kitchen light. Rain pattered on the roof like gentle cat feet. Cy’s face was unreadable as he watched her intently.
What should she say? The truth sounded ridiculous, even in her own mind. She had a feeling he would see through any evasions in a snap. She watched him lean back in the chair, strong hands laced across his flat stomach. He didn’t move. She might have thought him sleeping if it wasn’t for the glitter of his eyes watching her.
She sipped some tea before answering. “I really am a pilot.”
“So you said.”
“I fly small payloads and sometimes people.” She thought she caught a look of suspicion. “I’m commercially rated and all. I’ve got my certification, if you want to see it.”
“Later. Please go on.”
“The longer I waited on the tarmac, the more worried I got. Did you ever have one of those weird ‘something’s not right here’ feelings?”
He nodded.
He’s probably having one right now. “Well, the long and short of it is the box of contraband was, er, drugs.”
He stiffened. “And you opened this box?”
“I did.” Her chin went up. “It’s my plane, and I have a right to know what’s in it down to the last kibble.”
He continued to watch her closely, his body tense. “And?”
She shifted on the chair, feeling the pulled muscle in her shoulder from her unceremonious fall into the creek. “I ran. Then I crashed into your creek.”
“I remember that part.” His eyes bored into her. “Did you take the box?”
She flushed. “No, I did not take the filthy stuff. I left it there and took off.”
“Why did they come after you, then?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Shell, the guy who hired me, called my cell phone and accused me of taking some other package on board. I still can’t believe it. The guy makes honey and raises champion Yorkshire terriers. His wife knits. How could he possibly be a dealer?” Maria got up from the table and slammed her soup bowl on the counter. “Whether you believe me or not, I didn’t take any drugs.”
“So what do you think is going on then? Folks don’t chase down other folks unless there’s a good reason.”
“I think Shell’s own people double-crossed him. I mean, he works with criminals, after all. That’s the only theory I can come up with.” She felt her remaining energy ebbing, like a balloon leaking helium. “I’m the victim here. I lost my plane, for crying out loud, because I trusted the wrong person.” She was dismayed to feel her eyes prick with tears.
His face remained impassive. “That’s quite a story. I’ve never heard one like it.”
“Well, it’s true, every word.” Her anger rose to the boiling point. “Who do you think you are, anyway? You don’t have the right to interrogate me.”
The glint in his eyes was dangerous. “Actually, I believe I do. You are a stranger, who crashed a car that doesn’t belong to you into my creek. I’ve got only your story that bad men are after you to retrieve something you say you don’t have. And the item in question is drugs. That’s some serious subject matter, to me anyway.”
She opened her mouth for a retort when an enormous black man carrying two flashlights poked his head into the kitchen. The man must be over six feet tall. She recognized the person she’d seen right after the crash.
His bald head gleamed as he nodded. “It’s time.”
Cy gestured to his friend. “Maria, this is Stew.”
She managed a half wave.
Stew shot Maria an uneasy look and went back outside.
Cy looked at his watch. “Stay put until I get back.”
She straightened. “Maybe I’ll be running along. I’ve got places to go.”
A hint of a smile revealed a small dimple in his cheek. “You won’t be getting very far in that fancy car. We haven’t pulled it from my creek yet.” He took a windbreaker from the peg and headed out the door. “Stay put,” he said again. “I’ll be back.”
The cottage settled into silence except for the occasional pop from the fire. Maria washed her dish and returned it to the cupboard. Outside the tiny square window she could see only glimmers of rain and wind-whipped trees. Once, she thought she saw a pair of lights bobbing in the gloom but only for a moment. What on earth were two men doing out at night in a downpour?
The rain hammered against the windows and wind howled all around. A shutter whacked against the outside wall, making her jump. She wandered back into the sitting room. A row of faded pictures hung crookedly on the wall. One was of an older man and woman sitting in an old car. Another was of a young man, tall and muscular, in a military uniform, his arm around the same older couple. So Mr. Cy Sheridan was an ex-soldier. Why didn’t that surprise her?
A sheaf of papers on the end table caught her eye. She picked them up and squinted at the handwritten scrawls.
HCN, CNCI, KCN, check vapor density, solubility, polymerization. Flammable limits, binds to hemoglobin. Binding to cytochrome? ATP synthesis stopped. How quickly?
Maria puzzled over the strange notes. Then she caught a familiar word written at the upper corner. Cyanide.
Her mouth went dry. The guy was keeping notes about cyanide? Great. She thought about the tea and soup she’d ingested. Her stomach spasmed, and an ache materialized in the small of her back. What could he need with a lethal substance like that?
She sank down on the floor next to Hank’s cage. He was asleep, curled into a tight ball, nose quivering slightly.
“What am I going to do? Stay under the same roof as a guy who knows about cyanide?” Her lip curled at the thought of Cy and his imperious order. For all she knew, Cy and his giant friend could lure people into this place and poison them. Hank fluffed his fur. The effort upset his balance and he fell over on his side. With a start, she reined in her imagination and started working on her escape.
Leaving presented a logistical problem. She would have to wait until the car was fished out and then hightail it to the nearest police station. In the meantime, she resolved not to eat anything unless he tasted it first.
Formalizing a plan buoyed her spirits for a moment. If she could extricate herself from this predicament, and get her plane back, her old life was waiting for her: a quiet apartment, plenty of work. And plenty of memories. She shook her head to dislodge that last thought. “My life is going to be fine again, Hank, you’ll see. And you can come live with me. How would that be?”
From her position on the floor, Maria saw a small needle-point sampler on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? Psalms 139:7. She wondered who had stitched it for Cy, those precise loops of color embroidered onto ivory linen. The paradox confused her.
What
