Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [97]
Not that I felt at peace. Overwhelmed was more like it. Again there had been too many changes with too little time to absorb them. Hy was alive; that was a gift. But he seemed far more damaged by the past week’s events than was justified. And he was as determined as ever to keep his past walled away from me. I wasn’t yet sure how I would deal with either of those things, wasn’t sure how they would affect us in the future. And then there was my own future—the one I needed to re-create. What would that be? And what part would Hy play in it?
I just didn’t know.
To keep from brooding, I forced my attention to the situation at Fontes’s villa. Posed some questions, came to a few tentative conclusions. Posed some more questions to ask Hy when he woke. And finally returned to the shack.
Hy was awake. I saw his eyes glitter in the faint light from my flash, and then his hand snaked under the carryall for his gun.
“It’s me,” I said quickly.
He let out a long breath, withdrew his hand. “Jesus, McCone!”
“Sorry.”
As I came closer, he reached up and grasped my wrist. Pulled me down, rolled my body against his, hands moving under the back of my shirt. His palms were like fine sandpaper, his fingernails jagged. I winced as one scraped my skin. Our lips touched, cracked and dry; his skin felt parched and fiery. Our bodies didn’t mesh as usual; limbs tangled, joints banged together. We took each other with most of our clothes on.
I couldn’t stay with it; the discomfort kept getting in the way of pleasure. It was like having sex with a stranger—one whose need was overpowering, one in whom violence was only loosely leashed. As we finished, I felt a step removed. He seemed to experience no pleasure, only release. We rolled away from each other, lay silent in the graying light. It was the first time that sex had created a barrier between us.
A tap on the wall outside. Hy stirred first, pulled his clothing together, went to see who it was. A voice spoke softly, swiftly, in Spanish. Hy stepped outside, then returned.
“That was Tomás,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”
I’d already been dressing. Now I stood. “What’s wrong?”
“Trouble at Fontes’s villa. Nobody knows what, but it looks bad. Cops all over the place, an ambulance, and now they’re evacuating somebody by helicopter.”
I listened, heard distant flapping. “A shooting, do you think?”
“Maybe.” Hy was rolling up the sleeping bag. “Tomás is afraid the cops’ll canvass the area. When there’s a crime, they always come here, use it as an excuse to push people around. It’ll only make it worse for them if the Federales find out they have a couple of gringos staying with them.”
“Where should we go?”
“South, to a lookout point Tomás told me about. He’ll come there later, after he finds out what went down.”
I grabbed my oversized purse. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The lookout was on the tip of a smaller point some ten miles south. Beyond its rock wall, the Pacific lay flat and gray; salt air misted the car’s windshield. The only other vehicle in the graveled parking area was an ancient VW bus with California plates, dented and painted in faded rainbow colors. A bumper sticker commanded us to Question Authority, and a line of empty beer cans and a wine jug sat on the ground below it. I was sure that eventually at least one unreconstructed hippie would emerge from the bus, probably with a bad hangover.
Hy and I sat in the car, staring moodily at the sea. After a while he touched my hair, pushing a lock of it behind my ear.
I asked, “So you really think I’ve done something funny to it, huh?”
“Actually I like it. It’s you. Kind of a shock, though, to see somebody’s gone and changed on you in such a short time.”
“I could say the same.”