Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (11 page)

Agua Calientes. Train. Cuzco. Airplane. Home.

Incongruously, after all we’d been through, we paused at the foot of the many steps up to Sanctuary Lodge, which suddenly loomed as high as Huayna Picchu. No, no, no. No more
up
! Down was all we could manage at this point. “Hell!” Darcy breathed and collapsed onto the second step. “They can shoot me,” he announced. “I’m not moving.”

“
¿Que hora es?
” Urqu asked. When I told him, a broad grin split his face. He could still make the much faster tourist train if he ran for it. Straight down the mountain on the trail native boys used to beat the tourist buses to the bottom, waiting with big smiles and upturned palms for the inevitable tips for their daring enterprise. The Hiram Bingham Road, you see, is a convoluted series of hairpin turns, winding from one side of Machu Picchu mountain to the other. A fleet-footed child, or a tough Quechua porter, could make it straight down the center on foot faster than any bus or taxi.

I could have used Urqu’s help with Darcy, but he’d taken a knock on the head for our side, and he deserved to go home. I thanked him most sincerely, adding an extra bonus of
soles
for his quite literal pain and suffering. We all shook hands, then Urqu adjusted his heavy backpack, jogged across the road, plunged down the side of the mountain, and was immediately swallowed up in the jungle-like greenery.

“
I have to check on the Arendsens,” I told Darcy. “You remember the lady who did your bandages?” He managed an infinitesimal nod. “I don’t want to leave you out here. How about trying to make it into the lobby?”

“
I’m fine.”

“
Someone’s trying to kill you,” I ground out. “I can’t bodyguard you if you’re sitting on the front steps like ‘Come and get me.’”

“
At this point, if they want me, they can have me.”

“
Dar-cy!” I snapped.

He reached for the stair railing, hauled himself up. I grabbed him when he swayed. Somehow we made it up the steps and into the modest-sized lobby, where I parked him in a comfy upholstered chair. No need to tell him to stay put. When I inquired about the Arendsens, I told the desk clerk that my friend had taken a bad fall on the trail. We’d need a taxi in twenty minutes, and could he please see if there was a room available at the Pueblo? My best smile, accompanied by a reasonable amount of
soles
, and I felt Darcy would be safe enough for the few minutes it would take me to check in with Max and Hildy.

“
Laine!” A clean and sparkling Hildy Arendsen greeted me with enthusiasm. “Max is still in the shower. We took about a thousand pictures between that Inti-whatever and Machu Picchu. I’m sure poor Puma thought they weren’t going to make the train. But he never said a word, dear man. And how’s our wounded hero? Did the police have any idea who he is?”

I almost didn’t hear her. I was too busy looking at the view of Machu Picchu out the room’s picture window. My window, when I was here with the brothers, had had a great view of the road out front. “What? Oh, Darcy. He’s downstairs in the lobby.”

“
But, Laine honey, I thought you were going to drop him off at that hostel place up the trail.”

No way was I going to scare her with tales of assassins in the night, although I was finding it oddly difficult to drag myself back into the persona of Laine Halliday, the girl who spread scented oil over troubled waters for wealthy vacationers, when the reality of bodyguarding a wounded amnesiac filled my head. I sucked up the view and turned to Hildy with a smile. “He said he felt well enough to come with us to Machu Picchu, so I’m going to take him back to Cuzco and probably on to the British Embassy in Lima. It seems the right thing to do.”

“
Very generous,” Max boomed, as he entered in a cloud of steam from the bathroom. Fortunately, he must have taken his clothes in with him, because he wasn’t wrapped in a towel, for which I was grateful. “Your sense of responsibility is impressive, Laine, but what do you know about this guy? You should have left him to the police.”

“
Probably,” I conceded, “but he’s in pretty bad shape, and not much can go wrong on a crowded train.”

“
Do you remember that old movie,
Silver Streak
?” Hildy asked.

Oh, yes. Another gem from my parents’ video collection that my brothers had worn to a thread, particularly the final crash into Chicago’s Union Station. I would not think about it. Wouldn’t even consider the infinite possibilities for mayhem on a train.

There were times the Halliday sense of responsibility could be a giant pain in the ass. The unrelenting Halliday pride in perfection. I was going to turn in my mysterious Brit at the Embassy in Lima or die trying.

Amend that. Surely nothing so drastic was required. At least I kept telling myself that while I wished Max and Hildy a marvelous exploration of Machu Picchu and gave each of them a good-bye hug. I kept telling myself that while I walked downstairs and checked with the desk clerk, who told me the taxi was waiting and that the Machu Picchu Pueblo was expecting a party of two. I kept telling myself that as I pried Darcy out of his seat and helped him down the steps to our taxi.

I could only hope the decrepit taxi had more under the hood than could be expected from its venerable age.
This
vehicle spent its days going up and down Machu Picchu mountain? I poured Darcy inside, then walked around to the other rear door and climbed in behind the driver. As we started down the first of the long series of hairpin turns, I could only hope the driver checked his brakes regularly. I mean, there had to be brake specialists in a town like Agua Calientes, right? Losing tourists off the side of the mountain was not good for business.

We made the first hairpin turn and were traveling smoothly back across the face of Machu Picchu mountain, heading for Turn Two. Darcy sat slumped against the seat, eyes closed, as calm as if he were on a nice flat Interstate. He must be in worse shape than I thought, or else he had nerves as steely as his eyes.

Not me. I was steering and braking right along with the driver. Too much imagination. Way too much.

We negotiated the tight U-turn at the end and headed into our third crossing of the mountain’s face. So far, so good. Only about—what?—a dozen more switchbacks to go. I hadn’t been this uptight the other times I’d been here. Maybe the difference was that this time I was responsible for someone else. Someone who wasn’t able to take care of himself at the moment. Someone who seemed to have so much faith in me, he’d gone to sleep while descending the Hiram Bingham Road.

Just short of the next turn, a sharp crack split the air. Our taxi
1
went spinning out of control, heading straight for the drop-off ahead. I vaulted into the front seat, adding my weight to the driver’s attempt to turn into the trees instead of shoot off into infinity. Gut-wrenching pressure. Slow. Too slow. My shoulders threatened to tear loose from my body. Darcy got both arms over the back of the driver’s seat, added his weight. One last heave on the wheel. We skidded sideways, slamming into trees and shrubs on the downside slope, coming to a crashing, quivering halt. Heads banged, teeth rattled, but the taxi was upright, if badly bashed in on the passenger side. And we were alive, mostly because we’d all three been hard left, struggling with the steering wheel.

We sat for a while, breathing hard, just looking at each other. Then the taxi driver burst into profuse thanks for our help, immediately followed by abject apologies for the accident. Never, never ever had he had such a terrible thing happen. Fortunately, his radio still worked, and another taxi came to fetch us, followed closely by an antique tow truck and a car clearly marked, “
Policia
.”

Uh-oh. Time to summon the Laine Halliday charm, the insouciant smile, my best high-class Spanish. The driver might think his taxi had suffered a blowout, but I recognized rifle fire when I heard it. And it wasn’t a matter I wanted to get into with the local police. I shoved all my remaining
soles
into the driver’s hands, knowing, sadly, that it wouldn’t cover a fraction of the damages. I could only hope they had insurance in Agua Calientes. If not, Grady was going to groan over my expense sheet.

My friend and I had just done the Inca Trail, I told the policeman, praying he didn’t ask for ID. My friend had taken a bad fall, and I’d be so grateful if we could continue on to our hotel. Yes, we had a reservation at the Pueblo. We could be reached there if he had any more questions, but at the moment we were so shaken up . . . could we please go on our way? A bath, food, a good bed . . . I sighed dramatically, fluttered my eyelashes.

I might have overdone it, but it worked. The policeman helped Darcy into the rescue taxi, and fifteen minutes later we were disgorged in front of the Machu Picchu Pueblo. As we staggered into the lobby, looking worse than anything the cat ever dragged in, I knew the desk clerk’s instinct was to send us on our way to a less pricey hotel as fast as possible. He opened his mouth to speak down his nose, and I shoved my platinum Fantascapes card under his nose. Fantascapes does a lot of business at the Pueblo—not all our clients prefer the on-site view at Sanctuary Lodge to the classy comfort of individual cottages, elegant dining, and a delightful jungle setting.

Darcy and I might not look like much, but my credit card was bright and shiny, its holographic image shimmering in the lobby lights. The desk clerk drew breath. “Ms. Halliday, welcome to the Pueblo. I believe I have your reservation right here.”

The trouble with individual cottages strung along a series of walkways was that I wasn’t sure either one of us was going to be able to walk that far. But like old cart horses, with the barn in sight, we staggered along behind the bellman who was carrying my backpack. I let his list of room amenities drift over my head, accepted the key, bolted the door. Filthy dirty and dripping fresh blood, Darcy and I collapsed on separate double beds.

Safe. Or at least I thought we were. The Pueblo was no fleabag, rent-by-the-hour hotel. It prided itself on security for its world-wide clientele. For a little while, at least, we could breathe easy. Unless the police got around to asking for our passports and discovered Darcy didn’t have one. (My Fantascapes card and the assertion Darcy had been robbed had gotten us past the desk clerk.)

I looked at Darcy—now officially registered as Darcy Renshaw—sprawled on the bed, blood leaking from a banged nose and a freshly re-opened cut on his lip. At a face gone from pale to gray. Damn and blast. Someone wanted this guy really bad. And somehow I’d been tapped as his savior.

What if he was a drug smuggler? Arms dealer? Terrorist? A special agent gone rogue? An assassin the good guys were trying to stop before . . .?

With a groan I hauled myself to my feet and headed for the bathroom. One look in the mirror and I was shocked the Fantascapes credit card had been enough to get me past the front desk. I couldn’t possibly look this bad. It was a wonder Hildy hadn’t screamed and slammed the door in my face. Hopefully, I hadn’t looked quite this awful before the taxi accident.

My bronze curls were headed north, south, east, and west in a riot that redefined “bad hair day.” My green eyes were sunk in a face that had a parchment cast in spite of a lick or three from Inti, the sun god. Blood was drying on my forehead from a good whack against the taxi’s windshield. My lip was bleeding from a brush with the steering wheel on the way to the windshield. My jaw hurt from some thunk that would forever remain a mystery, and I had a couple of ribs that were beginning to scream at me. (No airbags on a taxi that might have been new way back when Mom and Dad were here.)

I turned the shower to steamy and stepped in. I suppose I had hopes of washing it all away. Not just the blood and dirt and trail sweat, but the fright, the tension, the horrific responsibility of guarding a man who must have pissed someone off really bad.

Darcy. I was all he had, and after our squeaking close call on the Hiram Bingham Road, I wasn’t sure I was enough. If I turned him over to the police—even if they put him in a cage—surely he’d be better off . . .

He’d be a tethered goat, waiting for the slaughter.

I reached for the bottle of bodywash and made a valiant attempt to lather away my qualms. Didn’t work. Someone wanted Darcy dead and was not at all bothered by my going with him. We had tonight to get through and most of tomorrow—the earliest train to Cuzco was the VistaDome at 3:30 p.m. The train, filled with tourists, ought to be safe . . . but anybody could buy a ticket. People of every nationality, every skin color, a myriad languages, came to Machu Picchu. There was no way of telling if one of them was an assassin.

I squinted through the sheeting water, looking for shampoo. The problem was, I needed to do what the nurse in
South Pacific
did back in my Grandmother Blaine’s day—“Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair.” But I couldn’t.

I’d found Darcy. I’d saved him. He was mine.

Chapter Seven

So far the man known as Darcy Renshaw was certain of just two things: He hurt like hell, and his Spanish was minimal. He’d been able to follow Laine’s exchanges with Urqu, but he’d caught one word in ten from the agitated taxi driver and little of the conversation with the police. No problem understanding the credit card maneuver at the desk, however, nor was any translation needed for the clerk’s quick change of attitude.