In The Dark Of Dreams Part 12

His gaze hardened. "Les. Yes. Yes, it was him."

"How . . ." she began, and shut her mouth, shaking her head. How this man knew Les wasn't important. Not yet, anyway. "Did he damage the rest of the boat?"

The man pried the plastic cup from her fingers. Jenny let go, surprised she had crushed it. He tossed the cup into the trash bin beneath her desk and stood, pacing to the porthole window. "I don't know. There are other things we need to discuss."

"I can't imagine what," she muttered, dazed.

The man didn't seem to hear. He prowled across the room to the door, peering up and down the corridor. Incredibly graceful, but too contained, as though all the energy bottled beneath his skin was ready to explode. Watching him made her feel claustrophobic.

He finally glanced at her, long hair shrouding much of his gaze: thoughtful, unreadable; alien in his utter remoteness, as though part of him was a million miles away. Jenny wished she could say the same about her own emotions. "I set us on a northerly course, toward a nearby chain of islands. I'm sure there are other places you would prefer to go, but we're being pursued."

Jenny stared. "Pursued?"

"Three vessels. That's why I woke you. We're now dead in the water."

She held up her hand, desperate for a moment to think-without pa.s.sing out-and tried to get off the bed. She managed to move a full inch before the man crossed the room and held her still. It was like hitting a wall. He wore shorts, she noticed belatedly; swim trunks that belonged to Les.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't trying to scare you."

"The only thing that scares me," she replied, hoa.r.s.e, "is the possibility I'm losing my mind. Now let me up."

He removed his hand. Jenny stood. Or tried to. Her knees buckled, and the man caught her against him. Her face pressed against a rock-solid chest that smelled like salt and minerals, and kelp.

"You're not crazy," he rumbled. "But I understand the feeling."

Jenny swallowed hard. She could hear his heartbeat, as well as her own. And, for a moment, a third pulse, in the base of her skull. All three, beating together at the same time. The sensation frightened her.

She shuddered, and tried to push him away. His arms tightened. "Easy. You're still weak."

"Doesn't matter. I need . . . s.p.a.ce."

"No time," he replied. "Our pursuers appeared less than ten minutes ago, circled, got close. The boat had been having trouble before that, and when I pushed the engines, they stalled out. Someone had begun the process of breaking down the wiring."

"Les," she muttered, though that didn't make sense, despite everything he had done. He seemed to need the boat. Ismail, on the other hand. . .

"The outer door," she added, and the man shook his head.

"Locked. But I don't trust that. This is a cage now." His voice dropped so low when he said the word cage, she almost didn't hear him. "The men have made no attempt to board. It's as though they're waiting for something."

Jenny pushed against the man with all her strength. Which wasn't much. She was incredibly weak. "Get out of my way. I need to see them."

He gave her a look so grim, Jenny felt afraid. But he surprised her by bending down and scooping her into his arms. His strength was effortless, and she swallowed her gasp, barely. "I can walk."

"I'd rather not sc.r.a.pe you off the floor," he said, with surprising dryness. "The first time was hard enough."

She stared. "You're a smart-a.s.s."

The man grunted, but it might have been with laughter. "I've been told that, in less polite terms."

There was barely enough room in the corridor for him to carry her, and the lab door stood ajar. He kicked it closed. Jenny glimpsed the cold locker on the other side of the gla.s.s. That door was open so wide she could see the mermaid's sheet-covered body.

She gave the man a sharp look. He was staring inside, faint scars even more p.r.o.nounced against his face-battle scars, marks of war, violence. Bad things had been done to him. Maybe he had done bad things to others. The look in his eyes-unforgiving, distant-suggested yes.

He had been in that cold locker. Jenny knew it. But the way he stared at the body was heavy with more than just memory. He had known that dead woman, and the idea was horrifying. Not just because it meant he had lost someone. In all Jenny's dealings, in every part of the world, the right perception-how strangers viewed each other-meant the difference between life and death. Here, now, especially.

"We found the woman several days ago," she said, afraid of what he would do. In all her fantasies, finding him again was not supposed to feel dangerous, like walking on a minefield. "She had washed up onsh.o.r.e, alive. I believe she died soon after she was found."

He seemed to think about that. "You were looking for her?"

"Not her, specifically," she replied carefully. "We received word of something . . . strange . . . about her body. That's what we . . . I . . . do. Search for . . . odd things in the sea."

I didn't kill her, she wanted to add, but couldn't speak those words. She was afraid it would sound like begging. But he looked at her as though he could read her mind, and said, "Breathe. I don't blame you for her death."

Relief made her voice embarra.s.singly ragged. "Why wouldn't you? You don't know me."

He stared dead into her eyes. "Not even a little?"

Jenny's breath caught, and after a moment of her continued silence, his mouth twisted into a bitter grimace that was too mysterious and unhappy for Jenny's comfort. He started moving down the corridor, hunched over to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. His long hair was soft on her face.

The man managed to squeeze them up to the bridge. The radios had been smashed. Wires and plastic covered the floor. He put her down but kept an arm slung around her waist like some supporting brace. Which, unfortunately, she needed in order to stay upright.

"Right there," rumbled the man, gazing out the window. Jenny looked, and saw a boat circling them almost one hundred feet out. It crossed paths with two other small vessels, going in the opposite direction: both little better than cheap tin cans, though their twin-engine propellers appeared new. The men on board were armed with machine guns and machetes, weapons strapped over flimsy T-shirts and shorts. They had already donned black ski masks.

The first boat was different. Newer. Sleek. Driven by only one man. He wore little except black slacks, a sleeveless black muscle shirt, and two guns holstered in a shoulder rig. No mask. Stone-cold face. He stared at The Calypso Star with dark eyes.

Looking at him sent chills through Jenny. She had never seen that man before, but she knew his type. The others might be local fishermen turned pirates. But he was a mercenary.

A mercenary . . . or something else. With the Consortium, you could never tell if what you were dealing with was fully and boringly human. Not until it was too late.

Sweat broke out. Feverish, but this time it was from fear. It was starting all over again. She had avoided her family for six long years, taken herself from the fight and all the bad memories she still couldn't shake-but the old war had come to her anyway.

What had Ismail said? The Consortium needed her.

Well. f.u.c.k that. f.u.c.k them.

If she could just stop shaking and untwist her guts from her throat.

"You're right," she said, sounding calmer than she felt. "They should have boarded by now. They're waiting for something."

"Or testing you to see if you'll attack and make yourself vulnerable. If that's the case, they won't wait much longer."

She hoped the mercenary was not psychic. "The windows are tinted to prevent anyone from seeing inside, and the gla.s.s is bulletproof. They can be opened, just enough. I have guns."

He was quiet a moment. "Do you want to kill them?"

The question took her off guard. Made her think about what it would mean to point a gun at someone and pull the trigger.

Again.

She still had nightmares. All these years, she hadn't let herself consider what it would feel like to live through that again. Not in the heat of the moment, unthinking-but deliberate. Intent. Picking up a gun to take the offensive.

Good. Bad. Maybe she would feel nothing at all. Perhaps some part of her would shut off, dead to taking another life-those lives, those Consortium lives.

"I want to live," she said, feeling ill again. "But no, I don't want to kill them. Most are probably just locals, hired to do a job. Pirates. Bad guys. But not . . ." Jenny stopped, unable to finish, unsure what she was trying to say. Stupid p.a.w.ns? Poor, ignorant men trying to make a living? Whatever. Even if that was the case, it didn't make it better. Most of them probably had blood on their hands. They wouldn't hesitate to hurt her if that was what they had been paid to do.

Truth was, she just didn't want to take a life. Not again. Not unless she had to. Killing a stranger wouldn't be any easier than killing a family member. She didn't want it to be easy.

"Do you want to kill them?" she asked, tripping over the words.

"No," he said, after a moment that lasted just a little too long. "This isn't the O.K. Corral," he added, surprising her with the reference. "And men who are shot at shoot back."

She glanced at the old bullet wound in his chest and felt relieved by his answer-though she didn't know why. It shouldn't have mattered.

Always matters, her grandfather would have said, as memories flashed, memories of that bad day. Jenny's nausea kicked up another notch. She wished she had chewing gum, and barely noticed when the man pointed to the unmasked mercenary. "That one is no simple pirate."

"No," she admitted, touching her throat, trying to think very hard about bunnies and daisies, and-and blood-all that blood from the bullets, and oh, oh G.o.d, the pain in her stomach- Jenny bent over, gagging. Covering her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes. The man's strong arm stayed around her waist. She tried to wriggle free, or at least turn away from him-tried to make herself as small as she could without actually curling up on the floor-but he moved with her, holding her, until finally she gave up trying to maintain even one ounce of her pride.

"Sorry," she mumbled, wiping her mouth.

"Don't be," he said, with surprising gentleness. "You'll feel better now, I think."

Jenny wanted to disagree with him, but the truth was, her nausea was gone. Even if her mouth tasted like s.h.i.t, and the base of her skull throbbed.

She straightened slowly, still wiping her mouth and eyes, and stared blearily through the window at those speedboats and the men inside them. Her heart thudded. It was hard to breathe.

"I hate them," she heard herself say, and stared at the mercenary in his nice boat, trying not to flinch or back away when his gaze settled on the bridge-and, seemingly, her. "I hate them so much."

The man drew her from the window. "A'lesander warned me you were being hunted."

It took her a moment. "Les?"

"Who wants to hurt you? Besides him?"

Jenny fumbled for words, still grappling with the idea that Les wasn't human. "I don't know how to explain. We were double-crossed by a person who works for a . . . a rival organization. He tried to kidnap me."

"That was more than two days ago. If he was supposed to contact someone-"

"Wait," Jenny interrupted, frowning. Hit, again, with how little she knew about this man. He wasn't human, he was frighteningly familiar-he had sung the song, the song she had sung to the boy, the boy on the beach, oh my G.o.d, oh my G.o.d-but that was all.

And she-who was usually so careful-had let him a.s.sume a peculiar command over this situation. She had even accepted medication from him, drinks that could have been drugged. Based on nothing more than instincts that were so insidiously rooted in her unconscious, she hadn't even given it a thought until now.

You know him, whispered a tiny voice. Don't fight it. He won't hurt you. He could never hurt you.

Jenny shook her head in denial. "How do you know how long it's been since the attack? Why are you even here?"

He hesitated. "I was in the region on . . . other business. We found an old man in the sea. He said there was a woman in trouble, and I had . . . strong reason to believe it might be you. So I came."

There was a great deal in those words that needed questioning, but Jenny could focus on only one thing. "Old man?"

"With a bullet wound. Alive when I left."

Jenny felt feverish again. "Let go of me."

"I don't think-"

"Let. Go." Her voice was so cold, so hard, she didn't recognize it.

The man's jaw tensed, his gaze utterly unreadable. Jenny suspected she should be afraid, but right then, she was too numb for fear-so close to losing it, she couldn't even feel her own body anymore.

The man's arm slid from her waist. "He was very concerned about you."

Jenny shoved him. He didn't have to move, but he did, and she staggered past him to the control station, leaning hard against it. Staring at him with new eyes, unsure what she was looking at anymore. Merman one minute, man the next, something else . . . something else now.

"His name is Maurice," she said, hoa.r.s.e. "I watched Les throw him overboard. We were . . . attacked. Someone shot him, but Les . . . finished the job. Are you sure he was okay?"

"Not okay, but alive. Fighting to stay that way with . . . friends of mine. The Malaysian Coast Guard was coming for him when I left."

Friends. Malaysian Coast Guard. Business in the region. Words that registered, and skipped like stones through her mind.

Oh, G.o.d, she thought. Oh, my G.o.d. Maurice.

"I need to get to him, and contact . . . contact our . . ." Her voice trailed away, and she peered at the man, blinking hard as light trickled briefly through the clouds, from the sun behind his head. His hair resembled a silver halo, and she could see, finally, the boy he had been-in those cheeks, in that mouth. A hard, terrible loss settled in her heart, and it wasn't because of betrayal or attempted murder.

"You," whispered Jenny, and the moment she spoke, she had to escape. Runner, she accused herself, but she didn't care. She'd finally found the impossible, and it hurt too much to be near him.

She pushed away from the control station, heading for the stairs. Not thinking. Acting only on instinct. He caught her before she went two steps.

Jenny elbowed him in the gut. He grunted, loosening his grip-which nearly sent her toppling over. She managed to catch her balance and staggered backward, fighting for distance.

"Stay away," she warned, breathless, light-headed. "Stay the f.u.c.k back."

But there was nothing Jenny could do when he grabbed her arms with his big rough hands and leaned in, breath hot. She had to crane her neck to meet those glittering blue eyes, and it made her dizzy, nauseous.

But what was worse was the eerie resolve in his face. Not fury. Nothing cruel. Just a cold determination that sank through her like a knife.

"Maybe I don't know you," he whispered impatiently. "Maybe you don't know me. But there is something between us. You feel it. I know you must. So trust that. Please."

Jenny swallowed hard. "And if I don't?"

Disappointment flickered. "Too bad."

He let go of her, far too abruptly. Jenny sagged backward against the smashed console. Outside, men shouted, but she hardly heard them. Her heart pounded too loudly, and there was a roar in her ears when she stared at the man. He wasn't looking at her now-away, out the window-but she felt his eyes on her all the same, burning ice in her veins. She suffered a gnawing, grinding hunger, pushing and pushing until she thought she would explode with the sensation, the terrible knowing of it.

"There was a beach," she heard herself whisper.

His shoulders sagged. "And I was a boy who had never seen red hair."

Her legs couldn't hold her weight. Jenny sank to the floor, trembling. Wondering, dimly, what was wrong with her. She had waited a lifetime to hear those words. She had never stopped looking. Never stopped hoping.