Getaway

[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE]

“You think you can keep it together?”

She nodded. There wasn’t much choice.

“You got mugged,” he reminded her. “You’re feeling better now. You wanted to go someplace where you could relax. Somewhere quiet.”

“Okay,” she said.

They had driven off the main highway, on a series of local roads. She’d seen a little bit of the town, a combination of an old village with men in white straw hats riding horses on the streets and art galleries that looked transplanted from someplace like Santa Fe.

Now they were on a tiny lane that had been carved out of the jungle, narrow enough and so shaded by trees that it resembled a tunnel of green.

Ahead was a wrought-iron gate with a guard box, and a guard. No uniform, but built like a weightlifter.

“You don’t have anything to worry about here,” Daniel said. “It’s just a party.”

The guard took in Daniel’s face and nodded.

The gate rolled open.

“Whose party?”

He hesitated. “His name is Curt Dellinger. He’s a client.”

Dellinger. That sounded familiar, but she couldn’t say why. “A client?”

“I handle transportation for him sometimes,” Daniel said, voice tight. “That’s all you need to know. Just stick to the story. Don’t go off script. Okay?”

Great, Michelle thought. A client.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “You need to tell me why we’re here. If you’re doing some kind of business-”

“I just need to run something by him,” Daniel muttered. He turned to her now. “The main thing you need to do is be cool. Show you can handle yourself. Can you do that?”

He was nervous, she realized, and in a way she hadn’t seen before.

Maybe even scared.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Just stick to the story. Don’t go off script. Okay?”

“I won’t.”

They drove down a cobblestoned drive, then over to the left where several other cars were parked. There were a couple of valets there, or were they guards as well?

“Can you walk that far?” Daniel asked. “I can pull up to the entrance and let you off.”

“I’m fine.” She wasn’t really, but walking seemed like a good idea, testing herself, making sure she could move.

Daniel came around to the passenger side and opened the door.

“Let me help.” He offered her his arm. She grasped it with her good right hand, stepped out awkwardly, and he circled his arm beneath hers, around her back, to help her up.

She gasped, not wanting to, but it hurt and she couldn’t help it. “I’m okay,” she said, to cut him off. She wasn’t in the mood for his sympathy. “Getting up and down’s just a little hard.”

She leaned against the Jeep while he retrieved her cane.

They walked up the drive, toward the main house. It looked like a Malibu villa, Michelle thought, two stories, with white arches and a red-tiled roof. There were several outbuildings off to one side. One was obviously a garage. She couldn’t tell about the others.

A Mexican woman in a white embroidered dress greeted them at the door. Smiling, she led them through a living room with a red-tiled floor. Leather couches and chairs, heavy wood polished to a warm glow, hand-woven rugs. Paintings on the wall, modern and some nineteenth century, she thought, of seascapes mostly.

Tasteful-and reeking of money.

The party guests were out on the terrace in the back, thirty or so people by Michelle’s reckoning.

It was a large terrace, with descending layers, overlooking a garden and a pool, and beyond that the beach, the sand in striations of white, tan, and golden brown as it met the lapping waves. The beach was practically deserted, the water so clear, the sky so deeply blue that it hurt her eyes.

“Nice, huh?” Daniel said.

She nodded.

“Hang in there,” he said. “Try to relax. That’s all you have to do.”

They made their way to the terrace. As they approached, a tall, gray-haired man wearing khakis and an untucked Polo shirt excused himself from the conversation he was having and turned in their direction.

“Danny,” he said. “Good to see you.” He had a long, lined face, a surprisingly soft voice with a certain clipped authority.

“Curt,” Daniel said. “This is Michelle.”

He extended his hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

His hand was cool to the touch, and strong.

“Michelle’s a friend of mine from Los Angeles,” Daniel said. He’d tensed up, she could tell, holding himself too still.

“Oh? On vacation?”

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “This is a beautiful house.”

“Thank you. I don’t spend nearly enough time in it.” He turned to Daniel. “Danny, why don’t you get your friend something to drink? Me, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

There were two waiters that she could see, circulating among the guests offering them drinks and appetizers; he didn’t need Daniel to run and fetch them drinks. He was the boss, commanding his employee. There was no mistaking it.

“Sure. What can I get you?”

“Just a mineral water,” he said. “How about you, Michelle? I have a really nice chardonnay, if you’re interested.”

“That sounds great,” she said, wondering-did he know what she liked to drink? Or was it just a guess? What the nice lady from Los Angeles would be expected to like?

“I’ll be right back,” Daniel said. He rested his hand briefly on her forearm, the gesture of a conspirator, and headed inside.

Curt glanced at her sling, then back to her eyes. “Did you have an accident?”

“Oh, it was…” She swallowed, trying to push down the pulse in her throat. “I got mugged.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You know, I think I heard something about it. Something involving a policeman?”

How would he know that? She tried to remember whom she’d told, who would know. “I…” Her mouth had gone dry. “I don’t really know. It all happened so fast.”

“You look dizzy,” he said. “Why don’t we sit down while Danny rustles up those drinks?” He smiled. “Take the chance to get better acquainted.”

They walked side by side farther onto the terrace, to a lower level that wrapped around the natural stone pool. There was a palapa there that overlooked the beach.

Curt took her hand and helped her sit. Her legs felt shaky.

“This is a wonderful country,” he said. “But you do have to watch your step.”

“Bad things can happen anywhere,” she said faintly.

“Exactly.” He kept his eyes fixed on hers, a deliberate, uncomfortable scrutiny. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Not much to tell. My marriage ended recently, so…” She shrugged, forgetting what that would do to her shoulder, and winced.

Curt noticed. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re all banged up, and here I am interrogating you.”

“That’s all right.” She managed a smile. “I wish I had something more interesting to say.”

“I have a confession to make.” He leaned forward, eyebrows lifted, making it a joke. “I’m not very interesting either. I’m in finance. I have an investment firm, based out of Florida. Venture capital for start-ups mostly, and some real estate.”

Funny, she thought.

“My husband was in real-estate finance.”

“Ouch,” he said cheerfully. “Bad time for it overall. Though I still have my fingers in a few things.” He gestured up the coast. “That’s one of our projects, right up there.”

Michelle looked to where he pointed. A large rectangle of bare, brown earth was cut into the jungle-covered bluffs, as if a giant brand had been pressed against the ground.

“Oh.”

“I know it doesn’t look like much now, but it really is going to be special. Gated. Ocean views. Pool. Green technology. Solar paneling, recycled materials…”

“Hey.” Daniel had returned, a glass of wine and a sweating beer bottle between the fingers of one hand, a tall glass of sparking water with a wedge of lime in the other.

He gave the glass to Curt, then knelt down and handed her the wine. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just great to be here, in a beautiful place like this. Thanks for having me,” she said to Curt.

“My pleasure.” He rose, swiped his forehead briefly with a handkerchief. “Now that you’re taken care of, I hope you can relax and enjoy the day.”

Michelle sipped her wine. It was, as Curt had indicated, excellent.

Daniel stared after him for a moment, then sat in the chair next to her. “Good job,” he said.

She didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. They sat for a while in silence, Daniel drinking his beer and snagging a couple of tiny tamales from a passing waiter.

“I’m going to go talk to some people,” he said. “Eat something if you have a chance. It might be a while before we get anything else.”

“Okay,” she said.

After he left, a waiter came by with a fresh tray of hors d’oeuvres: crab taquitos and tuna ceviche. She took some and ate. She was sure the food was delicious, but she hardly tasted it. Another waiter came with a fresh glass of chardonnay. A few guests approached and introduced themselves-a banker, an official from the Mexican trade commission, an American who said he was in the oil business. Michelle smiled at them, thanked them for their expressions of sympathy and healing, made small talk. Like everything was normal.

She had the sense that she was watching herself from a small distance and realized she’d felt that way at parties for years.

Partway through the second glass of wine, her hip, her shoulder, her ribs-everything-started to throb with a dull intensity that was like a spreading headache. She needed to move, as much as that would hurt.

The beach looked so beautiful. She had a sudden impulse to go down there, to dig her toes in the golden sand.

She pushed herself to her feet, gasping a little as she gained her balance. Cane in one hand, glass of wine in the other, she limped around the dark flagstone pool toward the beach.

It wasn’t like the beach in Puerto Vallarta. There were no vendors. A few sunbathers to the north. A couple from the party, arm in arm, strolling through ankle-deep surf.

Silence, except for the wash and crash of waves.

I almost died, she thought, staring at the waves, at the sun sinking into the horizon, melting the clouds around it into smears of pink and orange.

I could be dead tomorrow.

She kicked off her sandals. Dug her toes into the wet sand.

“Look who’s here! And I thought you might be mad at me.”