Flirting with Disaster Part 2

Dave felt a bone-deep sense of dread well up inside him. Either Lisa had told somebody what had happened that day and that person was playing one h.e.l.l of a nasty joke, or . . .

Or this really was Lisa.

In that moment, he felt an irrational jolt of alarm that people who believed in ghosts might not be deluded after all.

"Where are you?" he asked. "What happened?"

"I'm in Mexico." Her voice sounded weak, disembodied. "My plane crashed."

"I know. There was a TV news report. That doctor, Robert Douglas, reported that you're dead."

"That's what he told everybody? That I died in the crash?"

"Yes. He said your plane went down right after takeoff. You need to call him. Tell him you're okay."

"No! I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because he's the one who tried to kill me!"

Dave snapped to attention, a sinister s.h.i.+ver running all the way down his spine. "Wait a minute. Kill you? What do you mean? How?"

"My plane going down wasn't an accident," she said, a heavy, hushed quality to her voice. "It was sabotage. He thinks he killed me. And if he finds me now and realizes he failed, I'm dead."

"Where are you exactly?"

"Santa Rios. A couple hundred miles southeast of Monterrey."

Dave fumbled through a kitchen drawer for a pencil and scribbled the information on a pad beside the telephone.

"Lisa, listen to me. If you think somebody's out to kill you, you need to go to the authorities. Tell them what you suspect. Tell them-"

"No!"

"It's the only way. If you're in danger-"

"Don't you understand?" she said, panic lacing her voice. "They're in on it! The sheriff, probably, and G.o.d knows who else!"

Dave froze in utter disbelief. "Are you telling me there's a conspiracy to kill you?"

"Yes! Because I know about the counterfeit drugs! Robert Douglas is manufacturing them around here somewhere. Somehow he knew I found them, because he sabotaged my plane when I tried to take them back across the border. And then there were the men who came to make sure I died in the crash. The ones with the machine guns!"

"Machine guns?"

"My plane was hung up on the side of a ravine. They thought I was still in it, but I'd gotten out and moved to a ledge beside it. Then they shot at it. Over and over. It fell into the river. I fell, too, because I was still close to the plane. After I hit the water, I made it to the bank. Then I walked, oh, G.o.d, so far. All last night and all day today. I don't know how many miles. Finally I made it back to Santa Rios, to this phone-"

"Hold on. Slow down. Drugs? Machine guns? You're not making any sense."

"I'm telling you they're after me. They could be anywhere right now-I just don't know. If they see me, they'll kill me. Do you understand? They'll kill me!"

"You have to tell somebody down there what's happened to you. Find somebody-"

"No! I have no way of knowing who's in on it and who isn't! Robert Douglas for sure, but who else? I just don't know!"

None of this made any sense at all. It sounded like the ramblings of an insane woman. He'd heard conspiracy theories before, but this was ridiculous.

"Oh, G.o.d," she said with a weary breath. "My head . . . My head hurts so much. . . ."

"Your head? What happened?"

"I hit it on something when I crashed . . . the control panel maybe. . . ."

All at once, Dave understood. She sounded delirious. Delusional. She could have crawled away from the crash alive without anyone knowing it, trying not to be seen because of a head injury that had altered her cognition and induced paranoia. She was afraid, yes. But it could very well be that the thing she was afraid of existed only inside her mind.

He needed to find out exactly where she was, then get in touch with the law enforcement in Santa Rios or maybe even the doctor who thought she was dead. Get somebody down there to find her and get her to a hospital.

"Lisa," he said. "Listen to me. You need help."

"Yes," she said on a breath of relief. "Yes. I need help."

"Tell me exactly where you are."

"There's an abandoned silver-mining camp on the road leading southeast out of Santa Rios. It's about two miles out of town. I'm going to hide out there."

Hide out? Jesus. She was was delusional. He scribbled down the information. delusional. He scribbled down the information.

"Listen carefully," he said. "I'm going to send somebody. Somebody to help you. A doctor. You've been injured, and you need-"

"No! Aren't you listening? The only doctor within a hundred miles wants me dead!"

How was he ever going to get through to her? "Lisa, you've been through a real trauma, so I understand how you might think you're in danger, but-"

"You think I'm crazy? Is that it? I got a b.u.mp on the head and went right off the deep end?"

"No, of course not. But sometimes head injuries-"

"d.a.m.n it, I'm not crazy! Robert Douglas is out to kill me!"

"Take it easy," he told her. "You're going to be all right."

"No, I'm not. I have no way out of here. I need help. I need . . ." She paused, her voice with a heavy, hushed quality. "I need you."

Dave felt a jolt of surprise. "Me? What do you mean?"

"I need you to come here."

"What?"

"Please."

He paced to the extent of the phone cord, then paced back. He couldn't believe this. Lisa Merrick was calling him with a story about smuggling and sabotage and attempted murder, and now she wanted him to come hundreds of miles to the backwoods of Mexico to foil a conspiracy to kill her?

"You told me once that if I ever needed you, I should call you." Lisa's voice slipped almost to a whisper. "I need you now."

Suddenly Dave remembered. Those were the last words he'd ever spoken to her, because after what had happened between them he'd wanted to do something for her. Anything. But all he could do was make a promise for the future, tell her that if something in her life ever became insurmountable, he'd try to help her.

How was he to know it would be something like this?

He should call the local authorities. After all, if she really was badly injured and somebody didn't get to her soon, she could die. Then again, if somebody really was out to kill her and he told them where to find her . . .

"Oh, no," Lisa whispered.

"What?"

"People are coming. Somebody might see me. I have to go."

"Lisa-"

"Help me, Dave. Please, please please help me. . . ." help me. . . ."

"Lisa!"

He heard the line click. Then a dial tone. Slowly he hung up the phone. As much as he tried to tell himself that she was injured and therefore deluded, he had no way to verify that.

You told me once that if I ever needed you . . .

He went to his computer and pulled up a map of Mexico. He located Santa Rios, a faint dot about two hundred miles southeast of Monterrey. He went to the Web site of Aero-Mexico and found a flight to Monterrey out of DFW in three hours. He could call the airline right now, make a reservation. Within the hour, he could be on the road to Dallas.

Tomorrow was Sunday, but he'd probably still need a few days off work. Since he rarely took time off, he was due. He could get his brothers to take care of Ashley, letting them know where he was going and when he planned to be back, just in case he encountered more trouble than he bargained for. Once in Monterrey, he could grab a rental car and drive to Santa Rios, where he could find Lisa and get to the bottom of this.

As he ticked off the plan in his mind, he kept telling himself that it was rational and logical to travel seven hundred miles to a town in the middle of nowhere, get Lisa wherever she needed to go, then get back home. Nothing crazy about that.

Who was he kidding? It sounded crazy as h.e.l.l.

"Daddy?"

He jerked his gaze to the door. Ashley stood there in her fuzzy house slippers, her stuffed rabbit dangling from her hand.

"Come back. I didn't finish reading."

"Be there in a minute, honey."

She waited a moment more with one of those "your minutes are longer than my minutes" looks on her face, before turning and shuffling back to her room.

d.a.m.n. How could he even think of flying out of here only hours from now? He should just call the station and find somebody who could get him a phone number for the sheriff's office in that little Mexican town, then call them and let them handle it. It could take a while to make a connection and get somebody out there, but n.o.body in his right mind would blame him for doing the rational thing, no matter what the outcome. How could he even think of flying out of here only hours from now? He should just call the station and find somebody who could get him a phone number for the sheriff's office in that little Mexican town, then call them and let them handle it. It could take a while to make a connection and get somebody out there, but n.o.body in his right mind would blame him for doing the rational thing, no matter what the outcome.

Even if Lisa was telling the truth and somebody really was out to kill her.

Dave dropped his head to his hands and rubbed his temples, knowing he had no business leaving his daughter and running off into the Mexican wilderness not really knowing what he was going to face when he got there. And he wasn't sure he was up to helping anyone with anything anymore. He'd gone to that well too many times in recent years, until barely a drop of water was left in it. The sick feeling he got every time he thought about what had happened on that bridge today made him wonder just how worthwhile he could be to anyone right about now.

But the very idea that Lisa might be alone and delirious, terrified, needing his help, sent a surge of adrenaline racing through him. He'd made her a promise once that he'd be there for her if she ever needed him, and it was a promise he had every intention of keeping. One phone call from her, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

He was going to Mexico.

In the woods adjoining the bunkhouse of the abandoned mining camp, Lisa sat against a tree on a bed of dead leaves still damp from the heavy rainstorm a few days before, surrounded by darkness so complete she could barely make out the road in the distance. In the scraggly woods around her she heard the occasional call of a bird or the scurry of various wildlife, but she didn't bother worrying about the snakes and wildcats and gargantuan spiders who undoubtedly called this place home. The enemy she was facing now made those look tame by comparison.

In one hand she gripped the handle of an old shovel she'd found, because it vaguely resembled a weapon. The fingers of her other hand were looped around the strap of her backpack. Because the pills were in a plastic bag, they'd survived the trip through the river, and she was going to hold on to them no matter what. If she ever got out of here, she was going to make sure she had the evidence that could help take Robert Douglas down, along with every other person who had anything to do with the drug counterfeiting or the sabotage of her plane.

Then she thought about Adam.

At first she'd been so thankful he hadn't been on her plane when it went down, because he might not have survived. But now she realized that he could be in even bigger trouble than she was.

She didn't know if Robert Douglas knew that Adam had gotten called away at the last minute and told her to fly on to San Antonio without him. But just the fact that Adam knew about the drugs was enough to put him in danger the moment Robert found out that he was still alive. She wanted desperately to warn him, but she had no way to do it. Adam had traveled to a farm an hour from Santa Rios, and she didn't know the name of the woman whose baby he'd gone to deliver. She didn't know when he was going to return. And she was terrified to show her own face for fear that Robert would find out that she'd survived the crash and come after her again.

Adam, wherever you are, please be careful.

After slipping into Santa Rios and making that phone call, Lisa had come back out here, and now she'd spent most of the night hugging this tree, drifting in and out of sleep, waiting for whoever came up that road. Since it was a strong possibility that Dave had called the authorities, she couldn't go back inside the bunkhouse. She'd be a sitting duck. At least out here, if danger approached she could see it coming and have a fighting chance of getting away.

Right. Just her and her trusty shovel. The perfect weapon against men with machine guns. If only she had a real weapon. Unfortunately, Mexican officials didn't take kindly to anyone entering their country with firearms, so her Glock was currently sitting in her dresser drawer in her apartment in San Antonio. Just her and her trusty shovel. The perfect weapon against men with machine guns. If only she had a real weapon. Unfortunately, Mexican officials didn't take kindly to anyone entering their country with firearms, so her Glock was currently sitting in her dresser drawer in her apartment in San Antonio.

Of course, she should have been miles away from here already. She should have found a different place to rest and recuperate before she formulated some kind of plan to get out of Santa Rios and back across the border. Instead, she'd come back here because she just couldn't shake the ridiculous fantasy that it wouldn't be corrupt Santa Rios officials who came up that road. It would be Dave.

How deluded had that been?

This was the place where she'd told him she'd be, so this was where she'd stayed. But she'd been crazy to believe, even for a second, that he'd drop everything and leave his little slice of middle-cla.s.s heaven to come rescue her. Logically, she'd known that the minute she hung up the phone. Emotionally, she'd continued to hold on to a fragile thread of hope that kept her glued to this tree, watching and waiting.

Maybe he hadn't been able to leave town right away. Maybe he hadn't been able to get a flight out. Maybe he'd had car trouble.

And maybe he just didn't give a d.a.m.n.

She was starting to face facts. She'd thought that Dave had only two options: send the authorities or come himself. Instead, he'd chosen to do nothing at all. She should have been happy about that, since it meant she was probably safe for the moment from the people who were trying to kill her. Instead, his indifference cut her right to the quick.

In the past eleven years, she'd adopted a string of policies that had served her well: Live for the moment. What you see is what you get. Don't count those chickens, because hatching is the exception, not the rule. Essentially, all a person could do was take every day as it came, stay on top, stay in control.

Right now, she had no control over anything.

Lisa closed her eyes, exhaustion overtaking her. The cover of darkness offered her the best opportunity to return to town, where she could try to find some means of transportation to get her back across the border. But the longer she sat by this tree, the worse she felt. Every time she tried to stand, pain shot through her head. With every hour that pa.s.sed, her mind grew fuzzier, her body weaker. She'd run out of what little food and water she had hours ago, so her disorientation was only going to get worse, eventually edging into delirium. And just how delirious would she have to be before she lost her sense of self-preservation, before she just lay down and didn't get back up again?

You have to get out of here. Get up. Now.

Sluggish with fatigue, she forced herself to rise to her knees, but when she tried to stand, her legs wobbled dangerously. She fell to her knees again with a steadying hand against the tree trunk, telling herself that maybe she just needed to rest a little more, but in the back of her mind she had the most ominous feeling that if she didn't stand up now, she was never going to. A terrible vulnerability crept in, the same feeling she'd had when she'd seen those men coming at her, heard the shots, knowing that somebody meant to kill her.

Then she heard something.

She turned toward the road, and what she saw sent a surge of adrenaline racing through her, followed by a rush of cold, clammy fear.

Headlights.