Night Magic (4 page)

“There is no one here!” The voice with its slight foreign accent was taut with anger and accusation. Clara swallowed. There was a can of mace in her top drawer. …

“He—he was there. He hid there. I saw him. I—he must be under there.”

The man pulled up the dust ruffle again. A fat gray paw
darted out, batting at the shifting material. Puff loved to take a swing at moving objects.

“You see, he is there!” Relief rang in her voice.

“There is nothing here but a cat!”

“That’s Puff.”

“I am not interested in the beast’s name! Enough of this foolishness! You will tell me where the Magic Dragon is, now. Or I will force you to talk in ways that you will not enjoy, I promise you.” He rose to his feet, his eyes narrowing until they were icy blue slits.

Clara had no difficulty believing him. She cowered, cradling her arm protectively against her as she watched him approach with growing terror.

“But—but Puff
is
the magic dragon. You know the song. ‘Puff, the magic dragon, lives by the sea,’ “ she babbled, singing a few bars for emphasis. “I named him for the dragon in the song, and I named the character in my book for Puff. Because his name gave me the idea …” Her voice trailed off and she shrank against the nightstand. In a second he would reach her. He would hurt her, she knew. Should she make a grab for the mace now? Even if she could get to the chemical, would she dare use it on this man? She remembered hearing somewhere that mace didn’t always work on lunatics—and this man seemed to be totally around the bend.

“I want the Magic Dragon!” The words were a hiss. Clara cringed as he took another step toward her. As he closed in on her she pressed herself backward until her spine felt as if it would meld with the flowery paper covering the wall. Her hand shot down toward her nightstand and closed around a framed picture of her mother—framed in padded fabric, naturally. It was the only object she could reach… But before she could throw it or hit him with it or whatever she
intended to do, he stumbled, falling heavily, cursing in a foreign language as the side of his head hit the nightstand with a resounding crack. An indignant yowl and a flash of gray fur gave her the identity of her rescuer, but Clara didn’t wait around to see how long her attacker would be down. This was her chance, her only chance, and she took it with a speed born of desperation. Leaping to her feet, picking up the skirts of her robe, she cleared the man’s back with the agility of a running back and darted down the hall toward the kitchen door, leaving her pink mules behind her as she went. He had left it standing wide open.

“Stop her!” he roared, and his two confederates burst out of rooms on either side of the hall. Terror gave her a speed and agility she had never imagined she possessed as she dodged them both and the glass on the floor as well to fly through the door with them hot on her heels, shouting curses in a foreign language that was not French or Spanish or Arabic but Russian. (The “nyet, nyet” she heard one of them shout to another was unmistakable.) The cold wash of an autumn rain fell about her head, but she didn’t even feel it, or hear the companionable rumble of thunder. She ran for her life, darting across the yard into the tobacco field across the road, leaping and dodging amongst the stalks of tobacco that had thankfully not been harvested because there was no money in it this year and were therefore higher than her head. They would have a hard time finding her in the field at night. Behind her she could hear them crashing about, and she was glad of the noise. At least she could keep track of their whereabouts, and the noise they made would drown out her own less cumbersome passing. …

A tall, shadowy figure holding a gun materialized directly in front of her. No, it couldn’t be, it was impossible. They could not have gotten in front of her. Clara opened her
mouth to scream with mindless, soul shattering terror. She would be killed now, she knew. He was on her in an instant, whirling her around so that her back was to him, his hand slamming over her mouth, stifling the scream before it was born. He yanked her back against his chest, then threw her to the ground. Her breath was knocked from her as he fell with her, landing heavily on top of her, pressing her face into the pebbly mud between the rows. Tears fell from Clara’s eyes to mingle with the rain on her face as she felt the hard muzzle of a gun pressed to her temple.

III

McClain felt the soft body of the woman beneath him and cursed under his breath. He hated hurting women. It was a weakness of his that must have been instilled in him by his female relatives. But this one was one of the bad guys, had to be if she was involved with Rostov. And she
was
involved with Rostov. McClain had tailed him to this farm in the middle of nowhere, having discovered the Russian and his henchmen systematically searching his apartment when he had driven the Corvette up outside, only a half hour or so after he had made it safely away from the hospital. He had stopped only to buy a Saturday night special from a guy on the streets. At the last minute he’d thought to offer the man an extra twenty if he’d throw in his sweatshirt and sneakers and the man had obliged. He might smell a little bit—the sweatshirt was definitely well-worn—but at least he was armed and decently covered.

The disadvantage of being as much machine as man was that your moves were predictable, McClain thought. He had expected Rostov to show up at his place, although he had thought it would take a little longer than it had. He
had already decided that his best course was to go on the offensive and take out Rostov before the Russian could take him out.

Thanking God that he and Gloria had had a fight that morning and she had stormed home to her mother for the umpteenth time that month, McClain had settled in to watch what happened. His first thought upon driving away from the hospital parking lot, with a relatively whole skin, had been to contact Hammersmith, but an innate sense of caution had caused him to hesitate. After all, his last conversation with Hammersmith had had very unpleasant consequences. Somehow, that telephone call had been intercepted by the
KGB.
The odds on Hammersmith being involved with the Soviets were minimal, but not nonexistent. Good agents had turned before. With his life on the line, McClain preferred to err on the side of caution. Until he had had a chance to sort this whole thing out in his own mind, he felt safer going it alone. The thought had occurred to him that he might just be able to use Rostov to get to Bigfoot. If he was lucky, when the search was finished and a guard posted on the off chance that McClain was stupid enough to waltz back into his apartment, Rostov would report to his superior. And if he was really lucky, Rostov’s superior might turn out to be in contact with Bigfoot. Of course, it had been a long time since he’d been that lucky, but then luck had a way of changing. Sometimes.

“Shut up!” he hissed in response to the woman’s gasping efforts to breathe, and stealed himself for what he was probably going to have to do to her to make her talk.

Clara shut up. This man’s accent was definitely American, and he seemed both shorter and more muscular than the one who had attacked her in the house. He was also not
wearing gloves. She felt the hard warmth of his palm over her mouth. The salt of his skin burned against her cut lip.

She lay unmoving beneath his crushing weight for what seemed like an eternity, trying not to think of the gun that was still pressed to her temple. Would she know when he pulled the trigger, or would it all happen so fast that she could be dead before the action could register?

Finally he shifted, lifting his head as if he were listening. Oh, God, were the others still looking for her? For them? For he had seemed as anxious as she to hide. …

“Make a single sound and I blow your head off. Got it?”

Clara nodded. She was no longer even aware of feeling frightened. She had gone beyond that to numbness. Nothing mattered any longer. If he was going to kill her, let him kill her and be done with it.

To her surprise, he rolled off her to crouch by her side. The gun was no longer pressed to her temple, but balanced loosely in his hand. He jerked her up so that she was kneeling in front of him, facing away from him. The gun settled behind her ear. Clara cringed.

“What have you got to do with Rostov?”

“Who?” Her voice sounded rusty because her throat and tongue and lips were so dry. The cold rain had slackened, but her face, like the rest of her, was soaking wet. She ran her tongue around her lips to catch some of that precious moisture, swallowed, then tried again. “Who?”

He was impatient. “The man in your house just now. You do remember him?”

“Oh.” Clara licked her parched lips. The pressure of the gun’s muzzle behind her ear increased. “He—he broke into my house. But—”

“Now why would he do that? Break into a strange woman’s house? Pretty unusual, that, wouldn’t you say?”

He paused for a moment, then his hand twisted in the wet knot of hair at the nape of her neck. “Tell the truth. What are you to Rostov? His contact?”

“I am telling the truth!” Clara was almost in despair. Why would no one believe her? Crouching amidst towering stalks of tobacco in a freezing rain in the middle of the night with a madman who had a gun pressed to her head was making her feel lightheaded. What else could happen to her? Then she thought, he could kill me, and she started to shake.

“You are telling me that Rostov drove thirty miles into the country and then broke into your house for no reason? Sweetheart, I should warn you that I’m perfectly aware of Rostov’s game. He’s
KGB,
and he wouldn’t have driven out to the middle of nowhere at this time of night without a reason. But he did drive directly to your house and went inside. So tell me, what did he want?”

“He kept asking me about a Magic Dragon!” Clara wailed. This man was as crazy as the other. She had escaped from one only to fall victim to his doppelganger. She had to figure out a way to escape from him too.

“A Magic Dragon?” There was a curious note in his voice. He went very still, almost seeming to forget to breathe. “He was asking you about a Magic Dragon? What precisely did he say?”

“He—he wanted to know where the Magic Dragon was. He kept asking me over and over. So I told him.”

“You
told
him?”

“Puff was under the bed. I told him so.”

“Who the hell is Puff?”

“My cat. I named him Puff, as in ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’ That lunatic in there—Rostov?—was waving my
book around and demanding that I tell him where the Magic Dragon was. So I told him.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then, “Tell me precisely what happened. Everything.”

Clara did, from the moment the man knocked on her kitchen door to her escape. When she finished, the man was silent. Clara dared a quick look over her shoulder. The moon cast an odd silvery light over his face. In that split second she saw that he wasn’t handsome at all. His face was broad-jawed and pugnacious, with a crooked nose and thin lips quirked now in what was almost a smile. Black hair that was too short for her taste gleamed blue in the moonlight. But what caught her attention was the extraordinary color of his eyes. In the moonlight, they glittered as brightly green as emeralds.

“So Rostov drove all the way down here on the strength of a dedication in a book, did he?” Although she was no longer looking at him, she could swear he was grinning. “He must have found it in my apartment. My girlfriend reads that romantic trash all the time. She must be a fan of yours. What did you say your name is?”

“Clara. Clara Winston. But I write under the name of Claire Winston.” She was willing to disregard his slander to her profession under the circumstances.

He shook his head. “So you wrote a book about a spy and called it
The Magic Dragon,
huh? And dedicated it to the real Magic Dragon, with love?” There was no mistake this time. He actually chuckled. “Well, you certainly succeeded in laying a false scent, I’ll give you that.”

He straightened suddenly, standing up and thrusting the gun into his belt. Looking up at him, Clara saw that his shoulders were very broad while his waist was narrow and his legs were long and muscular. He was clad in a black
sweatshirt and jeans, and towering over her like that he looked very menacing, despite the fact that he’d put the gun away.

“Let me give you some advice. Miss Winston,” he said softly. “Find someplace to go for a couple of weeks. Rostov thinks you know where I am, and he wants to find me very, very badly. And he is not the type to take no for an answer. So take a vacation. He’s gone for now—he and his men drove off shortly after you ran into the fields. But believe me, if he doesn’t find what he’s looking for soon, he’ll be back. And I mean to see that he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.”

“Who are you?” The whispered question was involuntary. She didn’t really expect a reply, which was just as well, because she didn’t get one.

Instead, he turned and melted away through the tobacco. Only the rustling of the tall stalks as he passed told her that he was real, that she hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. Shaken, she continued to crouch in the mud without moving for a long time. But gradually it began to dawn on her that she was alone, and safe—for now at least—and the rain was starting up again. Standing, she peered warily between the rows of tobacco toward her little house. The kitchen door swung wide, and every window blazed with light. No one was about. Could she really take that man’s word that Rostov and his thugs were gone? Who was he, anyway? He’d said Rostov wanted him. Could he have some connection with the mysterious dragon Rostov was searching for? From his reaction to her story, she rather thought he did. What in the world had she gotten involved in?

A familiar round gray shape stalked into view, framed by the light spilling from the kitchen door. Seating himself on the stoop, Puff began to wash his face. That settled one
question, Clara thought, stepping shakily forward. There was no one in or near the house. Puff was better than any watchdog at detecting intruders. He would never behave so calmly if a stranger were near. Walking first slowly, then quickly, and finally running, bare feet squelching through the mud, Clara made it across the road and lawn and up the steps. Puff watched her galloping approach slit-eyed, then stalked down the steps as she leapt past him. His dignity was unimpeached by what had happened. Hers was nonexistent.

Once in the house, Clara quickly slammed and locked the door. Not that it would do any good if that man—any of them—came back, she thought. The second man—the good man, she labeled him for want of a better tag, though he was “good” only in comparison with the first, who had been brutal—had advised her to take a vacation, and that was precisely what she intended to do. As soon as she called Mitch. Damn it, he was the sheriff, it was his job to protect innocent citizens like herself. She had even voted for him in the last election. So where was he when she needed him?

Picking up the phone, she started punching out the number before she even had the receiver to her ear. It was all she could do to stand there and calmly make a phone call. Her every nerve ending wanted to send her screaming into the night.

The phone was dead. That information filtered through slowly, and when it did she wasted a precious few seconds staring blankly at the receiver. Then, as the horrifying implications of how alone and helpless she really was came over her, she dropped the phone as if it had suddenly turned into a warty toad. Oh Lord, she had to get out of the house, now, before Rostov and his men returned!

Running through to her bedroom, Clara shed her robe, snatching some jeans and a shirt out of the drawer and throwing them on over her mud-smeared body and the lacey white teddy that she was wearing for steep. She was filthy, covered with mud from her head to her feet, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even care that her full breasts jiggled indecently beneath the shirt without the support of a bra. She could change into a proper bra and panties later, when she was safe. She tossed them into a small case. Dragging a pair of battered boat shoes and a rain jacket from her closet, she pulled them on and headed for the door. All she wanted to do was get out of the house. Immediately.

She needed her purse. Her car keys were in there. Looking wildly around, she had to bite back a terrified sob. She could never find her purse when she needed it … Thank God, there it was on the floor. The thugs had apparently searched it and thrown it aside. Its contents were spilling out onto the rug. Scooping them back inside with a single sweep of her hands, she grabbed her keys and purse and headed for the front door. Not for anything would she go through the kitchen door again. Just the memory of a black-gloved hand coming through the pane was enough to give her the shakes.

The cats. She couldn’t leave the cats. Swearing under her breath, she ran back into the kitchen. Amy and Iris were under the table. She called them, and they came to her, hesitant but obedient. Snatching them up, she hurried out the door. Puff was outside. She called him as she ran down the steps. But of course he didn’t appear. Clara whistled for him—he usually came to a whistle just like a dog—but got no response.

“Come on, Puff!” she muttered as she dropped Iris and Amy onto the back seat of her Honda Civic. Stowing the
suitcase in the trunk, she kept a wary eye out as she tried another whistle. “On your head be it, then,” she muttered, and got into the car. Not even for Puff would she risk another encounter with Rostov and his hooligans. She could send Mitch back for Puff, because Mitch was the first person she expected to see. Not that Mitch, for all he was the sheriff and carried a gun, was a match for the thugs who had just left. But she would feel a thousand times safer with him than on her own.

Just as she started the car Puff came sauntering into view. Cursing, sweating, Clara swung open her door after a hunted look around assured her that she was still alone.

“Come on, Puff!” He sat on his fat behind and stared unwinkingly at her. Clara would have left him then, except that he happened to be blocking the driveway. Cursing some more, she got out of the car and ran to snatch him up. He purred as she touched him and rubbed his head against her shoulder.

“I ought to strangle you,” Clara muttered as she deposited him on the passenger seat. Jumping in herself, she slammed and locked the door and burned rubber on her way out the driveway.