Jungle Fever Bundle (7 page)

The whole trip was a lie. George, the auditing, the investors–everything a lie. Even her.

Oh god.

The realization struck her like a blow. She nearly lost her footing but caught herself on the seed bed.

“I didn’t know,” she finally said, her voice shaking. “I didn’t know.”

Clark quickly turned on his heel and strode away.

“Clark?” she said. The tears in her eyes made him blurry. “Clark, please! You have to believe me. I didn’t know!”

“Save it for the police,” he said over his shoulder, not even turning.

He opened the door and slammed it closed after him. She heard it lock.

• • • • •

It shouldn’t be too hard to sneak up on Mrs. Juntasa, George thought. She moved
so
slowly. As he crouched low and approached from the front of her Jeep, he felt the warmth of the engine. The jingling of the keys made his ears prick up but he couldn’t see them through the open driver’s door.

Come on, old woman, close the door.

As he watched the ground under the door, she put one foot down and then the other, as she slid out of the seat. She landed with a little plop of her sandals. When she stood, she was no taller than the Jeep.

Close the door.

He could see her clearly through the plastic window. Her hair was completely white and her neck was pencil thin. He stared at it. That was going to be the quietest. He couldn’t risk her screaming. Though he wished he’d had the foresight to grab a heavy tool from the workbench, it was too late for that. Her craggy fingers appeared at the edge of the door as she stepped out of its way. Finally, she pushed it closed with a solid thud. Then, she turned toward the rear of the vehicle.

George leapt at her. In only two long steps, he had his arm around her neck. As he dragged her light frame backward and down, he pushed her head forward with his free hand. Her enormous purse fell to the floor as her hands went to the arm around her neck. He tightened it as he dragged her to the front of the Jeep. Though she struggled for the first several seconds, in under a minute, she was unconscious. He dumped her just in front of the bumper. Though the sleeper hold was a quick and quiet way to subdue someone, it wouldn’t last long. He needed to get moving.

Suddenly, there was shouting from the plaza. George crouched near the front bumper and peered around the driver’s side. Annan ran by, followed by Clark. No doubt they knew they’d been robbed. George dashed to the old woman’s purse and upended it. The keys hit the ground with a jangle and he snatched them up. Though he’d just been about to yank the door open, the sound of running feet stopped him.
 

Someone was coming.

Quickly, he reached into his pocket and brought out the grafting knife. He opened it and saw the white smears of latex that streaked it. He’d never used a weapon of any sort but–he touched the case of specimens in his back pocket–he’d never had a thirty million dollar payday.

Again he crouched down low, got on hands and knees, and looked underneath the vehicle. He glanced at Mrs. Juntasa’s still form. Unless someone were standing there, right in front of the Jeep, they’d never see her. The running grew louder and he looked back toward the garage entrance. Sandal clad feet scampered into the garage, between the far Jeep and the motorcycle. That had to be Annan. He was in a hurry. George heard the keys, then a door opening, and Annan’s feet disappeared. The engine roared to life as Annan gunned it, jammed the gearshift into reverse, and the vehicle flew backward. Gravel spewed from the back tires as he turned and slammed it into first gear. He drove off toward the front of the building, picking up speed quickly.

“Shit,” muttered George.

They were getting ahead of him. Why else take the Jeep to that end of the ranch? That was the direction he needed to go. He had taken too long.

“Dammit!” he said, hitting the door with the palm of his hand. “Dammit! Dammit!”
 

Still on his knees, he leaned his forehead against the metal. How was he going to get to the airport? He looked up. He needed a diversion. There were so few people on the plantation, they couldn’t cover everything.
 

Just then, Mrs. Juntasa coughed. Though he checked to the right first, George wasted no time. He stood and went to the front of the Jeep. Mrs. Juntasa was already sitting up. Without hesitation, he planted the heel of his shoe in her forehead. She hadn’t even had time to look up as her head snapped backward and she hit the ground hard.

That would keep her for awhile.

He ran to the back of the Jeep. Each of them was equipped with an extra gas can strapped to the back. He checked left and right. There was no one. The red can sat on a metal platform extending from the bumper. He quickly released the canvas strap over the top and picked up the can. It felt full.

• • • • •

Clark charged into George’s room, muscles pumped and ready. Though he’d hoped to find George, that wasn’t going to be the case. George was nowhere to be seen–but his suitcase was.

“Left in a hurry,” Clark muttered.

Could the cuttings still be here?

Clark couldn’t help but feel a small hope. He immediately upended the suitcase on the bed. The contents spilled into a pile and he threw the suitcase to the floor. Clothes, a pair of shoes, socks, underwear–nothing useful. He quickly went back to the suitcase and opened each zipper on the luggage. In the outermost pocket, he found a plane ticket for the return flight, still two days from now.
So, he apparently didn’t think he’d be caught.
Clark crumpled the paper in his fist. Though he stared at the pile of belongings, he no longer saw them.

It had all been a pretense. There were no investors that would save the company. There was no future for Peterson Rubber. If something seemed to good to be true, then it probably was.
 

He thought of Jean.

He’d actually fallen for her–hard. He shook his head and grimaced. Even now he could see her face, remember the feel of her lips. She’d been perfect–so much like Linda and yet not. In fact, the more he’d been with Jean, the more different they seemed. For the first time since Linda's death, he’d managed to stop thinking about her. Instead, he’d thought of Jean and also the investor audit. He shook his head again.

“All a lie,” he muttered.

He must have been desperate to have been fooled so badly. As he blinked, the pile on the bed came into focus. It was time to finish his search and head out to help Annan.

He stalked to the bathroom. On the sink there was the usual travel assortment: a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a razor. On the counter next to it, there was a black toiletry travel kit, partially open. Clark grabbed it and emptied it on the tile. Several items tumbled out and he quickly ran his hand through them, spreading them out. Aspirin, shaver blades, a hotel soap, kleenex, antacids, and…a bright orange prescription bottle. He picked it up. George Liew, methylenedioxymethamphetamine.
 

“Forgot your prescription, George,” Clark quietly sneered.

He scowled down at it. Wait a minute–a methamphetamine? He read the label out loud.

“Methylene Dioxy Methamphetamine.”

MDMA?

“Ecstasy?” he whispered, frowning.

George was taking
ecstasy
? What in the world for? This kind of thing was popular in Bangkok at rave parties. Though Clark had never been, he had a hard time picturing George Liew at a rave party with a wild crowd of twenty-somethings.

Clark twisted off the cap and shook a couple of tablets into his hand.
George and a methamphetamine. Why does a thief need his mood altered? Like a shot of liquid courage maybe?
Except MDMA wasn’t named ecstasy for nothing. Ecstasy is what it promoted.

Why would George want ecstasy?

Wait. He stared hard at the pill in his hand.
 

On the plantation tour today, he’d seen a pill like this. Clark held it up between his index finger and thumb. George had handed one of these to Jean. He’d called it an
electrolyte
.
 

Jean sniffed and wiped her eyes yet again. She sat with her back against the wall, several feet from the door, with her knees drawn up to her chest. She’d been crying on and off since Clark had left her there.

The fury on his face!

She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

She’d been used, from the very start. The fact that she’d been plucked from a sea of more experienced auditors finally made sense. Kind Dr. George Liew? He was a thief. There were no investors. The only reason to come to Peterson Ranch was to steal rubber plants and she’d been nothing more than a distraction for Clark.

Except that she’d actually fallen in love with him–almost before she’d met him. Like a true forensic auditor, she’d gotten to know him. But in person, he had been
so
much more.
 

And she’d felt him return that love.

Hadn’t she?

Or had he been seeing Linda, his dead wife?

God, what a mess.
She shook her head.

There was sound from the door. It was opening!

She scrambled to her feet.

Clark had come to his senses–believed what she said.

“Clark!” she said, as the door opened.

But it wasn’t Clark.

“
You
,” she said, stopping.

George Liew was holding a metal can and he closed the door behind him.

“Well,” he said. “
This
is a surprise.”

“What are
you
doing here?”

He smiled, a strangely wicked curl to the lips, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“I take it Clark didn’t believe you,” he said.

“Thanks to you,” she spat.

George’s face was impassive–no longer the smiling, jolly scientist.

“You have a decision to make,” he said, as he unscrewed the large cap from the top of the can. “You can come with me, help me escape, and I’ll double your fee.”

“
Help
you?”

He ignored her and started to pour the contents of the can over the nearest raised bed, dousing everything in reach.

“Or,” he continued. “You can stay here and die.”

“What are you doing?” Jean said, alarm growing.

He walked quickly along the beds and covered the small tree trunks, tossing liquid out with arching, jerking motions.
 

Now she could smell it.
Gasoline!

“Stop!” she yelled, pushing away from the wall next to the door and taking a step toward him. “You don’t need to do this!”

“Oh but I’m afraid I do,” he said, calmly, backing up, shaking gas all over everything but careful to keep it away from himself.

“You already have what you came for!” she screamed.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, I do. But now I need to leave.”
 

The can was almost empty.
 

Leave?
Jean thought.
No. I can’t let him do that. He can’t get away. I have a chance to help Clark.

Without thinking, she moved down the row toward him.

The smell of gasoline was strong now. He wasn’t looking at her. He was upending the can.

She ran. He was only a few yards away. She was almost on him but he must have heard.

With perfect timing, he turned and swung the can into her stomach. It landed with a hollow metal thud.
 

Air rushed out of her lungs as the blow rocked her back and she doubled over. The pain was excruciating and she felt her knees wobble and collapse. Only a hand on the nearby seed bed saved her from falling all the way to the ground. She couldn’t breathe–didn’t even have the energy to clutch her midsection. She only knelt, her head bowed down as the smell of gasoline burned her nose and filled her gaping mouth.
 

“I take it that’s my answer,” she heard George say. “It’s better this way. The fire is my new distraction and it destroys the remainder of the plants. Plus, your death will be an accident.”

She swayed as the wave of pain washed over her. George brushed past her but, with what little strength was left, she reached out for his foot. George tripped.

• • • • •

As Clark stared down at the pill in his hand, the look on Jean’s face flashed into his mind. That hadn’t been acting. She’d been as shocked about the theft as he had.

What is going on?

On the tour this morning, George had given her a pill, this pill. Not an hour later, Jean had overheated and passed out. Then, she’d recovered quickly and the doctor hadn’t found anything wrong.

“Right,” Clark muttered.
I’ll bet the blood workup will tell a different story.

He turned back toward the bedroom, still gripping the pill.

So they’d picked Jean because of her looks but she hadn’t known that. She had no idea who she looked like. Clearly she’d done her job as a forensic auditor. She’d known virtually everything about him. But she’d probably never found any pictures of Linda. As far as Clark knew, there weren’t any public pictures of her. Their wedding had been private, here on the plantation. Neither of them put photos on the internet. Even the ranch didn’t have a web site.

And Jean had admitted submitting photos for her interview.

Why would she do that if she were guilty?

Clark stood in the middle of George’s room as fury started to build anew.
 

As calculated as her looks had been to appeal to him, there was no guarantee she’d feel the same way. He opened his fist and looked at the pill. So George had doped her. That would explain a lot–the fevered fainting spell, the way she seemed at war with herself, maybe even the way she’d seemed attracted to him. His jaw clenched.

They’d both been used–by George.
 

It was time to find that bastard.

• • • • •

As George fell, he watched the metal gas can tumble away from him. For a moment, he had the wild idea that it might create a spark and the whole thing would go up. But it didn’t. Instead, it landed on one corner and simply tumbled, just as he crashed onto his knees and hands. He felt a sudden shooting pain in his right wrist.