Cindy Gerard - Killing Time

A door slammed like a shot and she jumped, making her guard laugh. Ignoring him, she turned toward the sound… and briefly closed her eyes in relief when she saw Mike walking toward her, flanked by the two enforcers who had led him into the building.

None of them looked happy.

“And here I was expecting ankle chains and whipping posts. Hell, these are five-star digs.”

Behind him, Eva grunted. “If you’re into Little House on the Prairie.”

Mike peered out the front window of a small, rustic cabin, watching the activities outside that mostly consisted of women working and men playing war. Wagoner sat in a pickup about twenty yards away, AR-15 still in hand, picking his teeth and playing jailer.

The fun never ended.

It had been touch and go for a while, but despite Simmons’s suggestion to “run the cocky bastard’s ass all the way to the Idaho border,” Lawson had decided to take a chance.

“You will remain here tonight as my guests,” he’d decreed like the petty dictator he was.

Translation: Lawson was going to tap his resources and find out the full skinny on one Dan Walker and Maria Gomez, and neither of them were going anywhere until it was decided if they were legit or candidates for target practice.

“That’s very generous,” Mike had told him, then showed Lawson that he knew the score. “I want only to be a part of this, sir. But I understand, you need to run a check. I have nothing to hide. Neither does Maria.”

Lawson’s expression had been unreadable as he’d ordered Simmons to get them settled. The irate flunky had snapped to like a dog used to having his chain jerked when he got out of line.

“Provide our guests with everything they need. And Simmons,” Lawson had added with an arch look at Mike, “they’ve had a long trip and are no doubt weary. Make certain they don’t want for anything that would require them to leave the cabin tonight.”

It hadn’t taken a degree in language arts to understand the subtext of Lawson’s order. The cabin door would be locked behind them to make certain they didn’t get out.

Wagoner, the watchdog, would make doubly sure of that.

Feeling confined, fighting off memories of the time he’d spent in the brig, Mike moved away from the window, and to make certain he hadn’t missed anything, did a second sweep for bugs.

Not that he expected to find anything this time, either. The camp’s living conditions were pretty primitive. The computers and surveillance equipment in Lawson’s office were cutting edge but Mike strongly suspected resources were focused on the camp’s perimeter areas. Still, Lawson’s dossier said he was paranoid. So, just in case, as soon as they were alone, he’d dug the ink pen that was actually a bug detector out of his duffel bag. One of Gabe’s toys. The sweep hadn’t taken long, and it didn’t take long the second time, either.

The cabin wasn’t much more than fifteen by twenty feet. One door in, same door out, only with Wagoner there, out wasn’t an option. There were only three windows, one on each wall except the one with the door. A bare lightbulb hung in the middle of the ceiling. The living room/bedroom were one single, open area. A double bed, a small, square table with two wooden chairs, and a single chest of drawers were the extent of the furniture. A kerosene lamp sat on top of the dresser, along with a thick bound volume: the UWD manifesto. Eva had picked it up and sat at the table thumbing through it.

A row of ten wooden pegs had been fixed to the wall beside the door. A small closet—barely large enough to hold a jacket—had been built into a corner. Roller shades covered the windows. There was no bathroom. Communal showers and toilets—one for the men, one for the women—were located at the north edge of the village, about one hundred yards from the cabin. He knew where the toilets were because prior to being delivered to their “guest house” he and Eva had been given an opportunity to use the facilities.

That had been over an hour ago, and they hadn’t seen anyone other than the guard since. They had, however, been informed by Wagoner that someone would bring their dinner and that sometime before sunset they would be escorted to the showers, should they wish to take advantage of them. Sunset apparently was the bewitching hour, because that’s when electricity and the camp as a whole shut down.

“This is such a load of crap,” Eva sputtered under her breath. She tossed the manifesto aside in disgust. “I’ll never understand why so many people buy into cults.”

Mike matched her hushed tone. He may not have found any bugs, but Lawson might decide to post someone right outside a window and listen the old-fashioned way: by eavesdropping.

“It’s the same mentality that almost allowed Hitler to take over the world, and made it possible for Bin Laden to launch his war on democracy and free will. Ten parts bullying, ten parts fear, fill in the blanks with disenfranchised, desperate zealots who are looking for a cause and a place to fit in, and bingo—you’ve got yourself a world war, or a 9/11, or something as small but significant as a Waco.”

She rose, walked to a window, and looked outside.

“I hate this waiting around. What happens next?”

“Nothing. Not until we find out if Gabe and the BOIs convinced Hill to play ball. When Lawson contacts Hill, we’re up crap creek if he rats us out.”

“What a lovely visual.” The rough pine floor creaked under her slight weight as she turned and walked back to the table.

“Hey. I’ve got a big mouth. Sorry. And don’t worry. They’ll make it happen.”

She’d folded her arms beneath her breasts, a gesture he recognized. When she felt vulnerable, she tightened in on herself.

“So,” he said, wanting to move her out of that place, “want to talk about the elephant in the room?” He glanced at the bed, then at her, then wiggled his eyebrows.

She actually laughed. “And here I thought maybe you’d want to talk strategy.”

He smiled. “Saving that for when Wagoner falls asleep.”

The click of a key turning in a lock had them both turning toward the door, effectively tabling any further conversation—strategic or otherwise.

Wagoner swung the door open and a young woman walked inside carrying a covered tray and what looked like a folded charcoal blanket under her arm. She was dressed in the standard uniform—long dark skirt, dark button-down blouse, and prairie bonnet. Without a word, she walked over to the table and set down the tray.

“General Lawson wishes for you to enjoy your dinner,” she said without raising her head.

“For you.” She shoved the blanket in Eva’s hands.

Before Eva could thank her, she quickly crossed the room and hurried back out the door, which Wagoner locked again.

“Complimentary bedding?” Mike asked.

Eva unfolded the blanket… which turned out not to be a blanket. “I should be so lucky.”

• • •

“Do not say a word,” Eva muttered as the cabin door was locked behind them yet again, shutting out a twilight sky that fast faded to dark.

An armed escort had just walked them back from the showers. She wore the getup that had been delivered with their dinner. And since her voice was filled with a healthy dose of pissed, Mike thought it best that he not laugh.

He’d been wrong about something, though. The long, dowdy skirt and matching navy blue blouse did manage to drab her down. But then, drab was a relative term when it came to Eva.

He tucked the bug detector back into his duffel after doing another sweep in case Lawson had gotten crafty and installed something while they used the showers. He hadn’t.

“You saying you don’t want to know how you look?”

“There’s a reason there aren’t any mirrors in here.” Her mouth pulled tight when she saw his grin. “Okay fine. Get it over with.”

“You look, darling wife, like a subservient, Kool-Aid–drinking disciple of the UWD doctrine. And better you than me, by the way. I don’t think I could run in that thing.”

“But oh, wouldn’t I love to see you try.” She gave him a tight smile. “I itch all over. How do those poor women wear this stuff in this heat?”

“Guess you’re going to find out,” he said with a sympathetic smile. She was, unfortunately, going to find out a lot of things before this was over. He thought of Simmons touching her today when he’d searched her. How Bryant had watched her every move. How the women of the camp worked like dogs while the men played soldier.

“For the record, you’ve been a rock through all this.”

She scowled. “What did you expect? That’d I’d fall apart and start crying for my mommy?”

“Actually I thought I might do that. I still might. Hold me?”

He couldn’t quite pull off the hat trick; this time she didn’t smile. She made a twirling motion with her index finger instead. “I’m getting out of this itch fest.”

She wanted him to turn around? Seriously? Seemed a little like closing the barn door after the horse got out, but his momma hadn’t raised no dummy, so he did what he was told. She had good reason to be on edge. He wasn’t going to add to her tension.

Back turned, he thought about strategy instead of the sound of her rummaging around in her duffel for the T-shirt and boxers that she’d brought along to sleep in.

He thought about slipping outside when the camp was asleep for a little look-see. He thought about the meal that had been limited but surprisingly good: honey-cured ham on fresh-baked bread and fresh spinach salad. He thought about the communal shower and how the last time he’d used one, he’d been in the military. Which made him think about the One-Eyed Jacks. And Taggart. And Cooper.

And he thought about how badly he wanted to nail Lawson.

But when he heard the sound of a heavy wool skirt hit the floor, all of his carefully schooled good intentions and diversion tactics dropped with it.

Suddenly everything he thought about was totally hot and totally wrong. Like the fact that she might now be standing naked behind him, in transition between itchy wool and soft, worn cotton. All he could picture was that double bed with the plain white spread and creaky springs, which he’d discovered earlier when he’d tested it for firmness. And he thought about how small that bed was for a man his size, when that man was expected to keep his distance from a woman who looked like her. From a woman whose skin was as supple and soft as satin, whose body was responsive and giving and…

“You can turn around now.”

There was nothing else in the cabin to look at. No TV. No computer. No distractions. There was only her. And she was magnificent.

“Lord, you’re beautiful.”

She was wearing the same T-shirt and boxers he’d taken off her two nights ago. The marriage of the memory and the reality combined to give him some serious issues in a certain area of his body that had a tendency to swell in her presence.

Once more with feeling: Little head, big trouble.

It didn’t help that the glasses were gone. She’d shaken her hair out of that confining elastic; it curled softly over her shoulders and down her back. And speaking of unconfined—she’d ditched her bra. And her feet were bare. And he was suddenly sinking fast.

He could blame it on the adrenaline. On the very dicey situation they were in. All of his senses were overloaded and ready to stage a riot. It stood to reason he’d be revved in the testosterone area.