Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (44 page)

Very costly, I thought. Two lives' worth. I shivered.

"My goodness, Sharon, are you all right?" he asked
caustically.

I placed my elbows on my knees and lowered my face into my hands.
It was a ruse to give me time to think. Perhaps there was some way to
deal with these people—

"You women should know better than to force your way into
professions you're not suited for," Adair said. "If you'd
kept to your place, none of this would be happening."

A retort rose to my lips, but I stifled it. I had an idea now.
This kind of man had a certain view of women. It went with his
right-wing politics. According to people like Adair or Marchetti,
women were weak, pliant, and easily frightened.

If I conformed to that image, I would pose less of a threat to
them.

"You know, you're not even a very good detective," Adair
added. "You asked all the wrong questions of the wrong
people—like asking Mack about the key duplicating service at
the Saltflats. And bullying Selena—you didn't think she would
keep it from Mack, did you?"

Instead of answering, I clutched my stomach and leaned forward.
"Monty, I feel sick."

"The chloroform should have worn off by now."

"But I'm sick! And I'm scared. Please, won't you let me go
home—"

The door opened. I looked up and saw Mack Marchetti. He also wore
olive drab fatigues, and his bearing was rigidly military. Adair
suddenly sat up straighter.

"What's going on here?" Marchetti said. He snapped the
words out crisply, an officer speaking to one of his men.

"She claims she's sick."

"Well, she probably is. You kept giving her more chloroform
every time she started to come around, all the way down here."

"What else was I supposed to do?" In contrast to
Marchetti, Adair looked like a malingering private.

"Nothing," Marchetti said. "I'm just pointing out
that there might be a good reason for her to be sick."

There was an abrasive note in Marchetti's voice, and I sensed I
had stumbled upon a schism within the paramilitary organization. The
two men might not be as solid a team as I'd assumed. That was
something I could work on.

"Mr. Marchetti," I said, "I'm awfully sick." I
gagged a little for emphasis.

Marchetti sighed. I half expected him to exclaim, "Women!"
Instead he turned to Adair and said, "I can't talk to her if
she's going to puke."

"It's not the chloroform, I tell you. She's scared."

"Do you blame me?" I put a convincing quaver into my
voice. It wasn't hard; I
was
scared.

"Goddamn it," Marchetti said, "what have you been
doing to her?"

"Me?" Adair got off the stool. "I haven't done a
damn thing—"

"Yeah, like you didn't tell me where those fucking scrolls
were—"

"I'm going to throw up!" I clapped a hand to my mouth.

"Oh Jesus!" Marchetti's voice was panicked. "Get
her out of here! Get her out, for Christ's sake, until she's calmed
down."

"What am I supposed to do with her?"

I made another gagging sound.

"Jesus! Take her…take her to that storeroom. If she pukes,
there's nothing in there she can hurt. I'll talk to her later."

Adair came over to me and grabbed my arm. "Get up."

I groaned.

"Get up!" He yanked me to my feet and pushed me toward
the door.

Adair put the tip of the rifle barrel against my spine and forced
me through the door into a dim corridor. I went quietly. The walls
here were stone too, interrupted at intervals by reinforced archways
that opened into darkness. The air was musty and pungent, like the
air in some old wineries I'd visited. I thought of the grape plants
I'd seen growing on the hill, and the stone buildings in the valley
below the ruins of Levin's cabin. They must have bought a defunct
winery.

Even though the redwood casks were no longer here, the odor from
possibly a hundred years of winemaking lingered.

Adair pushed me along the corridor to another massive wooden door
at its end. It was secured with a heavy hasp and padlock. He opened
it and motioned me inside. It was pitch dark in there, and cold.

"There's a bucket some place," he said. "If you're
going to puke, use that." Then he shut the door and I heard the
padlock snap.

I stood still, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Gradually areas of
greater and lesser shadow began to stand out. I reached to my right
and encountered rough planking. There were things lined up on it that
felt like cans.

A storeroom, Marchetti had said. What did they keep in here?

I moved over to the shelves and felt along them. Boxes, cans,
cloth. I groped my way back to the door and searched on either side
of it for a light switch. Nothing.

As I stood there in the dark, I began to feel claustrophobic. I
wished I were anywhere else, and thought of home. And the thought of
home made me think of Don. Was he there by now? Was he worried about
me? How long before he realized something had happened?

Stop this right now, I told myself. Try to find a way out of this
mess.

If only I had a light…

There was a small flashlight in my purse, but I had no idea what
had happened to the bag. It might still be back in the alley behind
the Oasis. I'd give a lot for that flashlight; it was very dark in
here, and my eyes had adjusted all they were going to. If I could
only find some matches…

I felt in the pocket of my jeans, and my fingers closed on a
half-full book of matches. I'd been wearing these jeans when Don and
I had barbecued Saturday night, and I'd put the matches in my pocket
rather than leave them outside where the incoming fog might ruin
them. Pulling them out, I lit one and held it aloft.

It was a storeroom, all right, with makeshift shelves on three
walls and the door in the fourth. What I had touched earlier was
canned goods—tuna, vegetables, juice. Next to them were boxes
of cereal, powdered milk, and sugar. The cloth was—

The match burned my fingers, and I dropped it. It went out when it
hit the stone floor.

I lit another and checked the rest of the shelves. Stacks of olive
drab fatigues such as Adair and Marchetti had been wearing. Rough
gray blankets. Thin, hard-looking pillows. A mop and the bucket Adair
had mentioned. Light bulbs and motor oil and a box labeled CANDLES.

The match went out. I lit another and reached into the box. The
candles were small—plain tallow in glass cups, the kind you'd
keep around in case there was a power failure. I set one on the shelf
and lit it.

Now I could see a refrigerator against the wall opposite the door.
Next to it were stacked cases of beer, the generic kind sold by chain
supermarkets that just said BEER on the label. There were also
cartons stacked on top of the 'fridge. I picked up the candle and
raised it higher, looking for an escape route.

The shelves were around eight feet high and almost touched the
ceiling. My eyes picked out a box of chocolate bars, and I went over
and helped myself to one. Besides having an inordinate fondness for
chocolate, I knew it was a quick energy source. And if I were to get
out of here alive, I would need energy. I would also need warmth. My
fingers, in spite of the heat from the matches and candle, were
nearly frozen.

I went over to the stack of fatigues, rummaged through them, and
selected a large pair. After pulling it on over my jeans and sweater,
I had to roll up both the arms and legs, but it provided an extra
layer of insulation from the cold. And if I got out of here, it would
also make me less easy to spot in the dark.

The small candle was sputtering. I got another from the box and
lit it with my second-to-last match. Then I held it high and began
circling the room, looking for a way out—a heating duct,
anything. When I moved the candle close to the boxes stacked on top
of the refrigerator, I caught the glint of glass.

My pulse quickening, I set the light down and lifted a couple of
boxes off the refrigerator. Behind them was a small window, about a
yard long and two feet high, set close to the ceiling. It was grimy
and I couldn't tell what it opened onto, but it was my escape route.

With sharpening determination, I moved the other boxes and stacked
them in front of the refrigerator so I could climb on them. Then I
looked around for something heavy.

There was a tool kit on one of the shelves, and in it I found a
hammer. I looked at it and then at the window, thinking of the sound
breaking glass would make. Could I smash the little window and be
through it and away before anyone came to investigate? There was sure
to be a drop on the other side, at least six feet, maybe more. What
if I fell or turned an ankle? Then they would catch me, and I'd never
be able to fool them with my helpless woman act again.

So what else can you do? I asked myself. Sit here in the dark,
wondering what they plan for you?

I climbed up the boxes, crawled on top of the refrigerator, and
took a close look at the window. The glass was thick, and I'd have to
knock out most of the pane in order to slip though the small space
without getting cut up. I paused, then raised the hammer and smashed
it against the glass. It shattered, and some shards fell away
outside, but not enough. The noise was deafening.

Desperately I whacked against the shards that still clung to the
frame—one, two, three times. Most fell, but one jagged section
refused to budge. I decided my heavy clothing would protect me,
dropped the hammer, and began squeezing through the frame, feet
first.

The casement slanted inward, and I almost slid down behind the
refrigerator. Then 1 got my right leg hooked over the outside edge. I
couldn't see the ground, and for a moment I panicked. What would I be
jumping onto? What if—

There was a pounding of feet outside the door behind me. Hands
fumbled at the padlock.

I took a deep breath and pushed off the sill with both hands. I
was falling… and then I landed on hard ground. My left ankle gave a
sharp pain, and I went down on my rear.

There were shouts from the room behind me. I scrambled to my feet.
Ahead of me was what looked like a thickly planted stand of fir
trees.

I ran.

I ran across what seemed to be a graveled road and into the trees.
Their low-hanging branches scratched my face and hands as I plunged
through them. Needles and twigs snapped under my feet, and I could
smell the bitter scent of pine sap. The shouts behind me grew
fainter.

The ground was rocky and sloped down. At the bottom of the incline
I heard the rush of water. The stream was not as big as the one near
Levin's cabin, and I leaped over it and kept going—until I came
to a stone wall maybe three yards beyond it.

I leaned against the wall, panting, then ran my hand over it. It
was rough, but there were no crevices between the stones that could
serve as handholds. Glancing up at its top, I thought I could make
out a few strands of barbed wire. They might be part of an alarm
system.

Did the wall surround the entire property? The only way to find
out was to follow it and look for a break.

As I began moving along it to my right, I became aware of the
sound of engines starting. Then there was a roar at the top of the
slope, where the road was. Headlights washed over the thicket in
front of the wall, and I dropped to the ground.

Around twenty feet away from me was what looked like the main gate
to the property. Two jeeps, each containing a man, pulled up and
waited. A guard holding a rifle came out of a shack next to the
wall—a shack that looked incongruously like an outhouse. He
opened the massive iron gates, waved the jeeps through, then returned
to his post.

They were probably afraid I'd gotten over the wall already. The
jeeps had been sent out to patrol the access roads for me.

I decided I had better find out how many of them I was up against,
so I waited for a moment and then began to scale the incline on all
fours. At the top, near the road, I lay on my stomach and peered
through the underbrush.

The building I had escaped from, presumably the main building of
the old winery, was a massive brick-and-stone structure set on a
knoll. It had a peaked slate roof and ornamental towers at the
corners; in each tower was mounted a floodlight and together they
made the scene below as bright as day.

A semicircular driveway bisected the lawn in front of the
building, and near the massive front doors stood four men in
fatigues. Two of them carried rifles, but the others didn't appear to
be armed. I didn't see Adair or Marchetti; probably they were
somewhere inside. That made a minimum of nine men—two outside
looking for me, the guard, four on the lawn, Marchetti and Adair
inside. How many of them were armed? No matter how short their
weapons supply, I was sure I could count on at least nine armed men.

And me, here in the dark, with no real sense of my bearings.

I moved quietly down the slope to the wall and started off along
it in the opposite direction. Maybe it didn't go all the way around
the property. Maybe there was a break.

After about fifty yards, the wall stopped, but instead of the
break I'd been hoping for, I found a chain-link fence. It was as high
as the wall and topped by three strands of barbed wire. It wouldn't
have been difficult to climb, but I was certain it was wired with an
alarm. I debated taking a chance, but decided against it. There had
to be another way out besides the main gate; a military encampment
would always have a secondary escape route. I kept going until the
cover of trees became narrower and finally gave out.

Looking around, I pinpointed my location by the main building. I
was behind it now, near the outbuildings I'd spotted from the hilltop
the day before. The ruins of Levin's cabin would be to my left,
beyond the fence and up a steep hill. Ahead I saw an open shed. It
was lit; inside stood a jeep. Logically, their alternate escape
route, if they had one, would be near where they had parked the
jeeps.