Demon Seed (23 page)

He met her stare, nodded, and strode over to the duffel bag lying on a suitcase rack.

Jacinta let out the breath she’d been holding and uncrossed the fingers hidden behind her back.

He gave her a derringer—a compact pistol a tad over six inches long, conveniently attached to an ankle holster. Made her disassemble and reassemble the gun, gave her a hard kiss, and then had her lock the door behind him. She had never used this small a weapon before and had trained on older, bulkier models. So Jacinta went through the procedure twice more.

She’d chatted with the front desk employees while Demon met with Satan earlier in the day, and had managed to get her bearings. They were much closer to Manaus than Demon had led her to believe. According to one of the employees, there were only two small towns before the Brazilian border.

Demon said Pedro had Lucia and Fredo downriver. If Satan and some of the men were downriver, then how many men were left at La Abatapo?

Jacinta dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and the fine linen shirt she’d bought Demon from the hospital gift shop. She strapped on the holster, inserted the .22 into its leather holster, and pulled on her boots, but still felt naked. Remembering the knives Demon had emptied into the drawer, she retrieved one and sheathed the dagger in the other boot. Both hers and Demon’s hotel bathrobes lay crumpled on the bench in front of the bed.

On autopilot, wrestling with her conscience, she picked up the robes and walked to the bathroom. She had promised to wait for him. But hadn’t promised not to leave the room. And her fingers had been crossed. Stupid, she knew, but still a way out.

The robe smelled of Demon. She brought the terry material to her nose and felt a slight bump. Frowning, she dug into the pocket, pulled out a small white packet, opened it, and emptied eleven pills into her palm. Jacinta glanced at the toilet, but before she could throw the pills into the bowl, the bedroom door burst open.

Five armed men sprinted straight to her, and not a single one looked even faintly familiar. Her blood went cold, then hot. She slammed the door shut, turned the lock, and jumped to the far side of the room, waiting for the fusillade of bullets that would surely follow.

She stuffed the pills into her jeans front pocket. She swiped her sweaty palms on the denim. Threw the curtain to one side. Hopped into the bathtub, and leaped onto the ledge. Her heart jumped into her throat as fists pounded the door. She tried to raise the window, but it was locked. She fought with the old-fashioned metal lock, glancing over her shoulder every other second. The rusted metal wouldn’t give.

She heard the door splinter and shoved the metal hard. A cold stream from the air conditioner rushed across her nape. One of the men grabbed her from behind just as she got the window up. The humidity from outside brushed her cheek for half a second.

Two of the huge thugs held her fast. She opened her mouth to let out a bloodcurdling scream, and they stuffed a rag down her throat. Panic had her lungs blistering. They tied her hands and feet, and one of them threw her over his shoulder.

Jacinta counted off seconds. Sister Helen always said to get control. Of time, if nothing else. Notice things. They went out the back entrance. She tried to lift her head, but the man ran so fast that all she saw was his boots. Her chin dinged into his back, and she wanted to bite him, take a chunk out of his flesh, but continued counting.

The sound of his footsteps changed. They’d reached the jetty. When he jumped into a boat, her jaw hit his backbone hard. An engine roared to life. The man flung her onto the bottom of the boat. She landed facedown in a puddle of water. Her nose throbbed from the forceful impact. Jacinta turned her head to the side and lay there unmoving.

Let them think she had passed out. Keeping her eyes closed, she listened. They spoke little. One man more than the others, mostly to bark one-word orders in Spanish, but not Venezuelan Spanish. Her uncle lived in Colombia. So they were her uncle’s men. Jacinta risked a quick peek. Not a boat, but a raft, and she lay in the middle.

Trying not to move, Jacinta slid her cheek so she could see more. Seven pairs of boots, all the same. She could hear voices from behind and assumed that seven more men sat on the other side of the river craft. Fourteen men. She couldn’t see the bow or stern of the boat.

Maybe more than fourteen men then. She swam like a fish. And even though swimming in the Orinoco was decidedly dangerous, it would be better than being in the custody of these men. How to get overboard? How long had they been traveling? She had stopped counting seconds. But not for long. Maybe ten minutes. How wide was the river here?

The boat slowed. Jacinta’s heart spiked as the throttle eased.
Don’t panic. Don’t think about o Assassino Sorridente.

Men called to each other. The engine idled, and she realized they were about to dock. The second she felt the pliable raft rock, Jacinta tensed. She heard two or three of them as they landed on the jetty. She bit her lips and rolled hard over and over until her nose hit the raft’s side.

Shouts rang out. Jacinta rolled once more and tried to get a grip on the rubbery surface. Someone grabbed her and shook her hard, and then backhanded her. Sister Helen’s training kicked in, and she anticipated the next blow and went limp.

“Fucking bitch.”

His palm landed on the tip of her ear. The pain had her blindsided and she held herself still, for even the slightest movement had her eyes prickling. She refused to cry in front of these simpletons. Something clicked in her head. She knew his voice. From where?

Once again she was thrown over a shoulder. Jacinta forced her eyes open. The man carrying her marched across a grassy embankment. She glimpsed lights. Smelled onions cooking. Bile rose up her throat. Her ear still rang, but the sounds of music and low voices penetrated her foggy hearing.

She closed her eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness. The man climbed wide, wooden steps and halted at the top. “Where do you want her?”

“In the bedroom. I would have her presentable for my guests. Double the guards.”

He had a deep voice, her uncle, for she knew in her heart that was the man who had spoken. Jacinta refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react. She kept her lids squeezed shut and took shallow breaths, willing her pulse to stop racing.

They climbed more steps. The hand clamping her to his shoulder wandered. Slid to her ass and tweaked her bottom, a hard, cruel twist of flesh. Jacinta bit the inside of her cheek till she tasted blood. No. She would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Her captor dumped her on a bed. Resisting the urge to scoot up the mattress, she lifted her head and met his stare head-on. Hugo.

He smiled. A slow widening of his lips that bared yellowed teeth and promised torturous pain. She lifted her chin higher, determined to show not one single iota of fear.

“Out.” The command came from a woman. A tall, slender woman with striking red hair who lounged in the doorway to the room. A woman dressed in a long black dress slit on one side to reveal shapely, tanned legs. A woman with the coldest brown eyes Jacinta had ever seen.

If she could speak, Jacinta would’ve pleaded with Hugo to stay. For whatever this woman had planned for her wouldn’t be pleasant. She fought the fear speeding up her throat and drying her mouth in an absolute instant.

Hugo noticed her reaction, for he said, “I leave you to Tia’s ministrations.”

Jacinta tried to relax her facial muscles. She hadn’t expected Hugo to have a complex vocabulary. Hysteria had really set in, for she had to stifle a smile.

“So you are Rosa’s bitch of a daughter.” The woman left the door wide open. She clapped her hands. “Paola.
Mais rápido
. O Assassino Sorridente is anxious to introduce this fat bitch to his guests.”

An older woman hurried into the room. She carried an armful of clothes, walked to an armchair, and placed the garments carefully on the seat.

“Untie her. She stinks. Scrub her clean and put on whichever of those dresses fit.”

“Sim, Senhora Tia. I will be quick.”

“If you squeal once, bitch, I will have Hugo scrub you clean.” The woman paused, and her reddened lips parted in what could never in the universe be described as a smile. “Send for me when she is ready.”

“Sim, Senhora Tia.”

Jacinta focused on the bedcover’s floral pattern. But nothing worked. Not counting, not taking deep breaths, nothing halted the panic and the sheer terror oozing from her pores. She snuck a sidelong glance when the door clicked shut. And hung her head and prayed for a miracle, any divine intervention.

Knowing her only hope of escaping this nightmare rested on keeping her weapons, Jacinta made an instant decision.

Paola approached her. “Do not be afraid, senhora. I would only like to ease your discomfort.”

Jacinta angled her jaw and brought her hands to her mouth.

“Sim, sim.” Paola removed the gag.

She sucked in a deep breath and cleared her scratchy throat. “I will not fight you.”

“Mãe de Deus. I will not hurt you, senhora. May I cut your bonds?”

“Por favor. I would be so grateful.”

After Paola untied her, Jacinta unbuckled her belt. “I can undress myself.”

The maid retreated a few steps. She glanced at the door and then to the chair and the dresses.

One of the garments, a yellow one, fluttered off the chair. Jacinta grasped at the distraction. “The dresses have slipped to the floor.”

“I will straighten them out.”

Jacinta choked back a sigh of relief when the woman darted over to the chair and bent to the clothes, giving Jacinta her back. Thank the Lord.

Working as fast as her trembling fingers allowed, Jacinta unlaced her boots and slid the shoes under the bed. Hope soared in her veins. She shucked her clothes in record time, her mind racing, thoughts jumbling in all directions at once. If all else failed, could she take her own life?

She didn’t protest once. Not when Paola urged her to a tub in the bathroom, not when the maid washed her hair and soaped her shoulders and arms with a foamy rag.

Not even when Paola insisted on shaving her legs, but when the woman set the razor to her pubic hair, Jacinta captured the maid’s wrist. “No.”

“Por favor. Do not stop me in this. Senhora Tia will beat both of us.” It was only then that Jacinta noticed the bruises on the other woman’s cheeks and forearms.

“I will do it. Please. Are you a woman of faith?” She prayed for a positive answer.

The woman crossed herself and handed the razor to Jacinta. “But of course.”

“I have lived with the nuns most of my life. Please tell me what they plan.” She nicked her skin and flinched.

“Do not ask this of me, senhora. They will kill my children. Now we must hurry. She will be back soon.”

Talk about incentive. Jacinta’s mind galloped. She had to secrete the weapons.

“I will fetch you a towel.” Paola walked over to a cabinet.

Jacinta shaved quickly and rinsed off.

After wrapping the towel Paola gave her around her body, she then hurried to the bedroom when Paola began washing out the tub. Jacinta spied the crumpled jeans on the floor, remembered the sleeping pills, grinned, knelt, and fumbled for the pills in the pocket. She shoved them under a decorative pillow on the bed just as Paola returned to the room.

Though she had showered not seconds ago, a thin sheen of sweat peppered her entire body. Jacinta toweled off.

“Senhora, this one?” Paola held up a spaghetti-strapped, long blue dress.

“No. It won’t fit.” She needed a dress with pockets. “Here. Let me help. Where are the shoes?”

“Shoes?” Paola paled and wrung her hands. “She did not give me shoes. Mãe de Deus, she will beat me.”

Not able to suppress a wide grin at such amazing luck, Jacinta ducked her head. “It’s okay. Let’s find a long dress. I’ll wear my boots. No one will know.”

Jacinta made it to the chair in seconds. She pounced on the lone skirt in the selection and checked—side pockets. She fumbled through the pile, found only one top, and her lips curled. She held the skimpy fabric up. Never would her breasts fit in the halter. There’d be more of her out than in.

“Is there a brush or a comb? And can you put away the towel for me?” Jacinta held up the plush towel and nearly shouted in relief when Paola accepted the diversion.

Boots first, pills next, then clothes. The second the maid vanished into the bathroom, Jacinta sprinted to the bed.

Thank the Lord, the maid moved the way most people who lived in the country did, at a turtle’s pace. Jacinta had even laced the boots loosely and positioned the knife for easy removal before Paola sauntered back into the room.

“Here is the comb.”

Paola shot her a look that spoke volumes. A comb wouldn’t make an ounce of difference to her short spikes. Jacinta gave up after the first two strokes.

The halter top laced up in the back.

Jacinta studied her reflection in the mirror and made a face. While Paola tied the laces, she attempted to adjust the triangular pieces of ivory cotton. Nothing worked. The brown rim of her areolae peeked out from the sides and the top. Jacinta had a sinking-to-China feeling that Tia would not approve of her appearance one bit. Tia had small breasts. Long, long legs Jacinta would’ve traded the world for, but her breasts were decidedly small.

And she’d been at the school long enough to know that women positively disliked her breasts. She glanced down at her twin mounds and grimaced. Her breasts had always hindered her in training. She’d give anything for Tia’s small, nonjiggling breasts.

“Can you find me a shawl?” She didn’t expect a positive reply.

“I would have to ask
her
.” Paola grimaced.

“Don’t worry, then.” She pulled at the fabric once more and shook her head. “It is what it is.”

“I will call her now.
Boa noite
, senhora. I will pray for you.” Paola touched her shoulder.

Jacinta swallowed, her throat clogging and her mouth going dry. “
Obrigado
. Will I see you again?”

“Sim, senhora. I will serve the food this evening.”