Night Magic Part 13

"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 h.e.l.l should I know? Let her keep it for now, I suppose. h.e.l.l, ask the general! What do you do with a cat, for G.o.d'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 a.s.signed 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 G.o.d 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 k.n.o.bs 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 k.n.o.bs, 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 gooseb.u.mps 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 b.u.t.terflies 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 a.s.sured 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 pa.s.senger 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 farmed 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. "d.a.m.n 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."

"Of course I'm not lying." Clara was getting angry at their att.i.tude toward her, and it showed. She didn't go out in society much, but when she did she was accustomed to being treated with respect, if not downright deference. After all, she was a Winston and a Jolly- not to mention a published author! What she was not was a total fool. She told them so, and McClain grinned at her.

"You tell 'em, baby."

"Another of your bimboes, McClain? Somebody should warn you, Miss Winston: he's famous for them."

"Thompson, I swear to G.o.d that when I get these handcuffs off I'm going to knock your teeth down your throat!"

"Shut up, both of you!" Knebel hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. The resultant loud slap made Clara jump. She looked over at McClain uneasily. Of course, she knew that every word she'd said was the truth, but what about the things he had said? Maybe, just maybe, he had shot up that emergency room. She hadn't been with him Friday night, after all. Maybe Rostov was after him for an entirely different reason than what he said. Maybe Rostov wasn't KGB at all, but a Mafia enforcer, for instance. Who knew what McClain might have gotten himself involved in? Drugs, maybe, if a hospital was involved? After all, during the time she had known him he had not impressed her with his stability.

Her eyes were upon him, and he must have correctly read the doubt in them.

"Et tu, Clara?" he said softly, then settled back in his seat, his mouth grim.

"Jack..." Her voice was troubled. Those green eyes were very hard as they met hers. She bit her lower lip. She wanted to tell him that if he was... troubled in his mind she would understand. He had been through a very difficult experience in Vietnam and apparently afterwards too, if Thompson's words were true. It was no shame that he had broken under what must have been an intolerable burden.

"I am d.a.m.ned well in possession of every one of my faculties," McClain ground out, glaring at her. Clara gave him a gentle smile.

"See there, Miss Winston? You're beginning to have second thoughts, aren't you? Now I don't doubt that McClain here is in some trouble, but the question is, what kind of trouble? Could any kind of a different interpretation be put on what you've experienced? After all, what did Rostov actually say to you? Admittedly, Rostov is KGB, but the point is, except for McClain's telling you so, how do you know that the man who came after you was Rostov? He could have been anyone with a personal grudge against our pal here, don't you see?"

"Bulls.h.i.t!" McClain gritted. Clara looked over at him helplessly. She wanted to believe him, she did, but the whole thing was so utterly fantastic. Here were these calm, reasonable men working for the very agency that her spy claimed to represent, telling her that McClain was crazy. Who was she to believe? All her instincts urged her to side with McClain, but were her senses unfairly disordered by her attraction to him? Face it, she had never had very good judgment when it came to men, and apparently, if Thompson were to be believed, he was a past master with "bimboes." Had he made a fool of her in more ways than one?

"The point is," Thompson continued inexorably, "that he hasn't any proof. Just what he says a supposed defector told him. And I never heard a word about that defection, by the way. Again, we have no proof except his say-so that it ever happened."

"You d.a.m.n idiots," McClain said bitterly, and turned his head away from them.

No one spoke for a while. McClain stared out the window, watching the pa.s.sing scenery in tense silence. The countryside was beautiful, Clara noted in pa.s.sing, but she had no appet.i.te at the moment for the beauty of North Carolina in the autumn. She watched McClain and her heart ached for him. Poor, tormented man. His face was turned away from her, but she knew each feature as well as she knew her own. If her hands were free she would reach out and touch that harshly carved face. But as it was, all she could do was look.

"d.a.m.n it, Clara, I am not crazy!" He turned his head to catch her sorrowing eyes on him. Her pitying look must have galled him because his words were filled with suppressed violence.

"Oh, Jack, I know you're not crazy." The very emphasis she put on the word left room for a large but. He glared at her, then leaned forward again.

"Listen, Knebel, you can see she's not involved in this. At least let her go before you take me in. Like Thompson said, she's just another of my women. No point in dragging her into this any further."

Knebel shook his head regretfully. "No can do. My orders are to bring you both in. Sorry."

"d.a.m.n it, man, you realize that they'll kill her!"

Knebel sighed. "McClain, n.o.body is going to hurt anybody, least of all Miss Winston. Miss Winston, I hope you believe that."

"Do you believe that, Clara?" McClain turned to look at her with a fierce bitterness. Clara stared back at him helplessly. The truth was, she didn't know what to believe. She wet her lips, trying to think of an answer. Before she could come up with one, Thompson looked in the rearview mirror and frowned.

"Hey, we've lost our backup." Just then the radio crackled. Thompson picked up the microphone.

"Where are you guys?" he barked. The answer from the radio was unintelligible to Clara, but Thompson relaxed again as he replaced the mike and spoke to Knebel. "Seems some d.a.m.n fool truck tried to turn in front of them just as we went around that bend. They'll catch up." Clara realized that the two cars had a two-way communication set up.

"s.h.i.t! This is it! Man, I told you, they're not going to let you bring me in! The whole setup is KGB, you d.a.m.n fools!"

"Now, McClain, calm down." But Knebel looked in the rearview mirror as he spoke, sounding the slightest bit uneasy. McClain was sitting tensely alert, scanning the surroundings with narrow eyes. Clara turned around in her seat to look back down the road. It was deserted. Nervously she wished the backup car would hurry and catch up.

"They'll be back with us in a minute." Knebel still sounded uneasy.