Demon Lover (2 page)

And where am I?

It was dark, but she seemed to be on a bed, in something that moved. She could feel the rough fabric chafing her cheek, hear the low growl of a powerful engine, feel the occasional lurch and sway of rapid motion. The camper—she was in the camper, of course! And they were on a paved road, probably still in the desert, since the road seemed to be arrow straight.

She lay very quietly, holding her breath and listening for sounds of alien breathing. She heard only the drone of the motor and the sound of her own blood pounding in her aching head. She was alone. That fact gave her very little comfort; they had left her alone because there was absolutely nothing she could do to escape. Julie wasted no time struggling with her bonds. They were simple and effective—completely professional.

He knew his business, that one—the tall one. The one who had caught her.

What was it they'd called him?
Demonio Garzo
. Or had she only conjured the name from her nightmares?
Blue–eyed Demon.
Julie shivered in the darkness.

How did it happen? I’m a professional, an experienced and well–trained agent. How could I have let it happen?

Partly to keep her mind off her physical and emotional discomforts, and partly because it was almost second nature to recap any incidents encountered on patrol, Julie stared into the shadowy darkness and began a painful and meticulous replay of the whole fiasco.

…From my position behind the rocky knoll I watched the camper crawl across the desert floor, dragging a plume of dust behind it like a deflated parachute. I frowned, shading my eyes against the late–afternoon glare. Something about that camper bothered me.

It wasn’t anything that could be explained. The extra–wide wheelbase and oversize off–road tires, heavy–duty shocks and four–wheel drive could all be the accommodations of a dedicated off–road enthusiast. But there was something—a gut feeling, an instinct. I didn’t question it; after nearly ten years as an agent of the United States Border Patrol I had learned to trust my instincts.

The camper climbed steadily toward me up the narrow dirt road, its engine purring with the throaty growl of power to spare, its gearbox whining in high–pitched overtones. I watched it pass and drop out of sight over the ridge, and then climbed back into my vehicle, reaching for the radio as I snapped my seatbelt into place. I gave my location and stated my intention to pursue a suspect vehicle, then started the motor and pulled slowly out onto the road.

I kept well back. The desert could easily swallow up a vehicle bent on eluding a pursuer. And if the camper was, as I suspected, carrying smuggled illegals from Baja California, it would probably be heading for a rendezvous sometime after dark, either to pass its human cargo on to another, more innocent–looking conveyance for the last leg of the journey to the urban wilds of Los Angeles, or to deposit them in some remote way station to make their own way north. They might even abandon the whole camper–load to die in the desert. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Coyotes. There isn’t an agent in the Border Patrol who doesn’t loathe and fear the unscrupulous smugglers. I consider them the lowest form of life—and the most dangerous. They are usually sky–high on drugs and completely unpredictable. They can turn violent without warning. I considered requesting a backup, but rejected the notion as premature. The camper could turn out to be carrying dirt bikes and beer. Just the same, I reminded myself to use extreme caution.

Just before dark the camper left the road and dipped into a dry wash, where it sat motionless and silent. There were no bustling preparations for camp, and no one emerged from the cab; the camper sat in the gully, out of sight, waiting.

So I did the same. I had left my vehicle hidden behind a clump of scrub juniper a quarter mile or so away and now I lay on my stomach at the edge of the ravine. I peered down at the pale glint of the camper shell below, my ears straining for the slightest sound. The warm desert wind rustled through sage and juniper and Joshua trees, masking all the other noises of the lively desert nighttime. There was no moon. In the west the pale glow of the distant city washed out the stars, but directly overhead there were enough left shining to provide a ghostly illumination, turning the land into a surrealistic canvas in silver and indigo.

I remembered to pull on the dark cap I use on night patrols to hide my blond hair.

Where was it now? She closed her eyes and moved her head against the bed, feeling only the weight of her short platinum curls. Gone, then.

It would be lying like an inkblot on the white sand, mute evidence for the chopper crew to find. But they would never find her. Who would it be? Rudy Gomez, probably. Rudy and his wife, Marta, were good friends of hers. She had been an attendant at their wedding. What would he think when he found only her cap? Would he feel sorry? What would they say back at the station? Mel, Jack, Gomez and Franconi, Lupe and Paula, Rasmussen…

What an odd thought, after so many years, to think of them all going along exactly as before—only without her. Would they miss her, miss the way they used to tease her in a companionable sort of way, calling her "Cottontop" and "Dandelion," always going on about her pale hair, that unruly mop of white gold curls that sat atop her long neck and small, supple gymnast’s body like thistledown. The teasing was affectionate and casual, though, a mark of their acceptance. And it hadn’t always been that way. She had had to earn that acceptance. She was—had been—a darned good agent. She had carried her weight and more.

What would they do? What was the procedure? As far as Julie knew, such a thing had never happened before. How long would they search before they gave her up for dead? When an agent was killed in the line of duty two agents always went together to break the news to the next of kin.
Next of kin. My parents. When they see two unhappy–looking agents standing on their doorstep they’ll know without being told.

Julie sniffed, awash in bitter regret and self–pity. Poor Dad. He’d encouraged her to go into law enforcement when her enthusiasm for gymnastics had fizzled out. Would he blame himself?

And Mom. She’d really been looking forward to having Julie at home in August. She’d made so many plans, in spite of Julie’s warning that she’d be there to work and would not be getting much time off. Being transferred to the Los Angeles station temporarily during the Pan American Exposition had been a break for her, a nice change from desert patrols and midnight raids, and a chance for the first real visit with her family since her last vacation. She’d fought hard for that assignment. And now she was going to miss it. It seemed, somehow, the last straw.

She wallowed in misery for a while, thinking of all the things she was going to miss. Marta’s baby shower, the rest of the baseball pennant race, football season. Colin.

Colin! Will anyone even think to tell Colin? I had a date with him…tonight? What day is it, anyway?

Anyway, her date was for Saturday, as always, unless she was on duty. Colin would be annoyed—he disliked tardiness. He would be quite put out when he realized he’d been stood up. And when he learned why, he’d be sorry.

They’ll all be sorry when I’m gone.

Julie laughed a little in self–mockery. The fantasy of every misunderstood child! She really was being childish, and all of this wallowing in self–pity wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She dragged her mind back to that lonely and fateful vigil.

…I had picked a new sound out of the restless bustle of night noise. An engine. A new vehicle of some sort was approaching from the east, moving slowly without lights, following the silver ribbon of road through the darker scrub. At the edge of the wash the newcomer stopped. For a long slow ten–count it sat, a dark hulk against the stars, and then headlights stabbed once through the night. In that instant I identified the shape as a station wagon—that staid and innocent suburban housewife’s standby, incongruous there on that vast and lonely stretch of desert. And then the camper’s lights came briefly to life—once, twice—and the wagon slipped into the dark gully like a whale sounding.

My hand went automatically to the holster at my hip, and then I crept over the side of the ravine, using the noise of the car to cover the sounds of my descent. As always, I felt that peculiar twinge deep in my belly that I hate to admit is fear; there was no way of knowing just what I would encounter down in that dark ravine. All the agents feel it, and most of them are honest enough to admit it. The only antidote is to concentrate on the plan of attack.

I planned to stay out of sight and use my voice, hoping to throw the smugglers into confusion. The illegals might panic, of course, and would probably scatter into the desert, but they could be rounded up later, and the confusion might help to convince the smugglers that there was more than one of me. If only I had some idea how many of them there were.

The station wagon had stopped behind the camper. Two men got out of the passenger side of the camper, shut the door behind them and walked back toward the rear of the vehicle.

Now, replaying the scene in her mind, she could see her mistake as clearly as if it had been circled in red: both men had come from one side of the cab; the driver had stayed behind. And in the darkness and confusion—but that was later, and this was hindsight. Useless recrimination.

…
The transfer began. Dark bundles of humanity shuffled from one vehicle to the other, the only sounds the creak of the car door, the scuff of gravelly dirt, an occasional hushed murmur in Spanish. One of the smugglers stood with his back to the camper, smoking, while the other hurried the passengers along. The driver of the station wagon leaned against a fender and kicked nervously at the ground.

I chose my moment, waiting until all the passengers had left the camper but had not yet found seats in the station wagon. Then, from my cover in a pile of boulders about twenty yards from the camper, I called out in Spanish, "This is the United States Border Patrol. You are surrounded. Do not attempt to run away. Put your hands on your vehicle where I can see them and remain where you are!"

There was a moment of shocked silence and then a high–pitched but masculine laugh—almost a titter. I couldn’t help but smile; it’s a common reaction from macho Hispanic males confronted with the unpalatable fact that they have been apprehended by a woman. The laughter is an involuntary reaction of sheer disbelief, and is usually followed immediately by anger. That anger can be very dangerous.

The man with the cigarette threw it to the ground and made a movement toward the cab of the camper. Julie rapped out a warning in Spanish and he froze. There was no reaction at all from the other smugglers, and no panic among the illegals, which was unusual but not unheard of, and so welcome that I didn’t question it. I remained safely under cover, repeating my instructions even as I removed my remote com–unit from my belt and flipped the switch that would
automatically activate the "officer in need of assistance" signal. The situation was well under control. As long as the smugglers didn’t suspect that I was alone I should be able to hold them until the chopper arrived.

In the stuffy warmth of the camper Julie felt herself grow cold and clammy; beads of icy sweat formed on her upper lip. She closed her eyes against a wave of nausea as she relived that first awful moment when she had known she was not alone in that pile of boulders.

…Some primitive sense fired off alarm signals that stopped my breath and prickled the skin on the nape of my neck, but I only had a fraction of a second’s warning—not enough time to react.

Arms came around me from behind; one hand grasped my arm and pulled it back and up, while the other closed around the wrist of the hand that held the com–unit. Brutal pressure robbed that hand of all feeling. I heard the unit clatter to the ground at my feet. I was pulled roughly back and off–balance so that my head and shoulders fell heavily against a hard, unyielding chest, and the pressure on my arm became pain so intense I couldn’t suppress a cry.

It happened so quickly, and in complete silence. I knew better than to struggle; thanks to my gymnastics training I am strong for a woman, but in close combat I am no match for a man, even one more nearly my size. Which this man was not. Besides, there was no telling what sort of junk these smugglers might be on—glue or angel dust could turn them lethal in an instant. I relaxed and hastily assured my captor in Spanish of my complete capitulation.

From the chest behind my head came a short gust of laughter, as full of humor as the sound of a bullet slamming into its chamber. My other arm was bent back and up; both wrists were imprisoned in a single iron grip. I was turned in the circle of one sinewy arm, while the man’s free hand dragged the cap from my head and tipped my face toward the starlight. I heard a faint hiss of indrawn breath that was quickly drowned by my own involuntary gasp.

Even now she could feel her stomach contract at the memory of that face.

It had been dark, of course, and she had been frightened half to death. Probably she had imbued the harsh lines and planes of that face with a hellishness it would not have in daylight. She had not really looked upon Lucifer himself. But surely, surely she couldn’t have imagined those eyes.

Blue fire. What Mexican could have eyes like that?

…As I stared into those shocking eyes, a call came from the direction of the camper, "Ay! Demonio Garzo! Que pasa?"

A reply rumbled out over my head. "I have her; there is only one."

"Que bueno," came the response, accompanied by a nasty–sounding laugh.

The man who held me, the man called "Blue–eyed Demon," hadn’t taken his eyes from my face or relaxed his hold on my arms. I stared back at his impassive face like a rabbit transfixed by a car’s headlights, and a pulse throbbed painfully in my throat. I expected to die now; I prayed it would happen quickly.