Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  “Whiskey?” she said disbelievingly. “Is this your idea of an antiseptic? And what about bottled water? And where's—”

  “No one in this town would waste half a week's pay on a bottle of water when they can get it from a pump,” Ransom snapped, pointing to a public pump thirty feet away. “Even if some trucking company was stupid enough to haul bottled water out to such a godforsaken spot. And I couldn't find any antiseptic either, milady, but whiskey will do. If you're going to keep nagging, I'll want a stiff drink every so often, anyhow.”

  “Water from a pump?” she said doubtfully.

  “It's that, or do without.”

  With reluctance written all over her face, she handed him their two water bottles and said, “Well, then go ahead and fill them.”

  “What am I, a butler?” He found her unguarded reaction to this salvo very satisfying. “You fill it. I've got to get gas for the scooter.”

  “Very well.” Madeleine made sure her tone positively froze the air around them as she took the bottles back from Ransom. “Go on, then. I'll meet you at the gas pumps.”

  He looked over his shoulder. The pumps were at the other end of the village. She could see doubt creep in as he considered it; he had tried to keep her in sight the entire hour they'd been here.

  “Go on,” she prodded. “Exercise your vile temper on someone else for a change.” She turned her back on his scowling face before she gave into the temptation to kick him. God, he could be aggravating when he wanted to be!

  “Don't be long,” he ordered.

  She didn't even acknowledge that she'd heard him.

  Half the village, it seemed, turned out to watch her use their pump. She apparently made a fascinating spectacle as she filled her bottles. Not so fascinating that they let her do it for free, however. After getting her water, she was informed that there would be a five dollar charge, since she was not a local taxpayer. Recognizing this strategy from many meetings with corporate sharks, Madeleine bargained the self-appointed local “water official” down to about thirty cents worth of Montedoran pesos.

  Having concluded her business, she started walking toward the gas pumps at the other end of the village. Two young men got in her way. She held her head high and tried to walk past them. They blocked her path again. Using her best glare, she frostily told them to get out of her way. They grinned, one of them revealing surprisingly good teeth; the other was missing two teeth. The women and children who'd been dogging her heels drew back. The men who'd been ogling her now watched with tense interest. She suddenly sensed what had been bothering Ransom when they rode into this village, what was apparently bothering him still. People here were not like people in Doragua. Oh, there were some curious, good-natured women and children; but there was strong, seething hostility among the men. And for eons beyond counting, men had expressed hostility toward women with sexual violence.

  Madeleine was suddenly afraid.

  Could Ransom hear her if she screamed? Would screaming be the wrong thing to do? Would it escalate a situation which could somehow be diffused? Ruthlessly suppressing her fear, she once again told the two men to let her pass.

  They laughed, which made her belly clench. Then, to her relief, she saw Ransom coming toward them, riding the scooter along the muddy road. She took a deep breath and waited, refusing to let herself back away when one of the men moved in on her. Backing away from a bully just encouraged him to come closer, she told herself, hoping she was right. He was awfully close by now.

  The scooter stopped. Ransom got off and came up to Madeleine, his posture relaxed, his attitude casual.

  “Problems?” he asked.

  “I was just coming to find you,” she said, hating the breathless quality she could hear in her own voice.

  “Shall we go then?”

  “Yes.” She cradled the bottles against her chest.

  When he took her free hand, she felt all the tension that he was hiding from everyone else. He stared down her two would-be assailants and courteously asked if there was something they wished to discuss with him.

  There was.

  Changing tactics, they now said they wanted his scooter.

  Keeping his tone and manner pleasant, Ransom told them that it wasn't for sale. In English, he quietly told Madeleine to get on the scooter and be ready to go. Feeling like she might be sick at any moment, she followed his instructions.

  The confrontation became more insistent. Madeleine had trouble following the particulars, but she caught the gist of it. The young men claimed the scooter was clearly the property of a local, just as Ransom was clearly foreign. He must have stolen it, they said. They would take it back to its rightful owner.

  Madeleine listened with growing dread, silently begging God not to let the rest of the village get involved in this scene. As pitiful as the scooter was, she and Ransom would be lost without it. Besides, it was obvious that the scooter wasn't the real issue. These men were simply probing for a sign of weakness in Ransom; if they found one, they'd descend like ravening wolves. And she and Ransom had no hope of escaping an angry mob alive—unless they shot some of them, which she couldn't imagine doing.

  For one awful moment, the more aggressive of the two men seemed ready to fight. He stood nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe with Ransom and goaded him with all the insolence he had at his command. Madeleine felt her own fists tightening with the urge to wipe that nasty, malicious grin off the man's face. But Ransom refused to rise to the bait. And finally, to Madeleine's relief, the two bullies backed down. Something, in the end, convinced them they were about to bite off more trouble than they could chew. Ransom had managed to diffuse the situation.

  Keeping a careful eye on the retreating bullies, he got onto the scooter behind her and quietly told her to drive like hell.

  * * * *

  Not wanting to leave an easily detected trail, they avoided people and towns for the rest of the day, either bypassing or speeding through any populated areas they encountered. Exhausted from their active night and increasingly uncomfortable due to the hard, narrow seat of the scooter, as well as the rough roads they traversed, they finally pulled off the road before sundown when they came upon a small abandoned group of brick buildings set well back from the road.

  “It was probably a school,” Ransom said. “A lot of them have had to close in the past decade. Wait here.”

  Madeleine stayed with the scooter while Ransom investigated the sad, forgotten little schoolrooms. Since they were already quite overgrown by jungle, he checked them for snakes, burrowing animals, rotting wood, crumbling roofs, and other hazards.

  The equatorial sun, so merciless by day, was now sitting low on the horizon, getting ready to dip behind the mountains. It cast a warm golden sheen across the sky, gilding the fat rainclouds in fiery colors; it looked like there'd be another storm tonight. The surrounding mountains were lush, green, and wild, and the air here was crisper, cooler, and more enervating than the thick, heavy air down in Montedora City or the Calentura Valley. At moments like this, Montedora seemed to be, once again, a country full of green promises and fresh possibilities.

  A rustling in the nearby trees startled Madeleine. She looked up and saw a bird spread its glorious wings of scarlet, indigo, orange, yellow, and blue as it flew across the clearing. It perched on a sun-kissed tree limb and seemed to preen especially for her. Madeleine laughed.

  Ransom returned and looked at her curiously. “You look awfully happy, considering our circumstances,” he said without heat.

  “Look,” she said. “Isn't it beautiful?”

  He followed her gaze. “Scarlet macaw.”

  “You know birds?”

  “I know all sorts of things, Miss Barrington.”

  “But birds? I didn't know you had it in you, Ransom.” It felt good to banter with him after the tense day they had spent riding through the hills.

  He shrugged. “Well, I've been in South America on more than a dozen different assignments, for Joe Marino and for the Sec
ret Service. I got interested in the things I saw. All over the world, actually.” He glanced at her, a gleam of amusement warning her before he said, “Would you like to hear about some of the adult entertainment in Japan?”

  “Not just now,” she said in her most queenly manner. It drew a grin from him.

  “It was very educational,” he offered temptingly.

  “Save it for a moment when I'm desperately bored.”

  As if piqued at being momentarily ignored, the scarlet macaw flew directly over their heads, letting the sun's rays shine on its multi-colored wings with breathtaking effect. After this impressive display, it perched on the roof of one of the school buildings.

  “Find anything?” she asked.

  “People were living here not too long ago.”

  That made her uneasy. “Do you think they'll be back tonight?”

  He frowned absently, looking around. “No. I'd say the place hasn't been used for a few weeks, maybe longer. And there wasn't anything left behind to indicate they were coming back.”

  “Bandits?” she asked, the possibility ever-present in her mind.

  “Probably.” He sighed. “But I don't think we should risk going to an inn, and I don't think we should sleep in the open; it looks like it's going to rain tonight.” He studied the surrounding area for a moment before concluding, “This place is probably our best bet. But we should keep a watch tonight.”

  “I'll go first,” she said. “You'll drop if you don't get some rest soon, Ransom.”

  “I will not drop.” He looked offended. “I'm fine.”

  She ignored this patently untrue assertion and said, “Come on, let me have a look at you.” She pushed him gently toward the scooter.

  “Oh, please, don't make me sit on that thing again.”

  “Just for a few minutes, while I check you out.”

  “You're not a nurse,” he grumbled. “You said yourself you don't know anything about—”

  “I can certainly pour whiskey on a few cuts and look at your bruises,” she pointed out sternly. “Take off your shirt.”

  “Right now?”

  She eyed him. “As you once said, I've already seen everything there is to see.”

  He rolled his eyes and started unbuttoning his plain cambric shirt, then laid aside the .45. He couldn't suppress a slight grimace when he shrugged out of the shirt. Nor could Madeleine suppress a gasp when she saw the huge bruises which had fully blossomed on his torso.

  “Oh, my God! Does it hurt?”

  He scowled at her. “Of course it hurts. Of all the stupid questions.”

  “Do you think we should ... I don't know ... bind your ribs or something?”

  “I'd much rather you didn't touch my ribs at all. Now are you satisfied? Can I get dressed again?”

  “When did you become so modest?”

  He put his hands on her waist, stilling her when she would have turned away. “On the other hand...” he murmured lazily. “Wanna show me your bruises?”

  She shook her head. “Mine aren't as bad as yours.”

  He considered this. “Then do you maybe just want to take your shirt off for me?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes locked with his, and what she saw there made her blood thrum in her veins. She put her hands on his shoulders, feeling hard muscle beneath smooth skin. “I don't think you're in any shape to, uh...”

  “Fool around?” He tilted his head. “Well, maybe not,” he admitted reluctantly. Then he surprised her by asking, “Are you relieved?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I heard you, but I don't underst—”

  “Don't you?”

  “No.” Wondering what he was getting at, she said with quiet honesty, “I was willing last night. I was willing every time we've ever ... slept together. You know that.”

  “Willing?” he repeated flatly.

  “All right, more than willing. I was...” She felt her cheeks flushing under his searching scrutiny. She wasn't comfortable talking about sex. She never had been. “You know how I was.”

  “And how are you now?”

  Increasingly uneasy about this conversation, she tried to squirm away. His grip on her waist tightened.

  “Don't try to get away from me,” he growled. “Not again.”

  His words fell upon her like a bucket of cold water. Ashamed, she looked away. “Look, I've told you I was sorry. Do you want me to tell you again?”

  She felt the growing tension in him. It was awful, as if it caused him actual pain. She heard the control he forced into his voice when he finally said, “I want you to tell me why you did it.”

  Her breath quickened. “Why I...”

  “Why you walked out on me that morning.”

  “I...” What could she say? How could she tell him? God, how could she put it into words? “I...”

  “What?” he ground out, pulling her closer.

  “You're angry,” she breathed in bewildered surprise. She hadn't expected it, not after last night.

  “Jesus Christ, Maddie, of course I'm angry! And also...” He stopped himself and tried again. “What was it about me, or that night, that sent you running away like that? Were so afraid I'd talk? Did you think I'd blackmail you? What was it?”

  This time she did pull away, and he didn't try to stop her. She turned her back on him and fumbled for the whiskey. Her agitation was showing; she never fumbled. She felt his gaze burning into her back.

  She took the whiskey and some toilet paper he'd purchased and turned to face him. She said quite clearly, “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Tough shit. I do.”

  She wrapped some toilet paper around her hand and made an efficient pad with it. Then she recklessly poured whiskey all over it. “What does it matter now?” she said dismissively.

  “Ow!” He winced when she slapped the whiskey-soaked pad against his forehead and started cleaning his cut. “Give me a slug of that, would you?”

  “Here.”

  He took a short swallow from the bottle, then said, “It matters because I can't forget about it, and because I'm sleeping with you now.” When she didn't respond, he grabbed the hand tormenting his brow and said, “Or am I?”

  She didn't know what to say. She stared at him mutely, wishing he'd let it go.

  “Is last night all she wrote, Maddie?” he prodded.

  “Are you leaving it all up to me?”

  “You can be as scathing as you want, but I'm not going to drop it.” He took the soaked pad away from her, stood up, pushed her into his place on the seat of the scooter, and examined the scrapes on her elbows. “Are we reserving the possibility of sex solely for those moments when you're having a life crisis?”

  She glared at him and tried to pull her arm away. He didn't let her. Then, with more relish than she thought appropriate, he slapped the soaked pad on her inflamed abrasions. She winced. “Ow!”

  “You were a little drunk and depressed and lonely the night we met,” he said calmly, cleaning her elbow. “Your guard was down.”

  “I—”

  “You've said that I was a ‘perfect stranger’ that night.” He met her gaze squarely. “And you're a lot more comfortable with strangers than with people who know you well, aren't you?”

  “That is not—”

  “Not that I imagine anyone really knows you well,” he continued, picking up her other arm and examining that elbow. “And last night...” He shook his head and started cleaning the scrape. “Last night might not have happened if the circumstances hadn't been, uh, extraordinary, to say the least.”

  “And I haven't made any excuses for it, have I?” she challenged. “I haven't tried to pretend it didn't happen or claim I wasn't—”

  “Why the hell would you need to make excuses about it?” He was clearly getting very, very angry. Finishing with her elbow, he squatted down to push up her loose-legged trousers and look at her knees. “I'll bet these hurt.”

  “The
y do.”

  He got the roll of toilet paper and made another pad. He soaked it with whiskey, then handed her the bottle. “Here. Have a slug of this.” She did. Then he warned, “This'll sting.”

  “And you'll enjoy it.”

  “To be honest, yeah, I will.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Told you so.” Concentrating on his task, he continued, “So what do you want to do? Keep me handy for your occasional dark nights of the soul—”

  “That's not fair!”

  “—or consider the possibility that since we have such great sex together, maybe we should do it more often. Even when we're not both miserable or afraid of dying.”

  Cornered, she lashed out, “Is sex all you can think about?”

  “No,” he shot back, “but it comes to mind a lot when I'm with you. And you think about it just as often as I do. Don't pretend, Madeleine; I can tell.”

  Since this was true, she prudently changed the subject. “What are you doing?” she demanded when he untied her shoe.

  “Relax. I'm just checking the cuts on your feet.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don't change the subject.” His gaze was piercing. “Well?”

  She felt her lower lip tremble. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't back down. Knowing he'd never relent after all he'd said, she gave in. “All right.” Her voice was low and thready. “All right.”

  He waited. “Go on.”

  She cleared her throat. “This is hard for me to talk about, Ransom.”

  “All right.”

  Seeing her nervousness, he went back to taking off her shoes and socks and examining her feet.

  Looking at his wind-blown golden-brown hair made her long to touch it. Suddenly she thought, Why not? They were lovers, weren't they? Shyly, she reached out and stroked his hair. He stilled for a moment, then continued dabbing at her cut feet with the soaked tissue.

  “I'd never done anything like that before,” she began.

  “Sex with a stranger, you mean?”

  She smoothed his hair. “Well, yes, there was that. But I knew about that when we went up to your room. I mean, I was shocked at myself, but I had accepted the idea that I was doing this crazy thing.”