Killer Cargo

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Maria made it to her feet. “Does he…ever use complete sentences?”

“Rarely. He must like you otherwise he wouldn’t have spoken at all.”

“All he said was ‘here.’”

“For Stew, that was a regular diatribe. He’s one of eight children so that might explain his economy of words.”

Maria watched Hank suck down the last strand of green. Then he went to work scraping the hay into a pile, stopping once in a while to nibble a stalk. Soon he hunkered down, eyes closed. She could almost see him sigh with happiness. “It was nice of Stew to take care of my rabbit.”

“He’d take care of Hitler’s hamsters rather than see any animal go hungry. He prefers them to most people. Majority of the time, I agree with him.” Cy stripped off his jacket and sat in the worn rocker, rolling up the torn sleeve. His arm was a solid mass of muscle, lean and white in the lamplight. A dark spot showed a nasty scrape. He held a towel to the cut, pressing down to stop the flow of blood before he applied rubbing alcohol.

Maria settled uneasily in the chair next to him. It was hard not to stare at his strong profile. He didn’t look like someone who went around poisoning people. “Um, do you need help?”

He ripped open the gauze package with his teeth and applied it to his wound. “Thank you, no. I’m used to taking care of myself.”

The wind blew so hard it shook the walls of the small cottage and made the flames in the fireplace dance higher. “You never explained what you were doing out there in the storm.”

“No, I guess I didn’t. I was trying to protect my creek, that’s all.” He taped up the wound and disappeared down the hall, returning in a dry shirt and jeans, holding a handful of sheets and blankets. He gestured for her to follow him into the miniscule room with the cot and trunk. For the first time she noticed a glass aquarium on top of a crate illuminated by the tiny lamp hanging from the low ceiling.

She felt a twinge of unease as he unfurled the bedding. “Don’t go to any trouble for me. I’ll only be here tonight. I can sleep in a chair. No problem.”

Cy didn’t look at her. “You’re not going to sleep in a chair.” He made up the cot, tucking the sheets into sharply folded corners with machinelike precision. When he finished, he opened the trunk and examined the contents.

She thought she saw the same odd look steal across his face as he pulled out another faded pink sweatshirt and soft cotton pants.

He laid them on the bed. “You can borrow these.” A faint flush crept over his cheeks. “We’ll leave your shoes and socks to dry by the fire. Here’s a blanket. March evenings are cold in this part of Oregon.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be fine. Really.”

He put a flashlight on the pillow. “Sometimes we lose power during a storm. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Only one, I’m afraid. I’ll be over in Stew’s cottage if you need anything.” He handed her a scrap of paper with his cell number on it.

“You don’t need to leave because of me,” Maria said.

“Wouldn’t be proper for me to sleep here.” He looked into the aquarium at the frog huddled under a hollowed-out hunk of wood. “She won’t make much noise to keep you awake.”

She followed his gaze. “I won’t mind having her as a roommate.”

He didn’t smile. The look he turned on her was the usual impassive expression, but she saw a gleam in his eyes that she took for sadness. “She’ll be a quiet one anyway.” He laid a hand lightly on the glass lid and peered at the frog. “I’m afraid she’ll be dead before too much longer.”

“Oh.” Maria searched for something to say. She felt a pang for the tiny creature and for the man who peered at it so tenderly. “That’s too bad.”

He turned to go.

“Um, thank you. For the blankets and everything.” She watched his broad back vanish down the corridor. In a few moments, she heard the sound of the front door close.

Maria crawled into the narrow cot, wishing desperately she had thought to bring her laptop along on the disastrous trip. No, she couldn’t have managed it anyway. She’d have been hard-pressed to carry Hank’s crate and the laptop, too. She thought about plugging in the cell phone but she didn’t think another menacing call from Marty Shell would soothe her bedtime nerves.

There were no magazines, no books. No sign really that anyone ever inhabited the room. With the exception of a broken calculator, the bedside table was empty. There wasn’t even a dust bunny under the bed.

A noise made her heart leap until she decided it was the snap of a branch against the window. She hugged herself, her ears straining for sounds of movement. The stream of rain coursing down the gutters mimicked the tread of running footsteps. “You’re making yourself crazy, Maria.”

The chest called to her. “Open me,” it seemed to say. She listened for the sound of movement in the house, any tiny noise that might announce Cy’s return. Nothing. She eased the lid of the trunk open one millimeter at a time. The hinges squeaked, but made only a small groan of protest. Finally it was completely open and she could get a good look at the contents.

Inside were a few more sweatpants and shirts. One denim skirt, size ten and a pair of reading glasses. Underneath was an almost-used-up tube of lipstick, Petal Pink. At the very bottom was a tattered roll of wallpaper border in a busy floral print.

She almost missed the photo of a young man. It had been folded and the crease dissected the face just below the nose. The man was in his teens, she guessed, eyes dark, a half smile on his lips. Was it a relative of Cy’s? No, she thought. The man didn’t have the strong chin and wide shoulders she’d seen in her host.

Maria sat back on her heels. Who did this odd collection of bits and pieces belong to? Cy’s wife perhaps? Daughter maybe? She discarded that idea. Cy didn’t look old enough to have a daughter who wore a Misses size ten. It might be a wife, but there was certainly no sign of her outside of this room. Whoever she was, Cy wasn’t inclined to explain. The topic of cyanide bubbled up in her brain but she pushed it away.

The wood floor was cool under her bare feet. She padded over to the glass case and squatted down. It took several minutes to spot the small brown ball that wasn’t more than two inches long. The frog’s skin was satiny and spangled with black freckles. As she moved to get a side view, the frog startled forward. It bent its long, almost translucent legs to hop, but fell over instead, landing on its side on the mossy floor of the cage.

She could see the gold eyes watching her. Maria’s throat constricted. How helpless it must feel, exposed, terrified, unable even to make it to the sheltering corner a few inches away. “How did you get hurt, little frog? What will happen to you?”

She knelt next to the cage until a chill made her legs stiffen. When the light was out, she lay in bed, shivering against the cold sheets. With the tiny lamp turned off the room settled into quiet darkness, broken only by the whoosh of rain against the walls. Poor frog. Was her mind still active, trapped in a lifeless body? Tears wet her pillow until she dashed them away. Not now, Maria. You’ve got enough to deal with. Pray. It’s all you can do.

“Thanks, God, for keeping us safe tonight and providing us with shelter and warmth. Please give me the courage to face tomorrow.” Her eyelids grew heavy. “And please, God, take care of the frog, too.”

Her eyes snapped open. She lay there, heart pounding, wondering what had awakened her. The darkness was complete; her watch told her daybreak was still hours away. It came again, the soft crunch of a footstep outside. She bolted to a sitting position, blankets clutched around her.

What should she do? Call Cy? She scrambled through her backpack and looked on the floor for the scrap with his number on it. “Oh, no. I must have dropped it somewhere.”

She slid out of bed and hurriedly pulled on the pink sweat suit. Her skin prickled when she heard the sound again, closer this time, as if someone was walking a few feet from her window.

Had Cy locked the doors? Was she easy prey for the men who were looking for her? Her bare feet met the cold wood. As quietly as she could, she tiptoed down the corridor, praying the floorboards would not give away her location.

The house was dark, silent. Her panic increased with each passing step until she reached the kitchen. Sidling up to the window, she peered out into the darkness. The beam of a flashlight just outside the kitchen door flooded her body with terror.

A scream fought its way up to her mouth, and she sucked in a deep breath.

She watched in horror as the doorknob slowly turned.

FIVE

The handle revolved until the catch gave. A man stepped inside.

She screamed, grabbed a frying pan from the stove and swung with all her might.

The man dropped his flashlight and warded off the blow with a powerful forearm.

She staggered back against the wall and snapped on the light.

Cy’s eyes were wide, his mouth open in shock.

“Cy…what…what are you doing here?”

“I came to make sure I’d locked the windows.” He inhaled deeply. “You nearly brained me with that frying pan. Are you all right?”

Maria sagged in relief and sank onto the chair. Her face was coated with sweat and her hands shook as she pressed them to her face. “I thought you were…never mind.”

He sat across from her. “I apologize for scaring you. I couldn’t sleep and I began to wonder if I’d locked up properly. I didn’t want to wake you, but maybe I should have.”

She looked closely into his face to gauge the sincerity in his words but he was predictably unreadable. “It’s okay. No harm done.”

“Anyway, I’ll just take a look around and see that the place is secure.”

Maria listened to him glide around the house, checking the windows in every room and all the doors.

“All locked up tight,” he said on his return. “Are you sure…um, would you like me to fix you a cup of tea?”

His awkwardness would have made her smile if she wasn’t so steeped in fear and fatigue. “No. No, thank you. I think I’ll head back to bed now. Good night.”

“Good night, Maria.”

The thought struck her as she walked back to her room. Had he really returned to check for her safety? Or did he have a less noble purpose in mind?

At first she thought she was still at the bottom of the ravine, trapped in the Demon. When her brain began to function and her puffy eyes finally opened fully, she found herself in the same tiny room, tangled in the sheets, as watery morning sunshine crept through the cotton curtains. The smell of baking bread made her stomach rumble. For a moment her breath caught. Cy was back. Maybe he’d come to finish her off. Then she reminded herself it was his house and he probably did need to make breakfast.

She tamped down her fear and hauled herself upright, head throbbing, the muscles in her back tense from the previous day’s crash. After pulling on the pink sweatshirt and pants, she took a long look at the frog. She could see no sign of life from the poor creature, save for a tiny telltale vibration of the throat. The golden eyes swiveled slightly to look at her.

“Good morning, frog. I’m glad you’re still alive,” she whispered. “Hang in there.”

With a sigh, she tiptoed to the bathroom. A small bathtub-shower combo filled half the tiled space, leaving just enough room for a sink and tiny toilet. There were a few men’s toiletries, including a razor and shampoo, lined up neatly along the edge of the tub.

There was a dry towel on the counter with a folded wash-cloth and a bar of wrapped soap. She made a note to be a little kinder to her surly host as she prepared the hottest bath she could muster. He couldn’t really be a murderer, could he? A man who thought to provide her with towels and soap? Thinking about his stealthy entry into the kitchen last night made her shiver.

“Maria, Maria. Even Jack the Ripper probably had his good points. Goodness knows, you thought Shell had some fine qualities.” She turned off the faucet and eased into the water. She imagined herself in a gorgeous four-star hotel spa. The walls were the palest green and clouds of lemon-scented steam enveloped her in the massive Roman tub. On her floating tray was a breathtaking array of her grandmother’s finest sweets. Piles of crispy fried bananas with cinnamon sugar and dozens of docinhos, the little rolls filled with sweet cheese and soaked in sweetened condensed milk, danced across her closed eyelids.

She could hear her father’s voice, soft and musical.

“How can you eat so many, Maria, when you are already so sweet?”

How had he gotten in her daydream? She blinked to clear away the remnants from her imagination and soaked until the water cooled and she let it swirl away down the drain.

It wasn’t docinhos she smelled as she made her way to the kitchen, but frying bacon. And sausages. And eggs along with an assortment of other scents that made her salivary glands kick into overdrive.

Cy was at the small stove, stirring a pot. The table was set for four and there was already a loaf of brown bread and a pot of tea on the table.

“Wow,” was all she could manage. “Is this how you breakfast all the time?”

He looked over his shoulder and gave her a thin smile. “Yes, Miss de Silva. We enjoy a hearty meal in the morning. That’s what gets us through the day. Sit down, it will just be a minute.”

The guy must have some Latin in his blood, she thought as she stared at the piles of food. It seemed innocuous, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep a close eye on things. “Could you use some help? Oh, never mind. I forgot. You are used to taking care of yourself.”

He added the pot to the table and handed her the spoon. “Tell you what. You can dish up the oatmeal.”

She ladled the creamy stuff into the four bowls. “Who else are you expecting?”

“As soon as the smell of food hits the air, you’ll meet Loren. He’s never missed a breakfast yet. I consider it part of his wages since I can’t pay him much. There’s another gal, Sonya, coming to work later.”

As if on cue, a tall, lanky man sauntered through the doorway and slid into a chair. His short sandy-brown hair thinned slightly at the temples, his face marked by an occasional red blemish. He tore his blue eyes away from the feast to Maria.

“Hey. Good morning. You must be the lady who crashed the car in the creek.”

She blushed. “Er, yes. I’m Maria de Silva.”

He extended a hand. “Loren Swann. Nice to meet you. That’s a sweet car, even if it is a little dented.”