Night Magic (16 page)

“What are they doing now? Your sisters?”

He frowned a little. “Janey, the oldest, she’s eleven years older than I am, lives on the farm next to Momma’s with her husband, Bill, and four kids. Mary Ann, who’s two years younger than Janey, is a travel agent in Casper. She’s divorced with three kids. Sue and Sally, the twins, are three years younger than Mary Ann. They have seven kids between them, and they run Powder River Ski Resort with their husbands. And Betty, my youngest sister, is three years older than I am. She has four kids and lives with her husband on the farm next to Momma’s.”

“My goodness,” Clara breathed, a little in awe at the thought of such a family. It had just been herself and her mother almost since she could remember, she’d always secretly wanted a big family, brothers and sisters to squabble with and confide in, lots of noise and chaos. Her childhood seemed so bland in comparison to how she imagined his must have been.

“What about you? Tell me about your family.” Clara shook her head. “There’s just Mother and me. Daddy died when I was five. I always wanted brothers and sisters. I used to get lonely, especially at the holidays. Christmas was the worst.”

“Christmas with my family is a madhouse,” McClain said cheerfully. “I never go anymore. All those kids drive me up a wall.”

“Don’t you like children?” She was shocked. The only children she’d ever been around were Lena’s, and despite their constant peccadilloes she loved them dearly. That was the thing that bothered her most when she considered the growing possibility that she might never marry: she would never have any children of her own. The thought hurt.

“Sure I like them—one or two at a time. When you’re talking eighteen strong, the decibel level alone is enough to flatten a marine battalion.”

“I’d love it!” She spoke with the sudden conviction that she would. He looked over at her oddly.

“You know, you probably would. So why don’t you have kids of your own, then?”

Clara felt her cheeks redden. He had touched on a sensitive area, as he always seemed to. He seemed to have an uncanny knack for zeroing in on her weak spots.

“I know it sounds old-fashioned, but I kind of think I need a husband before I have babies.”

“So why don’t you have a husband? Oh, that’s right, you’re looking for Mr. Irresistible, aren’t you? I forgot.”

Clara shot him a narrow-eyed look. “What’s keeping you from getting married?” Determinedly she lobbed the ball into his court. “Or are you?”

He shook his head. “Not hardly. I grew up with a gaggle of women, remember. I’m not in a hurry to saddle myself with another one.”

“What about Gloria?” She drew the name out in a way that made it synonymous with Bimbo. As soon as she did it she could have bitten her tongue off, but she couldn’t help
herself: something about that name made her want to throw up. Or, she told herself in a brief burst of honesty, maybe it wasn’t the name at all but the vision it conjured up of a sultry blonde curled up in bed with McClain.

He picked up on the cattiness in her tone. That teasing smile flickered, and the glint in his eyes brightened them to the color of peridots.

“My, my, baby, you sound like you don’t like Gloria. You haven’t even met the girl. Not jealous, are you?”

“Over you?” Clara felt angry color wash up her neck even as she hooted. “Fat chance.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” he mused. “Gloria’s not a bit fat. If anything, she’s on the thin side. You know, one of those slim, elegant blondes.”

Clara silently ground her teeth. He was trying to get a rise out of her, the goat, and he was succeeding. Picturing Gloria as a slim, elegant blonde—something she had always wanted to be, with no luck outside the color of her hair was almost worse than picturing her in bed with McClain.

“So where is Gloria now? And why didn’t Rostov pick on her instead of me?”

McClain looked a bit uncomfortable at that. Then he grinned. “To tell you the truth, Gloria was out that evening As a matter-of-fact, she’d been out for several evenings prior to that. Gone home to her mother.”

Clara hooted. “Couldn’t stand you any longer, huh? I don’t blame her.”

McClain still looked cheerful. “Me neither. But you know something? I was kind of losing my taste for slim, elegant blondes, anyway. I like a little more meat on my women.”

It took a minute for that to percolate through Clara’s brain. When it did, she looked over at McClain a little
uncertainly. What did he mean by that? But he was looking at the instruments and his expression Cold her nothing.

They were swooping down over a valley, having come across a rolling stretch of mountains. Below were a few farms interspersed with the trees. Clara looked down at them wistfully. How nice to be safe at home. …

“Clara.” The way he said her name immediately alarmed her.

“What?”

“Look toward the east.”

She did. What she saw made her heart jump into her throat. A flotilla of helicopters had materialized on the horizon, flying toward them, skimming over the ground. The helicopters were army green.

“Oh my God!”

McClain manipulated the lever and the pedals, and their helicopter did a sudden swooping turn. Clara felt her stomach fall at the suddenness of it, but her heart remained firmly lodged in her throat.

“McClain” The voice came crackling over the radio. It was the first sound they had heard besides static since hijacking it. Clara felt panic start to build inside her. Beside her, McClain adjusted the earphones and spoke into the mouthpiece.

“McClain here. Who is that?”

“Bill Ramsey. McClain, we have orders to shoot you down.”

Clara felt her blood drain toward her toes. Oh God, to die in a flaming ball of wreckage plummeting toward earth. …

“General, I have a civilian passenger on board. A woman.” His voice was perfectly even.

“I’m aware of that. I also find it hard to believe you’re
mad-dog crazy enough to slaughter a hospital full of innocent people, shoot a cop, steal a police car and then a helicopter without a hell of a good reason. So I’m willing to give you a chance to tell me your side of it. You will accompany us to Camp Lejeune, where you will land your chopper and surrender to me. I trust I make myself clear, McClain?”

“Clear as a bell, General.”

“And McClain,” the general’s voice had an implacable note, “I hardly need to warn you that if you appear to be trying to escape, I will obey my orders immediately.”

“Understood, General.”

The radio went silent except for the soft crackle of static. McClain turned the helicopter about. Immediately the flotilla of helicopters resolved themselves into six, and they positioned themselves in a vee around their prisoner. With another helicopter leading the way, they flew southeast, toward, Clara assumed, Camp Lejeune.

“Jack,” her voice quavered, “what’s going to happen now?”

McClain’s jaw was set. He sent her a look out of eyes that no longer sparkled, but were hard and cold.

“We’ve got a chance. General Ramsey was my C.O. in Nam. We called him Wild Bill. He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s a fair son of a bitch. It takes guts to disobey an order, and his orders were to shoot us down. As long as he remains in charge of us, we’ll be all right.”

“But will he turn us over to someone else?”

Clara spoke in a tiny voice. Puff, apparently sensing her growing fear, roused himself from his nap on the jumpseat in the rear and walked over to jump in her lap. At his rumbling question Clara rubbed his head, and he settled down into a ball on her lap. McClain looked down at him,
seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. They spoke not another word until they were within sight of Camp Lejeune.

“Better get dressed, Clara.”

Clara had forgotten that she was clad only in a blanket. Her cheeks flared at the thought of presenting herself in such garb before a bunch of tough marines. Sliding off the seat, she moved to the rear and dressed quickly. Her clothes were still clammy, but she didn’t suppose it made a difference that she was immediately chilled to the bone. Pneumonia was way down on her list of things to worry about.

“Your turn.” She slid back into her seat, reaching for the controls with only a little trepidation. At this point crashing the helicopter was not one of her major worries either. He threw her a quick, encouraging grin, then stepped back to dress himself. He was back in moments, taking over the controls.

“I feel sort of like a frog in winter.”

He was trying to cheer her up, Clara knew. She smiled at him. “Me, too.”

The radio crackled, making Clara jump. “Set her down on the helicopter pad behind the terminal, McClain.”

“Will do, General.” McClain’s voice was even. But his knuckles were white on the joystick.

“Oh, Jack, I’m scared!” The words burst involuntarily from Clara as he set the helicopter down on the tarmac. The machine was immediately surrounded by a platoon of marines with rifles at the ready. McClain looked at her, eyes dark, hand still on the lever. Above them, the whirling blades drowned out all outside sound.

“I’ll do my best to get you out of this. If they interrogate you, just tell them the truth. That’s all we can do now.”

“Interrogate me?” Clara didn’t like the sound of that. Her eyes were wide and desperate as they met his. He stared at her for just a second, his jaw set, and then he was leaning toward her, his big hand cupping her head as he pulled her toward him. His mouth found hers, kissed her roughly. She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all her might.

“Let’s go, McClain!” The shouted command was accompanied by a loud banging on the closed metal door. McClain reached up and pulled her arms from around his neck, kissed her quickly one more time, then moved toward the door.

“Stay back behind me,” he said, and then he was sliding back the door. Hands immediately reached in to grab him He was pulled down onto the tarmac out of sight.

“Be careful of the lady. Like I said, she’s a civilian,” Clara heard him say to the armed contingent outside the door. Then she was walking forward too, clutching Puff, and to her surprise round that the soldiers were quite respectful as they helped her down, even holding her elbow to steady her descent.

“Sorry, ma’am, we have to search you,” someone said, and then hands were run over her, impersonal despite the intimate places they touched.

“She’s clean.”

“What about the cat?”

“I doubt it’s packing a piece.”

“I know that. What I meant was what do we do with it?”

“How the hell should I know? Let her keep it for now, I suppose. Hell, ask the general! What do you do with a cat, for God’s sake?”

This conversation took place somewhere behind her.

Clara heard it vaguely. She was looking for McClain. Finally she found him. He was lying spread-eagled on the tarmac with half a dozen rifles pointed at his head while his hands were handcuffed behind his back. Those brilliant green eyes met hers for an instant and then he turned his head away. Clara felt tears start in her own eyes. She had the most devastating notion that she would never see him again.

A grizzled officer walked briskly over to the group around McClain and was saluted all around. McClain was hauled to his feet, then turned to face the officer. That was the last she saw of him before she was led away.

XVI

Puff was taken from her at the jail. A uniformed marine lifted him from her arms despite her protests and Puff’s growls, and informed her that he would have to be taken to Animal Control on the base. Clara cried then. The tears that she had managed to hold back over McClain came rushing out for Puff. Or maybe she was crying for both of them, and for herself as well. She just didn’t know. She did know that she gulped and sobbed and bawled until a doctor was called to give her a sedative. And after that she didn’t know anything at all until she woke up on a narrow twin bed in a windowless, green painted room.

“I was just going to wake you. You must get dressed at once.”

Clara blinked groggily at the speaker. A dark-haired woman in the uniform of a marine nurse was standing beside the bed looking down at her. The expression on her face was neither friendly nor unfriendly. It was best characterized as efficient.

“Who are you?” Clara struggled up on one elbow, trying to get a handle on exactly where she was and what had
happened. She felt faintly woozy and more than a little nauseous.

“Lieutenant Holmes. I’ve been assigned to you until you leave the base, which will be in approximately ninety minutes. You have time to shower, dress, and eat breakfast if you hurry.”

Clara stared at the woman as the events of the previous day came flooding back to her.

“You said I’ll be leaving the base in an hour and a half. What about Jack—Jack McClain, the man who—they brought him here with me. And Puff. My cat.”

“I don’t know anything about either of them. My orders are to get you ready to leave. I’ve just relieved Lieutenant Moskowitz, who sat with you throughout the night. I understand you were given a sedative. Can you get up?”

“I—I think so.” Clara swung her legs over the side of the bed, surprised to find that she was clad in a hospital gown. Her head swam alarmingly, but she gripped the edge of the bed with both hands and after a moment the sensation subsided.

“What happened to my clothes?”

“Prisoners are not allowed to retain any personal property. Your clothes themselves will be brought up shortly, so that you may wear them as you leave. The rest of your property may be reclaimed at the front desk on your way out.”

This was more automaton than woman, Clara thought. Then she realized that she was in jail, a criminal, suspected of God knew how many heinous crimes. No wonder the lieutenant was not overly friendly. She wouldn’t be either in the lieutenant’s shoes.

“Did you say something about a shower?”

Lieutenant Holmes escorted her down the hall to the
shower, provided her with soap and other toiletries, including a meager selection of cosmetics, then stationed herself outside the door. Clara stripped off the gown, turned the silver knobs until the water was coming out in a steaming spray, then stepped beneath it with a blissful sigh. No matter what happened, it was good to be clean again. She scrubbed her skin, lathered her hair, then stood under the spray luxuriating in the warmth.

“You have forty-five minutes left.”

The voice from outside the shower recalled her to herself. Turning off the knobs, she wrapped a skimpy white towel around her body and another around her head. Then she stepped out into the large communal bathroom. The tile floor was cold beneath her feet and her skin broke out in goosebumps as she dried herself and dressed again in the gown she had discarded for want of anything better. Ignoring Lieutenant Holmes’ eagle eyes, she turned to the mirror and began to blow dry her hair. Looking her best always bolstered her courage, and she had a feeling that today she was going to need all the courage she could get.

The makeup the lieutenant had supplied was minimal. Lipstick, mascara, blush and powder. Clara fell on it with the avidity of a starving man. The blush was a conservative pale pink, She used it everywhere, on her cheeks and her chin and her forehead and even her eyelids, to counteract the sun and windburn that had reddened her normally magnolia white skin. The mascara brought out the pale blue of her eyes so that they sparkled against the pink of her skin. And the lipstick, a soft rose, added just the right amount of color to her mouth. Looking at herself critically in the mirror as she applied it, Clara thought that she had never seen herself look so well. Her hair framed her face in a shining gold bell, her cheekbones
were noticeable for the first time in her life, and she could even see the bones in her neck and shoulders. Then Clara understood: she had barely eaten a bite for three days and had undergone enough physical exertion for a dozen men. The ten pounds that she never could quite seem to lose had been taken off with a considerable jolt.

“Half an hour.”

Clara turned away from the mirror, handing the toiletries to Lieutenant Holmes. She accepted everything but the cosmetics, which she zippered into a small plastic bag and handed back.

“You can keep these. If you want to eat breakfast, we’ll have to hurry.”

In her room there was a tray with eggs, bacon, and toast. Clara normally did not eat eggs, but remembering how long it had been since she had had a normal meal she tucked in with gusto. There was no telling when she might get a chance to eat again.

Just as she was eating the last morsel of bacon, a knock sounded at the door. Lieutenant Holmes answered it, then turned back into the room carrying Clara’s own clothes, washed, ironed and neatly folded.

“Thank you. And please thank whoever washed them for me.”

“All prisoners’ clothes are washed as they come in. We have to store them until they leave, after all.”

“Well, I’m glad to have them clean, nevertheless.” Still under Lieutenant Holmes’ cold eyes, Clara slid out of the gown and into her own things. The teddy that had served as her underwear for almost four days was holding up remarkably well, considering the fragility of the silk and lace. Clara stepped into it, reminded irresistibly of McClain as she did so. He liked her teddy, she could tell. Where was
he? What were they doing to him? Would she see him again? Such thoughts were useless, she knew. Whatever was going to happen, she would find out soon enough. She stepped into her newly loose jeans, fastening them over a stomach that was undeniably flatter than it had been four days earlier, then pulled on her flannel shirt. The shirt had a rip in the shoulder. The blanket poncho would hide it, though she hated to wear the ugly thing. She pulled the poncho over her head. It looked exactly like what it was: half of a grungy blue blanket with a hole cut for her head. Oh well, since when had she ever been fashionable, anyway? Lieutenant Holmes saw it and frowned.

“I think we might have a sweater you can wear with that,” she said.

“Why, thank you.” Clara was surprised at this first evidence of human concern the other woman had shown. She pulled the poncho off as Lieutenant Holmes stepped out into the hall to place a quick call downstairs from the telephone which was right outside. A few minutes later a knock sounded at the door. A dusky rose, bulky knit pullover sweater was the result.

“That’s much better.”

“It is, isn’t it? Thank you.” Clara smiled at the woman. Lieutenant Holmes didn’t smile back, but her expression lightened slightly.

Another knock sounded at the door. Lieutenant Holmes answered it, then turned back and said, “Time to go.” Clara felt butterflies start to turn flips in her stomach.

“Do you know where I’m being taken?” she asked, but the lieutenant just shook her head.

Lieutenant Holmes escorted her to the front lobby, which was indeed enclosed with a barred gate. On the other side
two male officers waited to take over. Clara looked at them, swallowed, and lifted her chin. Whatever happened, she would keep her wits about her and deal with it the best she could. They thought she was a criminal; but she was a Winston and a Jolly and a member of one of Virginia’s oldest (though slightly impoverished) families. To say nothing of the fact that she was a published author. They could not just railroad her. Could they?

To her astonishment, the first thing the marines did was clap handcuffs on her.

“Is this really necessary?” she asked with Virginia aristocracy hauteur.

“Yes, ma’am,” they assured her, very politely. The handcuffs stayed in place as she was led from the building. Two cars waited below. Both were white Mercury station wagons, completely nondescript except for the flashing red lights mounted in the center of the windshield.

“What about my cat?”

“We don’t know anything about a cat, ma’am.” She was escorted inexorably down the stairs.

“Where are you—”

The rear door of the first car opened as she stepped onto the lowest step. A hand was placed on top of her head and she was hustled inside before she could even finish her question. Then the door was slammed and the car was pulling away.

“Hello, Clara.”

She looked sideways. There, sitting next to her on the blue vinyl seat, was McClain. No one had ever looked as wonderful to her in her life as he did at that moment. He was clean shaven, his aggressive chin smooth and powerful. His hair was shiny clean, neatly brushed in a military style. Like hers his clothes had been washed and pressed. The
bruises on his face had faded into faint yellowish traces, barely visible beneath the swarthiness of his skin. He looked toughly masculine, a man’s man in a man’s world. She felt safer with him than anybody she had ever known in her life.

“They took Puff to the pound!” The words burst from her, almost accusingly. He looked at her, his green eyes unsmiling.

“Did they? Well, he’ll be all right. You can get him back later.”

“That’s easy for you to say. What if they put him to sleep?”

McClain snorted. “I couldn’t get so lucky.”

“That’s an awful thing to say!”

“I apologize. They won’t hurt him. I can guarantee it, okay?” Clara was surprised at how certain he sounded. How could he know? In pounds across the country, stray animals were destroyed after about seven days, she knew. But Puff was not a stray; he was a blue-blooded Persian worth hundreds of dollars, any fool could tell that. Besides, he had a tag with his name, address and registration number on his collar. Surely no one would destroy a cat like that.

“You’re not in a position to guarantee anything, McClain.”

“Go soak your head, Thompson.” McClain scowled at the man in the front passenger seat, whom he apparently knew. The other man turned around to scowl back at him.

“You’re in deep trouble, McClain. You’d better remember that.”

“Lay off, Thompson. McClain, that goes for you too. We’re just following orders. No need to take it personally.” Clearly the driver knew McClain too. Clara looked over at
McClain questioningly. Only then did she realize that his hands were cuffed behind his back. She was more fortunate; at least her hands were cuffed in front.

“Clara, let me introduce you to two erstwhile colleagues of mine. Pat Thompson riding shotgun and Arthur Knebel driving. Gentlemen, meet Claire Winston, author.”

“Sure,” said Thompson, turning sideways to look back at them. His left arm in its tweed sportscoat sleeve lay along the top of the seat. “You never read a book in your life, McClain. How would you know an author?”

“Rostov mistook her for Gloria. You remember Gloria, don’t you, Thompson? You met her at the last Christmas party. You’d had one too many, and you were so googly-eyed over her you spilled a drink down her dress.”

“Lay off, McClain.” Knebel’s voice held a warning. McClain ignored him.

“Clara, I want you to tell them everything that’s happened to you. Start at the beginning.”

Clara looked over at him with a questioning frown.

“They won’t believe me. I’m hoping you can convince them. If you can’t, we’re going all the way back to Langley. And Rostov and company.”

Thus adjured, Clara started to talk. She told the two politely disbelieving men in the front seat about the night Rostov broke into her house demanding a mysterious magic dragon. She told about how she was kidnapped and found McClain being tortured in the basement of a house in northern Virginia. She told how they escaped, and how they’d been running for their lives ever since.

“Does that convince you?” McClain demanded testily when she was done.

Thompson snorted. “All it convinces me of is that you’ve embroiled an innocent woman in another one of your
stinking messes. Did he tell you about himself, Miss Winston? He was in charge of a sting operation in Hungary that ended up with everyone but him getting killed. He screwed up. Then he cracked up. Couldn’t take the guilt of getting all those people killed, I guess. They brought him back to the U.S., finally, and he spent almost a year in a loony bin. My guess is he’d been out drinking the night he shot up that hospital. He can’t hold his liquor; goes crazy when he drinks.”

“Why, you…” McClain lunged forward, eyes blazing, then seemed to get a grip on himself and sank back against the seat. Clara looked over at him, her eyes wide. She didn’t know whether she felt alarm or sympathy.

“Cool it, McClain. Thompson’s got a point, and you know it. Last we heard you were fanned out at a desk job, labeled unfit for active duty. Then the word’s out that you’d gone berserk again, shot up a lot of civilians, and were out wreaking general mayhem on the countryside. We were sent to bring you in, nothing more.”

McClain leaned forward again, his face grim as he kept himself under tight control, “Damn it, Knebel, that’s just what they want you to believe.
He
wants you to believe. Bigfoot. Whoever he is, he’s high level enough to sic the agency itself on me. Christ, man, think of the operations a mole at that level could jeopardize!”

“Oh, give it a rest, McClain.” Thompson turned back to look out the windshield in disgust. “Keep spouting off like that and they’ll be putting you in a rubber room before we get halfway to Langley.”

“Shut up, Thompson.” Knebel was frowning. “Miss Winston, did he tell you to say these things or are you telling the truth as you yourself saw it? Think hard before you answer, because if you lie any more you could
get yourself into more trouble than you’ll ever get out of.”