Chapter 11

THE ROAD WAS SINUOUS, winding through a canopy of trees. This part of San Sebastián was beautiful, bucolic. Around a bend Pedro Margules’ estate appeared; a tall stone wall topped with nasty-looking spikes, and a double solid wooden gate.

There must have been a sensor. As I pulled up, a small door inset into the left gate opened and a simply dressed young man emerged. I noticed the loose cotton shirt and how it draped, hiding a pistol.

“Sí?”

“Estoy aquí para ver Señor Margules. Me llamo Hunter Lightfoot,” I informed him.

He nodded. “Espere.”

We waited as instructed.

The gates opened. A long drive rose towards a large, very traditional, pale ocher hacienda; red tiled roof, black wrought iron balustrades, wood shutters, bright red geraniums spilling everywhere. At the steps leading to the front door another young man waited.

Callie was silent, her eyes taking everything in.

In a large, airy living room, the floor cool from glazed tiles, the furniture dark wood and intricate, Pedro rose from a couch with an easy smile.

“Hunter, mi amigo,” he exclaimed, extending his hand.

I shook it. Pedro hadn’t aged at all. Tall, with gray-streaked dark hair and still-dark mustache, he looked like a wealthy landowner.

He studied me. Then turned his attention to Callie. “I am Pedro Margules,” he said.

“Callie,” she answered, shaking his hand.

Pedro turned back to me. “You look tired. Sit! Sit! Can I get you some refreshments?” Without waiting, he yelled, “Juana! Bring us some iced tea!”

We chatted while drinks were served. Once alone, he turned the conversation to business. “So what brings you here?”

“I need a favor.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather not involve you in it. It’s for Callie’s safety.”

Pedro studied Callie. He nodded. “Bueno. I owe you. How can I help?”

I explained what I needed. Pedro didn’t blink an eye. He smiled broadly and announced, “I will have the photographer here in una hora. All will be ready for tomorrow morning. Until then, you shall stay here as my guests.”

I tried to object. He wouldn’t listen.

The day passed quickly. Pedro was a charming host, Callie quite taken with him, especially when he showed his interest in dancing, their conversation drilling into the complexity and history of Flamenco dance.

Late, after a sumptuous dinner, Callie and I retired to a small guest villa. She was bright and chatting but, as night arrived, when she emerged from the bathroom, I saw her brightness had melted away to be replaced by sadness, a look of loss and loneliness and pain. She was battling tears.

In a short rose T-shirt and blue panties, she looked so young and vulnerable. I rose from the bed and went to her, wrapping her in my arms. “You’re not alone, Ayasha. I’m here.”

I led her to my bed. She huddled to my side, slender, delicate.

“Talk to me. All I have are bad thoughts,” she pleaded softly.

Arm around her, I caressed her back. “I had an instructor at the FBI Academy, Phillip Greer. He taught firearms and was a real ball-buster. He’d ride my ass more than the others. I think he just didn’t like me.”

“Why?”

“He said I was a good-for-nothing recruit and, if it was the last thing he’d ever do, he was going to break me. I’ve never responded well to threats, so I told him there was nothing he could teach me about firearms. Us injuns grow up with guns. I told him I could outshoot him with one eye closed.

“Well, he didn’t take kindly to that, what with all the other recruits standing and watching. He growled, “We’ll see about that,” and handed me a big Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum, a monster of a gun. He pointed at the target range and, grabbing a gun for himself, said, “Let’s see what you got, injun.”

“Then, to make it harder, he pressed the range button and moved the paper targets all the way to the back of the gallery. “When you’re ready,” he said with a sneer.

“I stepped up and, together, we fired all six rounds. Reeling the targets back, he showed his, all rounds perfectly hitting the bullseye.

“I showed him mine. It had one hole in the bullseye.

““One out of six?” he said. “My ten-year-old can shoot better than that!”

“I calmly informed him all six rounds went through the same hole. He didn’t believe me and ordered me to do it again, this time with him watching. I did. Man, he really didn’t like me after that. But all the other recruits thought I was a God.”

“Wow!” Callie said in amazement. “You’re really that good?”

I grinned. “Not at all. The truth is, I’m useless with a pistol. I barely passed the course.”

Callie’s body shook with silent laughter.

“Do you want to hear about my one-armed Kung Fu skills?”

Callie laughed brightly. “Is there anything you’ve told me that’s the truth?”

“I really do speak Cheyenne fluently.”

Callie rose onto her elbow, smiled at me and kissed me gently. She settled, snuggling closer, and whispered, “Thank you, Hunter.”

By ten A.M. the next morning we were back on the road. Pedro, true to his word, had provided three different passports for each of us and enough money for us to survive. We were also in a small Peugeot 208 GTI painted an eye-catching fire-engine red. Pedro had laughed when I expressed my doubts about the color, telling me people will be so busy looking at the car, they’ll ignore the occupants. He was right.

Newly anonymous, we zipped up the highway back into France. Cell phones disabled with the batteries removed added to our security. For the first time I was feeling positive. Glancing over at Callie, I smiled in amusement.

“Stop staring!” she snapped, her fingers playing with the ends of her now dirty blonde hair before brushing it back, wind from the open window fluffing it.

She did look different. Blonde didn’t suit her as much as her natural dark brown.

Her hand absentmindedly went to her neck to play with the gold locket. A thought occurred to me.

Peeling off the highway at the first exit, I pulled over. “Give me that locket.”

“Why?”

“Because. Give it to me.”

Her pale blue eyes narrowed in distrust. “What do you want it for?”

“Your father gave it to you. I want to check it.”

“Oh.” She removed it and handed it to me.

I inspected it. It looked innocent enough - a simple locket. Opening it, I studied the photos. They looked normal; old, slightly distorted like they’d been shrunk and reproduced from Polaroids. Pulling a pocket knife out, I pried the frames open and removed the photographs.

Callie warned, “Be careful!”

Nothing. There was nothing hidden behind them. Reassembling it, I handed it to her and pulled back onto the highway. She carefully put it back around her neck.

We breezed through the border as Julian and Suzanne Hugot. I headed directly towards Paris. There was someone there who might know what’s going on. I wanted to talk to him before heading to Brussels.

CALLIE, CARESSING THE LOCKET, glanced at Hunter. It amazed her that two cheek pads and shorter sandy blond hair radically changed his looks; not for the better. At least his eyes were still the same.

She felt good. Being with Hunter relaxed her; she wasn’t alone. The darkness inside her was muted by a bright, stress-free day, and in no small measure by Hunter. Smiling to herself, she thought back to his firearms story last night. It was so unexpected to discover a humorous side to him. He delivered utter nonsense with such a straight face, too! She’d really believed him.

The thing was, she knew she liked him ... a lot. He would be easy to fall for and she felt it inside her, the slipping sensation, a bit unnerving, butterflies in her stomach. She liked watching him, loved the intensity in his eyes, the angles and planes to his face, and the hint of a cleft.

She liked his sensitivity, too. She’d never have suspected he had a caring side. Callie smiled again. Ayasha. She liked the nickname and adored how much emotion he expressed when he used it.

“You never answered me. Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, lowering the window more to inhale the scent of countryside and catch a cool breeze.

“None of your business.”

“So you don’t. Why not? You’re not that ugly when you smile. You don’t smile much. How come?”

She grinned when the corner of his mouth ticked up in amusement.

“We’re in the Bordeaux region,” she continued. “See? Those are all vineyards. You didn’t tell me. Where are we going now?”

“Paris.”

A shiver passed through her. “Do we have to? Aren’t they still looking for us there?”

“I need to talk to someone.”

“So call him,” she suggested.

Hunter glanced at her. “It needs to be face-to-face so I can make sure he tells me the truth.”

She noticed the hardness in his eyes. “Do we have to get there today?”

“No. Why?”

After a momentary pause, Callie said, “I’m feeling better today. It’s so nice in this part of France and no one knows us. Can’t we just stop and have some time to breathe? Paris will still be there tomorrow.”

Hunter was silent.

“Well?” she asked. “Come on,” she urged.

He finally nodded.

“Well, jeez! Don’t be so enthusiastic, Lightfoot!”

His grin warmed her.

An hour later, having found a modest hotel in the picturesque Cartier St-Michel section of Bordeaux, Callie hooked her arm around Hunter’s and they strolled.

It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny. The square was dominated by the huge Basilique Saint-Michel, a fascinating gothic church built in the 14th century. It was so romantic, the pulpit representing Saint Michael’s slaying of a dragon. It brought stories of valor and bravery and fantasy to mind. What surprised her was Hunter. He gave her a history lesson as if he’d been here before and knew the church.

A late lunch eaten on the sidewalk under large umbrellas with enticing aromas drifting out from the café, was so relaxing. And through it all, despite Hunter’s restless eyes that missed nothing, Callie was treated to his charming grins. She could feel her attraction to him growing, strengthening, blossoming inside her. Was it, she wondered, the result of a stressful situation?