

  “A little tight,” Morena admitted. “You are too skinny.”

  “What a pity. And the gun?” Ransom's solicitous tone annoyed Madeleine. Men and their games!

  “The gun is more beautiful than a woman.” Morena nodded. “I thank you for it.”

  “Oh, think nothing of it,” Ransom said dryly.

  Impatient and irritated, Madeleine asked, “Is Veracruz dead?”

  “No, of course not,” Morena answered reprovingly. “Think how that would look, senorita.”

  “Yes, of course,” she muttered.

  “Veracruz gave President Escalante a special escort into the Presidential Palace this morning, and then voluntarily confined himself to his private quarters with Senora Veracruz.”

  “Voluntarily,” Madeleine repeated.

  “Yes,” Morena said, “after publicly recognizing his failure to lead the people of Montedora toward peace and prosperity.”

  “Then he ordered the Presidential Guards to turn in their arms and go home,” Ransom said, “and he dismissed his cabinet.”

  Morena blinked. “That has not been announced yet. How did you know?”

  “Just an educated guess.” Ransom's voice was bland.

  “I see.” Morena eyed him warily for a moment, apparently losing his sense of humor. Looking a little uneasy, he snapped, “You will leave at first light. Do not cause me trouble, or I will deal harshly with you.”

  “As opposed to the restraint you have so far shown?” Ransom asked innocently.

  Morena called him a nasty name, casting aspersions on his sexual capability, then abruptly turned and left. The guard—Alvarez—closed the door behind him.

  “Gosh, we're gonna miss his wit around here,” Ransom drawled. He met Madeleine's gaze and lost his levity instantly.

  “What do we do now?” She kept her voice even.

  Ransom appreciated her determination to stay calm; he could guess what it cost her. He put his hand on her neck and gave it a brief, comforting squeeze. “Now we plan our escape.”

  “Should we wait until morning and try to make a break for it when the Seguridores take us outside the compound?”

  He shook his head. “I don't think so. They might, uh, disable us before they remove us from here. The Seguridores are elite forces, better paid, better equipped, and undoubtedly better trained than the army. They'll be harder to escape or eliminate.”

  She shivered at his casual reference to eliminating other men; he was all-professional now, lacking any trace of the humor or gentleness she was used to seeing in him. And she could tell by the way he skimmed over it that he didn't want to tell her how the Seguridores might “disable” them. She tried not to let her fear run away with her and focused on what he was saying.

  “Anyhow,” Ransom continued, “just because we've only seen two Seguridores, that doesn't mean there won't be more tomorrow.”

  “So we'll try to escape tonight?” Her stomach cramped.

  He nodded. “Sometime after midnight. In the empty hours. Men are less alert then.” He stared at the ceiling, wishing he had a cigarette, and added pensively, “We'll need a plan.”

  * * * *

  To Madeleine's surprise, Alvarez brought them dinner a couple of hours later. With so many hungry people in Montedora, she couldn't imagine why the army bothered feeding two prisoners who were destined to disappear forever tomorrow; people taken to Seguridore headquarters were never seen again. Despite her churning stomach, the stuffy heat, her revulsion over the way Alvarez leered at her, and the unpleasant odors in their cell, she followed Ransom's orders and ate everything on her plate—beans, rice, and some unidentifiable fried substance—since they had no way of knowing when they'd have an opportunity to eat again.

  After their bowls were taken away, Ransom suggested she lie down on the narrow cot and try to get some sleep. If their plan was successful, they'd be on the run by morning and would need all their strength.

  That “if” kept her wide awake, though.

  They had argued heatedly for over an hour before finally settling on a plan. Ransom's original scheme would have put him in danger while she hid in their cell. Her passionate declaration that she'd rather die than be stuck here alone after he got himself killed was the argument that finally overcame his infuriatingly stubborn refusal to let her help him.

  If they disarmed their two guards and made it out of this cell block, if they got past the soldiers on guard duty, if they could get beyond the garrison walls, if they could make it out of the village without getting shot...

  If they succeeded, they'd be penniless fugitives in an unstable, impoverished country whose new leader wanted them dead. If they failed, they'd be shot trying to escape, or else turned over to the Seguridores in the morning.

  How had Caroline described the fate of Escalante's victims? Arrested, beaten, tortured and—if they're not executed—locked up in some dank, rat-infested cell and forgotten about.

  She wished Caroline hadn't felt compelled to tell her about it. Now she couldn't stop imagining it. Who would have thought that she, Madeleine Barrington, would become one of Escalante's victims? But Ransom was right. For once, even being a Barrington couldn't
protect her. Escalante could indeed get away with it. No one would ever know the truth.

  Her greasy dinner churned in her stomach. She shifted restlessly, fighting her terror.

  “What's wrong?” Ransom murmured. He was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the cot, his head leaning back. She shifted again, so that his hair brushed her arm. He turned his head slightly to look at her. Night had fallen, and they could scarcely see each other now; there was no light or lantern in their cell.

  “Just thinking about something my sister said,” she answered, recalling Caroline's warnings again.

  He could tell it upset her. “Tell me.”

  To her amazement, she didn't tell him what Caroline had said about Veracruz and Escalante. Instead, she heard herself saying, “She said ... Both of my sisters said they're tired of me being ... so perfect.”

  After making such a huge admission, she was surprised to hear him say casually, “Oh. And here I thought I was the only one who got tired of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, sometimes you really piss me off,” he said mildly.

  “Spoken by a man with the personality of steel wool,” she shot back.

  “Are you calling me abrasive?” he sounded amused.

  “Attila the Hun was probably an easier companion.” She sighed reminiscently, remembering her first impressions of him so long ago. “You know, you were a perfect stranger.”

  “And you,” he said pointedly, “have never been perfect, no matter how hard you try.”

  The vehemence in his tone made her say defensively, “I've never ... I don't try...”

  “Don't you?” he challenged.

  “I'm just trying to do my best. Be my best.”

  “Sometimes,” he conceded. “It took me a while to come round to admitting that. But you also like to hide behind that mask of perfection, using it to intimidate people, to make them keep a respectful distance from you.”