Songs for Perri (23 page)

"Save Owen," he instructed, as the men, unaware of the silent conversation, hustled him quickly outdoors.

Trying to stay out of sight and yet watch where they were going, Perri followed. They climbed into an old rusty blue sedan that looked like it had spent most of its days driving in Baja California. Determined not to lose them, Perri ran to the nearest taxi.

The blue sedan began to pull away and the taxi had started to move when Joe appeared, running like an Olympic sprinter. He was looking at the blue sedan, so must have spotted Walt also. Perri threw her door open, yelling his name; explaining what had happened as he jumped in.

"Two of them looked like Mexicans, but I can't be sure. The third was taller than Walt—about as tall as you are."

The light was fading fast, but the sedan had enough character that it was fairly easy to spot. The cabbie thought it quite a lark to "follow that car," but Joe and Perri knew that if they lost it, there was no telling what would happen.

Perri told Joe about the Mexican youth, and about her early morning visit to Walt's room. "I'm sure he followed me," she lamented. "How could I have been so dumb."

With a sigh, he clasped her hand in his, keeping his eyes on the car in front of them. "It looks like he did, but we can't be sure. They might have followed me or Luke." He gulped in air, his voice still breathless from sprinting.

"My bribing the desk clerk probably did it," she continued, berating herself for her stupidity. There had been no emergency—Hugo wasn't the Scorpion. But it had seemed so urgent at the time.

"Maybe. But you thought it was important—”

She refused to make excuses. "I should have told you."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Perri. We all make mistakes. I've had my share of them, so has Walt. What matters is your effort to correct them."

"But if he's killed...?"

"Then you forgive yourself because you know he would have."

Perri had been staring at their hands, but now looked up into Joe's face, seeing the assurance there. He was right.

She remembered the times Walt had come home, visibly shaken; sometimes seeking comfort in Crystal's arms, sometimes going for a short drive out into the desert to shed his burden; a burden she now realized was of an assignment gone wrong, a man never returning. Walt had learned how to forgive himself. She must do so, also.

"You're a wise man, Joe," she said, realizing how much she had come to depend upon him. And a deep one, she added to herself. He carried a lot of responsibility, yet, like Walt, never mentioned it, never showed the strain. He was ready to risk his life for her step-father. Men like him were hard to find.

His gaze flicked to hers, then back to the car they were following. "A man matures fast in this job. Yet in some ways, we all stay little boys."

That was an intriguing thing for him to say. "How?"

"We cry inside. We want the comfort of a woman we love, children...a home to shut out the world. Instead, we must do the dirty jobs, because if we didn't, the world would be a terrible place." There was a power to his words, so simply spoken...so utterly sincere.

Strange. It was quite similar to what Owen had once told her. The two men were a lot alike...their personalities, their choice of job...even their sense of humor: dry and subtle, coming at unexpected times. Was that why she felt so attracted to him? "And you forgo loving a woman?"

It was the wrong thing to say. As soon as the words were out, she realized the opening she had given him. As if he needed any.

"I have. Up until now."

Again he took his eyes off the blue sedan long enough to capture hers with a searching, challenging introspection, that demolished her attempts to hold him emotionally away from her and staggered her mind.

His eyes hit her with Hugo's intensity, the power of his personality behind them, almost demanding she open her heart to him. Was he trying to take her away from himself as Hugo? Or was it just part of the act...how he thought he should act as Joe?

But...he was Joe, probably even more than he was Hugo. Hugo was the made-up character...like Donegal. Or was "Joe the detective" made up? What was truth and what was fiction? Perri swallowed, her body shaken by the implication of her thoughts. Why had she fallen in love with this complex man?

He was not one to be taken lightly. He was a tough man with a tough job. One that called for strength both inwardly as well as outwardly. The fact that Walt considered him his best man was impressive by itself.

She knew there would be no half-measures with him. What he started, he finished.

He looked back toward the sedan again but his hand squeezed hers, tighter, and the answering leap of her heart told Perri she was likely to end up loving Joe/Hugo/Donegal in whatever role he happened to be.

The two cars had been working their way south and east, winding through the city to the shrimp boats. There the sedan drove out onto the long concrete dock that ran the length of the shore area. It was the width of a two lane road, with room for trucks to load or unload. At the present time it was lined with shrimp boats, rafted three to four deep, creating a vast jungle of masts. The sedan stopped halfway down. Walt was "assisted" out of the car and into a boat.

Joe sent the cab on three boats further, but was out of it almost before it stopped. Paying the cabbie, he slipped behind a large wooden crate. Perri joined him as the taxi drove away.

"Stay well back," Joe commanded. "If anything happens to me, get out of here. Go to Owen."

They worked their way forward; she waiting until Joe was almost out of sight before moving up where she could see him again. Pulling out her cell phone, she called the only number in it that might help. Luke Rogers’ Arizona number. No answer, so she left a message. “Walt captured. Mazatlan shrimp boat.”

It was so dark by now she had to move closer to keep Joe in sight. He had stopped, his attention centered on a shrimp boat with a light in the wheel house.

Mazatlan was the home port for the world's largest shrimp fleet. There wasn't enough dock space; thus the rafting or tying together of the boats was common practice. To reach the one where they were taking Walt, two others had to be crossed. Joe moved across them soundlessly, keeping under cover, to where the furthest boat lay.

A man was untying the lines, ready to cast off. Joe lunged forward, taking him out with one hard blow to the neck, catching him as he fell. The whole thing was like watching a scene from a silent movie.

Perri moved to the edge of the rough concrete dock, taking care she didn't trip over the many small spikes supporting the rubber tire fenders, or run into the large protruding cleats used to tie up the boats.

Silently Perri slipped down into the first boat, crossed the bare metal deck to the second and crawled into it. She followed Joe's route, using the large trawl nets draped from the boom heads as cover.

She had seen models of these boats in the aquarium's museum. Typical double-rigged gulf shrimpers, they carried two large black nets, marked with long feathers of brilliant color for easy visibility in the water. The nets were towed from the boat's two outriggers, one on each side of the rigid main boom. The outriggers were hinged at the bottom. They could be raised upright when not in use, or lowered sideways like wings out over the water to tow the nets.

All was silent. She could not see Joe. A door opened from the main cabin and a light showed briefly as a person stepped outside, then all was black as it closed again. There was a shout, then a thud.

This time the door stayed open as two men burst out. The smaller one carried a pistol. He didn't shoot, but used it like a club, smashing Joe on the head as he rose from the man he had knocked to the deck.

Stifling her instinctive scream, Perri saw Joe crumple and fall. Had they killed him?

In rising terror, she watched his still figure, highlighted by the light from the open door as the crewmen checked their two friends. Joe was as lifeless looking as the silent body he lay beside.

First Walt and now Joe...Hugo! Both dead...or dying?

A wave of despair cascaded over her as powerful as when she had cradled her mother's blood-soaked body...praying Crystal wouldn't die, yet knowing she was helpless to stop events.

Again the unthinkable was happening. Again she was helpless. Her hands, red from the flakey rust of the metal boat, gripped the edges with knuckles turned white. She watched in anguish, breath stopped. Praying.

The men left the others lying where they had fallen and roughly dragged Joe inside. Did that mean he was still alive? They wouldn't drag a dead person into that small cabin, would they? They hadn't taken their friends' bodies in.

Joe must be alive. The certainty of the thought renewed Perri's strength and determination. As the cabin door closed, she darted out of her hiding place, climbing over into their boat.

Barely had she boarded than she questioned her action. Joe had told her to go get Owen. Yet, what would happen if the boat left in the meantime? Once out on the ocean no one could trace it. Could she identify it to the police? Should she stay and try to help?

Torn between the two options, Perri crouched halfway under the drapes of the heavy shrimp net, hidden by the darkness on the deck.

Both Walt and Joe were trained agents. If they had been caught, what were her chances?

Indecision fled. She moved away from the concealing net, intent on leaving. But before her first step was completed, the motor started up with a rumble, making the boat vibrate...and immediately changing Perri's mind.

She'd stay.

She had to stay. Soft footsteps warned her of someone approaching. Perri ducked into the net just as the bigger man appeared, a dark shadow striding up to the side near her, casting off the thick lines before returning to the cabin. With a dull throbbing roar, the boat left the dock and accelerated into the night, toward the harbor entrance.

Trapped, but not discovered. As the safety of the docks fell behind, Perri glanced around her hiding place. What now?

She must go slow and stay hidden. It would do Walt and Joe no good if she was found before she managed to help them...somehow.

Thoughts spun rapidly through her desperate mind as fear began to turn into panic. Where were they going? What did they plan to do? Hold both Joe and Walt to trade for Alvaro?

Or...kill them?

Were they dead already? The two crewmen lay motionless on the deck; the closest one, the youth from the hotel. Perri didn't believe they were alive.

The icy fear threatened her judgement. Perri took several long, deep breaths to suppress it. This was no time for emotional, impulsive actions.

It was a time for logic. If she was going to do anything to save Walt and Joe, she had to act wisely. She needed a weapon.

Crawling into the deepest shadows, she looked around the clear open deck of the small boat. The shrimp boat was fully rigged for trawling. There were ropes and floats and nets aplenty, but nothing to use as a club.

If only she could get a gun. A gun did its deadly work no matter what the size or strength of the person holding it. It didn't require hand to hand or close quarter contact.

Owen had taught her how to shoot both a rifle and pistol. Under these conditions she had no qualms about firing at people. Perhaps there was a gun on one of the dead men?

Starting to move forward, Perri heard angry shouts. She froze, pushing back against the shadow...wishing that her hair was black or dark brown...anything but a bright beacon of light.

"You give us information, or feed the fishes!" the big man yelled in Spanish as he came outside the cabin, threatening whoever was still in the room behind him. He muttered to himself as he bent over his dead comrades, then walked forward to the wheelhouse. His accent was Cuban...just like Alvaro's.

The heavy grip of an ancient fear dropped Perri's heart downward into her stomach region. At least one of her men was still alive. But death came in many forms. If Walt and Joe were thrown off the boat into the ocean, tied up or injured, they would surely die.

She had little hope of surviving if that happened. She'd go in after them, with life-preservers, if she had to. Then she realized how foolish that was, for there didn't seem to be any such items on board.

There was always the large net floats. They could be untied...or cut off. But they were white, easy to see, so that probably wouldn't work. A person holding onto them in the water would be easy to run down.

Her mind raced on, considering possibilities. Little could be done until she had some sort of weapon.

There was no time left to slink around. If she was to do anything at all, it had to be now.

Swallowing against the acrid taste of fear, Perri slipped over to the port side of the cabin. Kneeling over the already stiffening dead men, she felt for a knife or gun. Nothing.

A window in the cabin door, small and very dirty but uncovered, let her see inside. Walt was lying on a bunk, facing her, his hands tied behind his back, mouth and face battered and bloody. The taxi driver "guide" was standing guard nearby, almost facing Perri, helping himself to hot coffee and paying little attention to the old man who was his prisoner. Joe lay sprawled on the floor, hands lashed together behind his back. There was blood on his face and clothes.

As the guide put down the coffee pot, Walt raised his head slightly. "What information do you want?" he asked.

Smiling, the man turned so Walt could read his lips better through his thin beard. "From you? Lots. Names and places."

"Let me talk to my friend."

"Bah! That won't do any good." He was facing Walt full on, his back turned completely to Perri. His English had improved greatly in the past few days, unaccented as if learned from an early age.

"I won't say anything until I talk to him first."

"Your friend might not feel like talking." Laughing coarsely, the guide put down his cup and turned toward the door. He had only three steps to take to reach it.

Perri scurried away like a frightened mouse desperately seeking a dark hole.