Code Name: Blondie

When she stopped drinking, Max took the canteen, then raised Dutch’s head and poured a small amount into his mouth.

“How is he doing?”

“He seems stable. Heart rate in the normal zone.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You know about stuff like that? Hardly standard procedure for engineers.”

“I go into some pretty desolate areas, so I have to know basic bush medicine.”

She appeared to think this over and then nodded. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I’d say it’s his lungs. His chest looks like it took some trauma, and he may have compression in the right side.”

“How soon can we catch a plane back?” Her voice tightened. “You must have some way to communicate with your headquarters, right? They can send a plane for you.”

“Not yet, they can’t.”

“Why not?” She shot to her feet, banging her head on the earth ceiling. The woman was tall, Max thought, and she looked more than a little klutzy. Probably that was part of the act, too. “I want to leave now.”

“Open your eyes. Did you happen to see any planes in the area?”

“So call someone. Use a radio. You must have something.”

“There’s a storm heading into this area. I doubt that any planes are flying right now.”

“So when?” She winced, rubbing her head. “Dutch looks bad. I don’t think we should wait.”

“I’ll try calling again soon. The weather situation could clear by then.” Like hell he would, Max thought grimly. He held up a cardboard-covered tray with a pre-packaged meal. “Are you hungry?”

“I guess I should be, but I’m not. I had breakfast back in Tahiti and some coffee and a protein bar at the beach where we were shooting—”

“Shooting what?”

“Swimsuit stills and tropical backgrounds for a calendar.”

“You’re a photographer?”

“For ten years. I can’t think of any work I’d like to do more—and I’ve done most of it, believe me.” Something haunted filled her eyes. “I guess that’s all off, now that Vance is…gone.”

“Vance was the other passenger? Big guy, balding?”

“That’s him. He wasn’t breathing when I woke up. There was a lot of blood on the seat. You found his…body?”

Max nodded. The sight hadn’t been pretty, the body swollen and pale.

She cleared her throat and looked at him uncertainly. “Could I have more water, or is that something we need to ration?”

“We should have enough, but don’t overdo it.”

She took the canteen and splashed a little on her hand, then rubbed her face. “I’m sticky from seawater. What I wouldn’t give to clean up.”

“Afraid I don’t have bath facilities.”

She squirmed uneasily. “But you must have—I mean, what about the necessities?”

Max pointed over his shoulder. “When you need to go, you find a quiet spot and do what you have to do. But be sure to bury everything. This is a fragile ecosystem,” he added, pretty sure that this would register.

“Of course.” She turned and stared pointedly up the steps. “At least I can go back to the waterfall and wash my face. Unless you’re going to lock in me again.”

“One, I didn’t lock you in. The door was always un-secured. Two, I left the dog so you wouldn’t wander out in the dark and hurt yourself. When I called him off, you went straight out and did just that.”

For the second time, her eyes said yeah, right. “Well, it’s not dark now, so how about opening that door? I want to get some fresh air and clean up.”

There was an answer to her question. Max just couldn’t think of it right that second. He could strong-arm her into staying. He could probably frighten her badly. On the other hand, what if she really was an innocent bystander having one nightmare day? Hell, she didn’t look or act like a trained professional. Her blond hair was matted from seawater, she had mascara clotted under her eyes and her legs were scratched up. Max had dumped her sweater outside, some kind of short, clingy thing that barely covered her arms, much less her chest. Now he noticed that stray white hairs covered her Hawaiian shirt.

He plucked off one of the strands and held it up. “You’re shedding.”

“It’s from my shrug.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Shrug. A short sweater…the new, new thing.” Her voice was ironic. “Actually, it was my own design. I knitted it between shoots back in Tahiti. Or was it the Marianas? After a while, all beaches start to look alike. Did you find it?”

“Back on the beach.”

She seemed relieved, smiling suddenly. The curve of her mouth fascinated him so much he almost didn’t hear her next question.

“Why the leather gloves?”

“Chemical sensitivities.”

Miki frowned, then broke into a hacking cough. “Great. Seawater in the lungs. I think I swallowed some really nasty algae, too.”

He thumped her hard on the back. “Dulse and sea plants are an excellent source of nutrients. The iodine and mineral salts are invaluable.”

She stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’re a nutritionist along with knowing field medicine. That’s pretty impressive.”

Max noticed that she didn’t bat her eyes when she said it. No simpering, either. He needed to decide if she was very innocent—or very clever, carefully trained by Cruz. He had a feeling that either way this woman was going to be big trouble.

Since he couldn’t give her a good reason to stay underground and out of sight, he decided stalling was the best tactic. Fingering the white piece of thread, he sat down on the steps leading outside. “What do you call this stuff?”

“Angora. As in rabbits and goats.”

“And you used it for that…sweater thing you were wearing. How?”

She stared at him, looking impatient. “I knitted it. Two sticks, one string. You may have heard of it,” she said dryly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone actually do it.” Max rubbed the back of his neck. “How long does something like that take?”