Night Magic Part 3

"You don't trust me. Fair enough. I probably wouldn't believe this myself. Let's take it point by point, shall we? Reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. My agency ID is in there."

Hesitating, casting a long, considering look at him, Clara finally did as she was told. Her hand touched the hard muscle of his lower back- he had gestured to the left rear pocket of the faded jeans that fit him like a second skin- and drew back instinctively. She did not like touching him, even for so straightforward a reason. There was something... s.e.xual about it. He was too male. Primitive male force seemed to emanate from his pores. And she had reason to know that he could be violently aggressive. No, touching him wasn't a safe thing to do. But she wanted very much to look at his ID to see if he was telling the truth about this whole misadventure being tied up with the government, at least. So she forced her hand to slide inside his pocket and extract the flat leather wallet she found there.

"Flip on the overhead light," he directed. She did. Keeping one eye on the road, she nevertheless managed a thorough look at the wallet's contents: a reasonable amount of cash, a MasterCard, American Express and a Sears charge card, a picture of a very pretty blonde woman slightly thinner than herself, his Maryland driver's license, and the ID card that proclaimed him one John Thomas McClain, employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. Both the driver's license and the CIA card bore identical photos of the man sitting beside her. There was no mistake. She flipped the wallet shut, tucked it back inside the breast pocket of his black sweats.h.i.+rt, and turned off the overhead light, all without a word. She could feel him looking at her, but she steadfastly refused to look at him again. Funny, the knowledge that he worked for her own government should have made her feel safer, but it didn't.

"Look, Clara. I know you're scared, and you're right to be scared. The people who are after us- us, not just me- are killers. You think you'll be safe with the police. And you'd be right, if it were only the KGB we were dealing with. The chances of a state police trooper being a mole are remote. But ask yourself this: would the police turn you over to the FBI or the CIA or any one of the other federal agencies? Yes, they would. In a minute. And in due course you would find yourself facing exactly the same situation we just escaped from. Because there is a Soviet mole at a high level in the U.S. Intelligence service, and until he's identified and exposed he will be using every bit of his considerable muscle to have us found and eliminated. To the agency we are very likely already the bad guys on the mole's say-so. We could be killed by our own side just as easily as by Rostov. Do you understand now?"

There was a pause. Then Clara said, "You're exaggerating."

"Am I? Do you really want to risk your life to find out?"

He had a point. Clara, glaring impotently out the window into the s.h.i.+fting darkness through which they were driving, conceded it.

"What exactly did you do to make everyone want to kill you, anyway? If I'm going to die with you, don't I have a right to know?"

"I know about the mole, and they mean to see that I don't have a chance to get the word out. For all they know, I may even have told you." He was silent for a moment, then, speaking slowly as if he were thinking, he added, "In fact, I will tell you, in case they catch me and you escape."

"I don't want to know!"

Her horrified protests had no effect. In concise sentences he told her everything that Yuropov had told him. About Bigfoot, and how important it was that this high-level Soviet spy be neutralized. About some kind of plot to murder the secretary of state. About a defector who was being taken back to Russia to be tortured and killed...

"If they get me but not you, go to Tim Hammersmith with this," he concluded. "Tell him what I've told you, and also tell him that Natalia didn't die in Budapest. Don't forget that part. That's how he'll know that what you're telling him comes from me."

"Now they really will kill me!" Clara wailed.

He half smiled. His voice sounded soothing. "They would have killed you anyway. Now, if you get away and I don't, at least you'll be of some use."

"Oh my G.o.d!"

"We're going to have to ditch the van. They've probably got a car behind us now. It won't take them long, now that the chopper has given them our general position. And if we come out of the woods the chopper will be on top of us in a minute."

"All right." There didn't seem to be anything she could do for the moment but agree. He was calling the shots, and she was stuck with him until she figured out some way to extricate herself from the whole mess. But how? She couldn't even flee to her mother- what if she brought the thugs down on her? As she knew to her own cost, innocence was no defense.

"Head up through those trees up there. As far as this thing will go. At least it will be hidden until morning."

Not seeing anything else she could do, Clara obeyed. The van b.u.mped and thumped its way over the ground until the trees got too thick for it to pa.s.s. She put on the brakes, stopped the motor, and turned to look at him.

"Now what?"

"Now we walk. But first I want to take a quick look through this thing to see if there's anything we can use. Like a pistol."

"Oh my G.o.d!"

He gave her a disgusted look.

"Can't you say anything besides 'Oh my G.o.d'? You're beginning to annoy me."

"Well, excu-u-u-use me."

"That's better." He was on his feet before she could turn the full force of her glare on him. Bent almost double, he made his way back through the van. The rear had been stripped of its seats. Only a few tools and a dirty blanket were crumpled together in one corner. As McClain crouched in front of the heap, Clara heard a low, ominous sounding growl. McClain straightened so fast he b.u.mped his head on the roof.

"d.a.m.n cat!" He identified the source of the growl from two glowing golden eyes before Clara had a chance to tell him. Puff had evidently taken refuge under the blanket. Even as she moved back to rescue him another growl sounded.

"Move it, would you?"

Clara needed no second bidding to reach down and gather Puff into her arms. Still nervous from the treatment he had received, he snarled as she picked him up. She paid no attention, nuzzling her face into his fluffy fur and murmuring rea.s.surances to him.

"Throw it out the door, will you? And grab some of this stuff. Never know what we might be able to use."

"Throw him out the door?" Her voice was indignant.

He looked at her impatiently. "What else are you going to do with it? We can't take a cat with us. It'll be fine, believe me. Rostov's not after the d.a.m.ned cat."

"We most certainly can take him with us. And we are going to. I'm not leaving him. So there." She meant what she said and it showed in her voice. He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged.

"Have it your own way. You're the one who's going to be lugging it. If it slows you down you're on your own. I'm not going to get my a.s.s nailed over some stupid bleeding heart who can't bring herself to leave her sweet little kitty cat." The mincing falsetto in which he uttered the last four words set Clara's teeth on edge.

"This sweet little kitty cat saved your life, if you recall."

A shrug was his only answer to that. He was crouching in front of the tools again, staring down at the jumble with concentration.

"Grab the screwdriver and the hammer," he directed. "And the blanket. Nothing else we can use."

At Clara's look he said, "The handcuffs, remember?"

Annoyed, Clara picked up the tools and bundled them awkwardly in the blanket, juggling a growling Puff all the while. Finally she managed to tuck the bundle under one arm, while holding Puff, who was squirming like a landed fish, beneath the other.

"Sure you don't want to leave it?"

He sounded as if he was on the verge of laughing. Clara glared at him. If she'd seen the merest hint of a grin she would have stomped on his foot. But his face was expressionless as usual. There was just something about the glint in those green eyes...

McClain exited through the rear of the van. Clara followed, her movements awkward because of her twin burdens. Puff never liked being carried at the best of times, and he squirmed and growled threateningly as she lugged him up the hill. Getting crosser by the second, Clara wished she had a free hand to konk the head of the man who was striding so effortlessly ahead of her. Handcuffed or not, he didn't seem to have any trouble walking.

"Hurry up, can't you?" He was waiting for her beneath a tall pine tree near the crest of the hill. In the darkness, with his dark clothing, he was practically indistinguishable from the trees. Clara, puffing as she came up to him, was annoyed to note that he was not even breathing hard. But she refused to complain about being weighed down, because Puff was the major part of the burden.

"Do you have any kind of plan? Or are we just going to walk until they find us?"

Sarcasm laced her voice. He started walking again, with long, seemingly effortless strides that made no concessions to the unevenness of the ground beneath his feet or the shadowy darkness of the woods that could have hidden anything in their path. Clara followed, glaring at his back. She had no choice but to keep up with him. In this cold, dark world gone mad, he was the only security she had.

As the night went on the woods grew denser, the temperature colder, the night darker- and Puff heavier, until she felt as if she were packing an anvil under her arm. Clad in her jeans and tan and brown plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt with only her teddy beneath and boat shoes on her bare feet, she was less than adequately dressed for hiking through a forest on a cold October night. If she had had a free hand or an extra second she would have wrapped the blanket around herself. But in front of her, McClain kept relentlessly going, climbing over the hilly woodside as if he were some kind of machine. If she stopped for an instant she feared losing sight of him. And she definitely didn't want to be left on her own in the woods in the middle of the night with Rostov and his goons on her tail and G.o.d knew what in the undergrowth all around her.

"Wait, please!" They had been walking for what seemed like hours. Clara couldn't be sure, because she had thoughtlessly not been wearing her watch when she was abducted. But she knew that she was chilled to the bone and thoroughly exhausted. If he had a plan, she wanted to know what it was.

"The cat's slowing you down. You'll have to leave it."

She was cold, tired, and fed up. Her normally gentle blue eyes shot sparks as she caught up to him. Even through the darkness she could see his eyes widen at the fury in hers.

"Listen, James Bond, I am not leaving the cat! Is that clear?" she roared, her very stance challenging him to disagree. To her surprise, he didn't. Instead he turned away to walk on with no more than a shrug.

"Wait!" She wailed the word. He stopped, frowning at her over a shoulder.

"Can't we rest for a few minutes? My legs are killing me."

"All right. Two minutes."

He didn't seem tired at all, she noted bitterly as she sank to the ground where she stood. Puff, released, shot off to cower under a bush. Clara didn't even care. Puff weighed about as much as a small elephant, and if she didn't love the dratted animal so much she would leave him. But he would never find his way home from there... s.h.i.+vering, she drew her legs up to her chest and, grabbing the blanket, wrapped herself in it. She was freezing.

"Think you can get these handcuffs off'?"

Clara just looked at him as he crouched beside her. Her dislike for him was intensifying with each pa.s.sing second. She had not asked to be involved in this mess. It was all his fault!

"With the screwdriver and hammer," he explained patiently, as if she were dim-witted. Clara narrowed her eyes at him. Dislike was a mild word for what he made her feel.

"Hey, are you alive?" The question was impatient.

Clara, her eyes narrowing still further, shook her head. "No."

"If you can help me get these handcuffs off I can carry something."

At this blatant bribe, Clara pursed her lips. If he would only carry Puff for a while, she might make it a little further after all.

"How?"

"Grab the screwdriver and the hammer."

She had to get out of the blanket to obey, but she did it. The prospect of having him carry Puff was too alluring. He found a rock and dragged it over, placed his wrists on it. His back was to her, and Clara had to fight an urge to crack him over the head with the flat of her hand. This whole mess was all his fault.

"Wedge the screwdriver in where the chain meets the cuff."

She did.

"Now whack it a good one with the hammer."

She brought the hammer down as hard as she could.

"s.h.i.+-it!" He leaped to his feet, dancing sideways, swearing furiously. Clara watched him. So she had missed with the hammer- big deal. A smashed finger was a small price to pay for the mess he had involved her in.

He stalked back toward her, still sweating, his eyes narrowed threateningly. To her own surprise, Clara felt no fear.

"Sorry," she offered.

"Yeah," he said sourly, kneeling and presenting his back again. After his wrists were once again positioned on the rock, and the screwdriver was once again in place, Clara lifted the hammer for another try. His shoulders tightened in antic.i.p.ation. Clara noted that and brought the hammer down carefully. She didn't so much as scratch the metal.

"Try again."

She tried again. And again. And finally, on what must have been the twelfth try, she was so tired of trying that she brought the hammer down as though it was going to make contact with his thick skull. And, lo and behold, the link connecting the chain to one of the cuffs split.

"Good job!" He turned, raising his arms wide and then rubbing the wrist where the handcuff with the chain was still securely fastened. The other wrist was also adorned with a metal cuff, but at least now the chain was broken and he had free use of his hands.

"What time is it?" He had his watch, she saw.

"Twenty after eleven. Why?"

"It seems later. Six hours ago I was finis.h.i.+ng supper at Mitch's house."

"Mitch?"

"The sheriff. I went there last night."

"Wasn't much help, was he?"

"No."

McClain grunted, turning away to gather up blanket, screwdriver, and hammer.

"How'd they catch you, anyway?" She was curious.

He looked at her. "They were waiting down the road from your house. I drove right past them. They shot out my tires, my car went off the road, and they had me. Easy."

"That would never have happened to James Bond," she said with a sniff. His eyebrows snapped together.

"Here, wrap this around you and let's get going," he said, thrusting the blanket at her. Clara stared at him for a moment, silently resisting. She couldn't move; she, who never walked when she could drive, had already hiked at least seven or eight miles, she guessed. Her legs were aching. She couldn't go any further.

"Rostov and his men are on our tail, believe me," he said. "They may even have found the van by now. They may wait until daylight to trail us through these woods. Or they may not."

Clara stood up without a word, taking the blanket and wrapping it squaw fas.h.i.+on around her shoulders. McClain was dressed no warmer than she- even his ankles were sockless in their white sneakers- but if he wanted to be a gentleman and give her the blanket she wasn't going to object.

McClain stuck the tools in the waistband of his pants as she walked over to the bush to retrieve Puff. Puff resisted with a miserable snarl, but Clara dragged him out by his collar and picked him up.

"Hush," she told him irritably, then rubbed between his ears to make up for her hostile tone. He growled again, and Clara sighed.

McClain was already walking away as she straightened. She hurried after him.

"Hey, you promised you'd carry something if I got the handcuffs off you."

"I am carrying something. The tools."

"That doesn't count. They don't weigh anything! It's your turn to carry Puff."

"I am not carrying that d.a.m.n cat. I hate cats."

"You hate cats?" Clara was shocked to her bone marrow. She withdrew from him as if he had suddenly grown horns. "How on earth can anyone hate cats?"

"It's easy, believe me. Especially that thing. It acts more like a saber-toothed tiger than a cat."

"Puff doesn't like you either."

Indeed, Puff was growling, but Clara wasn't sure whether it was from being held, which he disliked except when he requested to be picked up, or from not having had his dinner, which she decided was more likely. His opinion of McClain was probably a very distant cause of his bad temper.