SIXTEEN

"Good eating."

 

It was the most terrifying plane ride Davy had ever taken.

He'd wondered how they were going to do it. He didn't think they'd put a plane ahead and behind him with the keys. Instead, Hyacinth gestured him into the Cessna Grand Caravan and, when he was in his seat, she cuffed him by the ankles to the base of the seat before him and covered the chains with a sweater from her shoulder bag.

He broke into a cold sweat. He'd flown into all sorts of remote areas in all kinds of small aircraft but the knowledge that, in the event of a crash, he could teleport away, made the flights more like amusement park rides—the illusion of danger, not its actual manifestation.

She spoke into a radio after pocketing the key to the cuffs. "Romeo is fixed in space. Bring 'em in."

A few minutes later two more SUVs pulled up on the concrete apron. Two guys, each with shoulder bags, got out and walked across to the plane. Frank, the pilot, doing his walk around, asked them to put their bags in the cargo compartment and then take the two seats most forward. "Behind the pilots' seats."

The plane was configured for mixed duty, the rear cargo section was separated from the front by a barrier of nylon webbing and the front had the two pilots' seats and six passenger seats.

Frank shut the cargo door and walked around to the passenger door. He crouched and pulled up the lower half of the door, with the steps. Before he shut the top, he said, "You may take the co-pilot's seat, if you like, Miss Pope."

She accepted, threading forward between the seats. Frank walked around the plane and entered from the pilot's door.

They were airborne fifteen minutes later and out over the dark stretch of Lagos Lagoon, outlined in lights. Lagos Island blazed, and then they were past the shoreline and out over the Bight of Benin. They climbed southeast, bound for the Niger Delta. The half-moon, low on the western horizon, cast a long bright finger on the sea below.

Davy had never been to the Delta. His previous trips to Nigeria had been to Lagos and the Federal capital, Abuja. Below five thousand feet the turbulence was severe, but they reached a level of relative calm above. The AC finally caught up with the humidity and Davy's breathing slowed as he became convinced death was not immediately impending.

Fifty-five minutes later they crossed back over land and began the descent. The turbulence began again shortly thereafter and Davy started sweating.

Ahead, the Delta was on fire. He knew what it was, but it still looked hellish. They landed along a stretch of asphalt road lit entirely by one of the gas flares. It towered into the sky, several hundred yards away, a massive pillar of flame reaching fully two hundred and fifty feet into the air. Davy could feel the radiated heat through the window. Frank turned on his landing lights though he didn't really need them. As soon as all three wheels were bumping across the road, he reversed the pitch on the prop and the shoulder strap bit into Davy's chest.

They were expected. A trio of Toyota Land Cruisers were parked in the grass, short of the mangroves. Frank taxied past them, then reversed pitch again and backed the plane off the road.

Davy looked curiously behind him. He could see water at the base of the mangroves and wondered if Frank would back it right into the swamp. He tried to remember the position of the landing wheels. He knew it was a tricycle configuration but he couldn't remember how far back the rear two wheels lay.

It wasn't as if they'd drown. The water couldn't be that deep and the mangroves would keep the plane from sinking in. And, provided he could get these cuffs off, he didn't need the plane to get back home.

The turbine died and Frank ran through the shutdown quickly, before dropping out of the pilot's door and walking over to the Land Cruisers.

Hyacinth pivoted in her seat and said, "You'll have two armed guards with each of you. Settings as discussed." She had to raise her voice almost to a shout to be heard over the roar of the flare.

The two key holders threaded back past Davy, fished their bags past the cargo netting, and opened the airstair. As the first one went down the stair, Davy heard a squelching noise and a muffled curse.

"Watch it. We're right on the edge of the marsh."

By stepping off the bottom of the stair toward the front of the aircraft, the second man avoided the mud. The two men went around the front of the aircraft and joined Frank at the Land Cruisers. Frank directed them each to one of the vehicles and they climbed in. Both Land Cruisers started up and moved in opposite directions down the road. Their passage raised dust at the edge of the road.

It hasn't been raining, here.

Davy, already sweating from the heat of the gas flare, felt a surge of adrenaline. What if one of them drove out of range? He was still cuffed to the plane.

Slowly, Hyacinth moved down the aisle. She sat across his lap and leaned her chest toward his face. "Hot in here, isn't it?"

"You're pushing it, Miss Pope," he said through gritted teeth.

"And it pushes back," she said with a twist of her hips. But she relented and stood, rubbing against him, then knelt to unlock the cuffs. Davy jumped to the shadow cast by the flare at the rear of the remaining Land Cruiser, out of sight of the cluster of men near the passenger door. He saw Hyacinth swivel her head around sharply, looking for him. He moved out of the shadow and leaned against the vehicle.

She saw him then and climbed down the Airstair. He was hoping she would step into the marsh, but she'd been watching, apparently, and jumped lightly forward from the stair and avoided the mud. Davy saw now that the rear wheels of the plane were a good six feet away from the marsh's edge. In fact, they were forward of the airplane's midpoint and he figured the engine and fuel tanks must move the center of mass toward the front of the craft.

Hyacinth gestured to Davy and they arrived at the front of the Land Cruiser together.

Frank was talking to an African in creased khakis in one of the local languages. Davy didn't recognize any of the words so he thought it might be Yoruba, Ijaw, or Ibo.

"Right," said Frank. "This is Reverend Uori of the ECWA mission on the Dado River. He is the contact."

Reverend Ilori was a middle-aged man. His closely cut cropped hair was shot with gray. He nodded politely and said, "May the blessings of our Savior be with you."

Davy smiled and with just a twinge of hypocrisy said, "And may Jesus Christ forever watch over and guide us all." He'd met members of the Ecumenical Churches of West Africa before, near Abuja. They were mostly good people, trying to help, but more concerned with salvation in heaven than improvements here on earth.

Frank watched this interaction, a look of mild amusement on his face. "The exchange is for dawn, at the mission itself, but if we want to be in place, we had better go."

Reverend Ilori sat in the front seat with the unarmed driver and Davy sat in the back with Frank and Hyacinth. Hyacinth kept the bag on her lap.

"We can put that in the back, Miss Pope," Frank offered.

She tightened her hold on it. "I don't think so."

"Ah. The ransom. Don't blame you."

Davy, who knew otherwise, remained quiet.

The road curved around the flare, then headed east, toward the coast. They entered a section of grassy brush and a large, rabbit-sized animal scuttled off the road, eyes shining in the headlights. Reverend Ilori said something over his shoulder and smacked his lips together.

Frank translated. "Cane rat. Good eating. Surprising to see—they've been hunted hard around here."

Hyacinth, seated between them, shuddered. "Yuck."

Davy offered, "It's not a true rat. It's taxonomically closer to the porcupine."

Reverend Ilori turned again. "Porcupine! Also good eating." He smacked his lips again.

The asphalt road turned to dirt and the ride became much rougher as the Land Cruiser bounced over ruts and dropped into potholes. Fortunately this track ended at a wharf, sticking out into a narrow channel threading between the mangroves.

A solitary boy rose from the dock, slight, dressed only in shorts, hand held up to shield his eyes. He looked sleepy. Reverend Ilori, stepping out of the car, called to him. When the boy approached, the Reverend handed him something.

Hyacinth said, "What's that about?"

Frank took a pair of binoculars from the driver. "He was guarding the boat. Wouldn't have done us much good if someone had stolen it while the good Reverend was away."

The driver turned off the headlights but made no move to get out of the vehicle. The night seemed to close in but after a moment, Davy began to detect the distant glow of gas flares all around the horizon. The moon had set while they were driving but after a bit he could make out the brighter stars, too, through a low haze that owed more to the gas flares than local weather.

Reverend Ilori was walking out onto the dock. "We must go. It will take most of an hour to reach the mission." He climbed down into the unseen boat and turned on a flashlight.

It was a square-bowed aluminum john boat, perhaps fourteen feet long. It was seriously underpowered with a two-horsepower outboard. There was a single pole, as long as the boat, tied to one gunwale, if the motor failed. The Reverend directed Frank to take the flashlight and sit in the bow. Davy and Hyacinth took the center thwart with the bag between them. Ilori cast off his single line and started the engine.

Things splashed into the water as they approached, and once Ilori pointed out two bright red spots reflecting the flashlight from back under the mangroves. "Crocodile." He smacked his lips. "Good eating."

Their route twisted back and forth, following the channel which varied in width as much as it did in direction. At times it seemed they were in a broad lake and other times it narrowed until they could reach out and touch the mangroves on both sides of the boat. As they crossed one wide section he felt the boat tremble, pulled slightly sideways by a current.

"River?" he asked.

"The Dodo," said Reverend Ilori.

Fully fifty minutes had passed by Davy's watch when they pulled up to an area of higher ground, cleared, with three white buildings constructed on piles, a crawl space visible below. There was no dock. Ilori pointed the bow at the mud bank and gunned it briefly before hitting the kill button and tipping the motor up. Frank shifted back toward Davy, allowing the bow to rise higher, and then the boat shuddered to a stop. Frank, first out, squelched through mud, but he seized the bow and pulled the boat farther up the bank, allowing the rest of them to step out on dry ground.

"Good, we are early," said Ilori. "Though we were probably watched as we came. They would not come if there were more of us. Or guns."

"What do we do now?" asked Hyacinth.

"Wait."

The dawn broke with the suddenness typical of equatorial regions and Davy could see that there was water on three sides of the Mission's bit of land. Several different channels wove off through the mangroves. There was a grove of palm trees clumped together on the land behind the mission, ending, abruptly, in the ever-present mangroves. The buildings were silent.

"Where is everyone?" Davy asked. "I mean, those who live here?"

Reverend gestured to the south. "Last night I took them to the village. These mugu men, they are without God. They killed several palm oil farmers just last week who would not pay the leave-me-alone. I do not want them to kill any of my flock."

There was the distant sound of a motor, much more powerful than the clergyman's small outboard, and then another. Two Jet Skis came out of a canal and peeled to the left and the right. Each one had two men on it. They slowed their engines and settled into the water, idling some fifty feet away from the mud bank. They were armed with SIG 540 assault rifles, probably stolen or bought from the army, and they were dressed in ragged shorts, athletic shoes without socks, and brown tee-shirts that may have been a different color once. They scanned the small group standing on the mud bank, then pushed in to the shore.

Hyacinth eased her hand into her bag, which still hung over one shoulder.

The two passengers splashed off the Jet Skis and up the mud bank. They bypassed the small group and ran to the chapel, flattening themselves by the doors, then ducking in, assault style. After a moment, they came back out, then repeated the inspection with the other two buildings. When they were done, one of them shouted, "Clear!"

One of the Jet Ski pilots lifted a plastic-wrapped radio to his lips. The two men who'd checked the building walked toward the small group. They stopped ten feet away, their assault rifles pointed at the ground between them.

"Give us the bag," said the larger of them, jerking his head.

Reverend Ilori stepped away from Hyacinth, his eyes widening.

Hyacinth shook her head. "That is not the agreement. Bring Mr. Roule."

They lifted their guns now, pointing the muzzles directly at Hyacinth. "Give us the bag, now!"

Hyacinth held up her free hand, the one that wasn't in the bag. Between her thumb and forefinger she held a dull black ring connected to an equally dark pin. "Do you see this?"

The big man narrowed his eyes. "I do not care. Give me the bag!"

Hyacinth said, "You should care. It belongs to this." She brought her hand out of the bag, slowly. She was holding a black grenade with yellow markings, the lever held to the body with her fingertips. The pin was not in it.

Davy nearly jumped away, but controlled himself. Even if she let go, there would be at least two seconds before it detonated—plenty of time.

Reverend Ilori backed briskly away from the group, praying audibly.

The two men lowered the muzzles of the assault rifles again. One of them said something, almost spat it, and Davy saw Frank's eyes narrow.

"An insult?" Davy asked quietly.

Frank nodded. "Potty talk. They don't like having to listen to a woman."

Hyacinth waved the grenade gently back and forth. "Bring Mr. Roule."

The "mugu" men retreated to the waterline.

Frank said, "You frighten me, Miss Pope."

Wise man, thought Davy.

Hyacinth laughed, a high-noted trill that carried to the armed men. In a whisper she added, "It's a training grenade. It was repainted to look like the standard H-E. Would they have stolen the ransom? After agreeing to the exchange?"

Frank shrugged. "Stealing ransoms before the drop is big business here in Nigeria. But the way we flew in, the secrecy, we avoided it. They might have released Mr. Roule if you'd given it to them, or they might have claimed the people who took the money were not the same people who had the hostage. Then there would be another demand for money."

Another motor sounded in the distance, deeper and stronger than the Jet Skis but hard to locate, diffuse. Davy scanned the mangroves and then saw it, a small boat—radar and VHF antenna just sticking above the mangroves, moving right to left before turning the corner in the channel and coming into view on the west-most canal.

It was a nine-meter rigid inflatable, fiberglass hull with a surrounding flexible pressure chamber. There were massive twin outboards at the stern, a pilot station amidships with a rigid hard bimini shading the helmsman and mounting the antennas already seen.

There were five men aboard: the helmsman, two men armed with SIG 540s at the stern, a man with a holstered sidearm in the bow, and, seated before him on the deck, a man with his arms tied behind and a sack over his head.

The helmsman reversed thrust and came to a stop at the mouth of the channel where it opened onto the water around the mission.

Davy used Frank's binoculars.

The man in the bow was dressed somewhat better than his compatriots in intact camouflage fatigues and a New York Yankees baseball cap. He unholstered his sidearm, a black and blocky automatic, and pointed it at the covered head of his captive. "Show us the money!" he shouted across the water.

Hyacinth looked at Davy and moved her eyes sideways toward the boat.

Quietly, Davy said, "It may not be him. And we need to make sure he's not chained to the boat." He studied the bow carefully, as a jump point.

Frank stepped forward and yelled, "How do we know that's Mr. Roule? Show us his face."

"Show us the money!"

Frank spread his hands apart, palm up. He shouted slowly, "I. Do. Not. Believe. You. Have. Him. This is some tourist you've stolen. We are not paying for a tourist."

"I will kill him!" said the Yankees fan.

"Show us his face. Show us that he is alive," Frank said reasonably. "You told Reverend Ilori he was unharmed. Was that lies?"

For a very tense moment, Davy thought the man would pull the trigger, but he finally reached over and pulled the hood off of the prisoner.

The captive was dirty, his gray hair matted, two weeks of beard on his cheeks. He blinked against the sudden light, looking frail and scared. Frank took the binoculars from Davy.

"It's him."

Hyacinth said, "You're sure?"

"Yes. I was his personal pilot for two years. I know the son-of-a-bitch. That's why you guys wanted me, remember?"

Davy winced. So she lied when she said she'd kill the pilot if I talked to him. But while that may have been a lie before Frank identified Roule, she probably wouldn't hesitate to kill him now that he'd completed his job.

"Okay." She handed the grenade to Davy, who carefully clamped his hand over the lever. Then she zipped the bag all the way open and tilted it toward the boat. It seemed to be filled with bundled American currency, but Davy knew better. The two outer bills of each bundle were color xeroxes and the stuff between was plain newsprint.

She shouted to the boat. "Can he walk?" Davy watched closely. He didn't need Roule to walk but they wanted to make sure the man wasn't chained to the boat.

The Yankees fan must've been feeling generous at the sight of the ransom. He reached down and pulled the captive up. Roule sagged but when his captor let go of his arm, he managed to stay on his feet. Davy couldn't see any chains or ropes connecting him to the boat.

The plan was to do the swap at the shoreline. Davy said conversationally, "You're sure the keys overlap the Cessna."

"Definitely. We were covering a larger area when we did the Lagos airport thing."

Davy inhaled and exhaled. "Right. I'd better remove Reverend Ilori first."

Hyacinth snarled. "Don't deviate from the plan."

Davy looked at her impassively. "Not appreciably."

She zipped the money bag closed, then walked down to the shoreline and set it down where the mud was dried and crusted. She backed away and the two men on shore ran lightly toward it. By the time they reached it, Hyacinth was back with the group.

Reverend Ilori had returned to the group after Hyacinth's little hand grenade incident was over. Davy edged slightly behind him as Hyacinth reached into her journalist's vest for her gun.

The men reached the money bag and both knelt beside it. One tugged on the zipper, but it seemed stuck. He pulled harder.

The flash-bang went off with the smoke grenade, throwing them both back, stunned, singed. Davy, expecting it, still flinched. He grabbed Ilori, jumped to the Cessna, where it was parked near the towering, roaring gas jet, and pushed the Reverend staggering away. Then he was in the bow of the big boat, body-slamming Mr. Yankees fan sideways, away from Roule. He dropped the grenade, the lever flying before the round black and yellow metal ball bounced on the deck. Davy heard the Yankees fan yell "Grenade!" right before Davy grabbed Roule. As Davy jumped, he saw the Yankees fan dive out of the boat.

When Davy let go of Roule beside the plane, the man fainted, dropping with slack knees to the ground. Reverend Ilori was dancing from one foot to the other, staring at them and muttering "Jesus protect me!" again and again.

"Untie him!" Davy said, gesturing at Roule, and returned to the mission. A huge cloud of torn paper and yellow smoke was spread through the air, settling slowly across the water and clearing. Barely seen through it, on the other side of the waterway, the shattered hulk of the boat was burning.

She also lied about the grenade.

There was splashing in the water near the boat, so he hoped the crew had gotten overboard before the grenade had exploded. Someone was firing an assault rifle and Davy saw bullet holes trace across the wall of the church and smash a glass window. He dropped to the ground. He heard Frank call to him and looked around. Hyacinth and Frank were under the chapel, sheltering behind the cinderblock steps under the front door.

He jumped to them, lying on the dusty dried mud at their side.

Hyacinth was talking on a small handheld radio. "Yes. We will be completely clear of the area by the time you get here." She held her big, blocky automatic in the other hand and she'd replaced the clip with one that stuck a good five inches out of the bottom of the grip. She stuck the gun around the corner of the cinderblocks and pulled the trigger.

"Jesus!" said Davy, covering his ears. The gun fired continuously as she held the trigger down for half-a-second. "What the hell is that?"

Hyacinth looked like she was enjoying herself. She turned toward him and said, "It's my Glock Eighteen. Cool, huh? Thirteen hundred rounds a minute. Too bad I could only get thirty-one-round clips." She turned back toward the water.

"Who was she talking to?" Davy asked Frank.

Frank was staring at him, breathing heavily. He managed to stammer, "Army. Seventh Amphibious Battalion. They're closing in and they're probably going to shoot anything that moves." He gestured in the general direction of the shooter. "Looks like their eyes went come-down-sad." At Davy's look of incomprehension he said, "They've realized they've been conned."

"Ah." Davy grabbed Frank's belt with both hands and jumped him back to the airplane.

Reverend Ilori was helping Roule to sit up, fortunately facing away from where Davy and Frank had appeared.

Frank struggled to his feet and Davy rolled away from him before also standing. Frank was looking at his airplane, then at Ilori and Roule. "Son-of-a-bitch."

"Takes people like that. Or did you mean him?" Davy looked at Roule. He lowered his voice. "You called him that before. Why don't you like him?"

Frank shut his mouth abruptly.

"Don't want to say, eh? Okay. Hope I didn't rescue a monster."

Frank licked his lips, then decided to speak, his face contorted. "Well, you did. Whole villages. Fisheries. Farms. Gone. Only he wasn't the one who got his hands dirty or took the blame. He's only the one who pointed his finger and said 'do it.' In the name of oil. For obscene profit."

Oh, shit. For one brief moment Davy considered putting Roule back at the mission, in the hopes that the army assault team would kill him.

Davy's expression looked so bleak that Frank recoiled from him, blurting, "I won't tell."

Davy shook his head. "You have nothing to fear from me. I wish you would tell. Tell the whole world!" He sighed. "You can leave when your other passengers come back. Miss Pope and I will not be riding back with you."

"You're the guy, aren't you, who stopped those hijackings ten years ago? Those airplanes and that ship in Egypt."

Davy shrugged. The conclusion was obvious. He'd been captured on video appearing on the wing of a 727 during the Cyprus rescue. Over two hundred passengers and crew saw him jump during the Argos ship rescue.

"What do I tell them?" He gestured toward Roule and Reverend Ilori.

"Shock. Angels. Hallucinations. Whatever you want. I better go get Miss Pope before she pops a blood vessel."

"Or the army does that for her."

"I wish." Davy jumped.

He reappeared under the center of the church, well behind Hyacinth. One of the shooters on the Jet Ski had figured out where she was hiding and had rounded the island, flanking her. Dried mud was flying as bullets tore past the stairs and Hyacinth was pressed tight against the back of the cinderblocks, barely in cover. Apparently she'd run out of ammo for she wasn't returning fire and she no longer looked as if she were enjoying herself. Between the shots Davy heard the distant noise of helicopters.

He would be in danger of being hit if he jumped directly behind her. She pretty much filled the only sheltered space in her vicinity and the way she flinched as the bullets set showers of dried mud flying she probably wasn't considering it much like shelter.

He looked at the Jet Ski. It was drifting, idling, and the pilot was twisted on the saddle, shooting three-round bursts.

Davy jumped and appeared with both feet on the rear starboard edge of the Jet Ski. The Jet Ski promptly rolled over, dumping the shooter, but Davy jumped away before he'd sunk more than knee deep in the estuary. He appeared directly behind Hyacinth, a large amount of water puddled around him, turning the dried, cracked dirt to mud.

One of the crewmen from the large boat had climbed into the mangroves and was now shooting at the steps, but his position didn't allow him to shoot directly at their position. Davy ignored him.

He wanted to just grab Hyacinth and jump, but the way she flinched every time a bullet slammed into the mud steps or plowed into the mud gave him an idea.

"Back to the Vineyard?" he asked.

She twisted around and said "Yes, dammit!" Almost immediately, her face changed, anger replacing fear. "How did you—oh just get us out of here!" A chip of flying debris had cut her forehead and blood ran down into her eyebrow, but she seemed unaware of it.

He allowed himself a small smile as he jumped her back to the mansion. A mansion, he mused, which is on the south shore of Martha's Vineyard.

They appeared in his room, in the box. Mud splattered on the Turkish rug. They were entwined, still lying prone, and Davy tried to roll away but Hyacinth pulled him back, twisted on top and straddled him. She dropped the radio and her Glock on the floor.

I'll jump away, he thought, but he didn't. Instead he felt her pelvis grinding against him and then her mouth on his and his body responding. He let his hands come to rest on the small of her back, just where the swell of her buttocks met her waist.

Oh, god. It's been so long...

Her tongue ran across his lips and she pulled his shirt apart, literally, buttons flying and cloth ripping as she tugged. She lifted up again astride him as she tore off her photojournalist's vest. He found himself lifting the tail of her polo and running his fingers over the skin of her back as she pressed her chest down on him again. He encountered her bra strap but there was no clasp at the back so he moved his hands around, under the shirt, encountering her breasts beneath stretch lace, hard nipples, and then the front closure. Hyacinth lifted to give him access and the bra separated, dropping her full breasts into his hands. She groaned and sucked on his lower lip.

Davy ached for her, even though a tiny voice in the back of his head was screaming that this woman shot, killed, murdered Brian Cox in front of him, was one of those who made him a prisoner, tortured him, kept him away from Millie. His body didn't care. Shut up! It's not about love.

He pushed her up and tugged at her shirt, pulling and pushing it up. Hyacinth sat up and pulled it over her head in one quick motion, shrugged off the unfastened bra, then shifted back along his legs. She straddled his knees and put one hand on his crotch as she fumbled with her other hand at the buckle of his belt.

He watched her, frozen in agonized anticipation, drinking in the motion of her breasts, the play of hollow and swell around her collarbones and the base of the neck—then he jerked his head up and raised himself to his elbows, staring.

A semicircular scar, old and faded to the merest white line, graced Hyacinth's chest an inch below her collarbone. He searched with his eyes and saw another, the thin straight line on the side of her neck.

His hand reached out, probed her skin, and felt the lump, the flat hardness below that matched his own implant. He jerked his hand away as if burned. He felt nauseated but it wasn't accompanied by the tingling in his throat. It was pure, visceral revulsion.

She reacted to his jerking away as she hadn't to his probing touch, looking up from where she was unsnapping his jeans, her brows raised. He recoiled, a jump that left him standing on the other side of the room from her.

She jabbed a finger in her mouth and swore around it. "Dammit, you might warn a girl! You nearly tore my finger off."

She stood up, her breasts swaying. Objects of desire only seconds before, Davy hardly saw them. His eyes were drawn to the scars, barely visible from across the room yet burning, to Davy's eyes, like lines of fire.

"What's wrong?"

Davy tapped his own chest, where they'd put the device. He ran his finger over the scar tissue there and on his neck.

She raised her hand to touch her own skin above the breast. "Yes? What about it?" She cupped her own breasts and lifted them. "What does that have to do with this? With what we were doing?"

He looked away, ashamed of himself. "It brought me back to my senses. I don't know what I was thinking." He looked back. "When did they do it to you? And why?"

She crossed her arms over her breasts. "What does it matter?"

Davy felt like he'd been drenched in ice water. His stomach was roiling and though his arousal had vanished he could still feel her on his skin. "Because you went through this yourself, you felt what it was like, and you let them do it to me!"

"Ask yourself this my boy: What choice did I have?" She let her hands drop again. Her mouth, so soft and yielding before, was a tight line. "I spent my share of time lying in my own shit and vomit. Not that mine works like yours. They didn't use it to keep me from running—a locked door does that just fine in my case. But they did use it to compel my... loyalty."

Davy shuddered. We're all victims here. "What did you do to piss them off?"

She turned away. "You don't understand. You probably can't understand."

"I understand more than I did. They turned you into a killer, didn't they?"

She stared at him, frowning, like he'd just said the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. She picked up her clothes and her gun and walked to the door.

He was upset and he found he didn't want her to leave. "What did I say?"

She laughed at him, but there was very little humor in it. Her eyes glittered as she jerked her shirt on. "You don't get it. They didn't make me into a killer—that was why they hired me in the first place." She opened the door and touched her upper breast. "This wasn't inflicted on me—it was a requirement for promotion, a necessary condition to work at this level. It was something I chose!" She looked at Davy with narrowed eyes, then shook her head. "I should've known better." She slammed the door hard enough that the Winslow Homer print bounced off of its picture hook and fell to the dresser top.

Davy stared at the door, his mouth open. His hands shook and his mouth was dry. He thought about her skin, her breasts, and the way his body had responded to her touch.

Then he went into the bathroom and threw up.