one.” He stroked her hair, remembering the way Jacques had looked when he’d held the fish. “A real New York party.”
She nodded, turning her face into his throat a moment. “Dimitri isn’t going to get away with this, Doug. Not with this. We’re going to beat him.”
“Yeah, we’re going to beat him.” Drawing her away, he rose. They’d lost his pack in the canal so they’d lost the tent and cooking utensils. Hefting hers, Doug secured it to his back. They were wet, tired, and still grieving. He held out his hand. “Get your ass in gear, sugar.”
Wearily, she stood and tucked the wallet back in her pocket. She sniffed, inelegantly. “Up yours, Lord.”
They walked north in the lowering evening light.
C H A P T E R
12
They had eluded Remo, but they knew he was hot on their heels, and so they did not stop. They walked as the sun set and the forest took on lights only artists and poets fully understand. In twilight when the air turned pearly gray with mist as the dew fell, they walked still. The sky darkened, went black before the moon rose, a majestic ball, white as bone. Stars glittered like jewels of another age.
Moonlight turned the forest into a fairy tale. Shadows lowered and shifted. Flowers closed their petals and slept as animals that knew only night stirred. There was a flutter of wings, a thrash of leaves, and something screamed in the bush. They walked.
When Whitney wanted to drop into a ball of mindless exhaustion, she thought of Jacques. Gritting her teeth, she went on.
“Tell me about Dimitri.”
Doug paused only long enough to pull the compass out of his pocket to check their direction. He saw her fingering the shell as she had off and on during the hike but he’d run dry of comforting words. “I already did.”
“Not enough. Tell me more.”
He recognized the tone of voice. She wanted revenge. And revenge, Doug knew, was a dangerous ambition. It could blind you to priorities—like staying healthy. “Just take my word for it, you don’t want a personal acquaintance.”
“But you’re wrong.” Though breathless, her voice was soft and firm. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Tell me about our Mr. Dimitri.”
He’d lost track of the miles they’d covered, even the hours. He was only sure of two things. They had put distance between themselves and Remo, and they needed to rest. “We’ll camp here. We should be deep enough in the haystack.”
“Haystack.” She sank down gratefully on the soft, springy ground. If it’d been possible, her legs would’ve wept with relief.
“We’re the needle, this is the haystack. Got anything in here we can use?”
Whitney pulled makeup out of her pack, lacy underwear, clothes already rent, filthy, or ruined, and what was left of the bag of fruit she’d bought in Antananarivo. “A couple of mangoes and a very ripe banana.”
“Think of it as a portable Waldorf salad,” Doug advised as he plucked up one of the mangoes.
“All right.” Whitney followed suit and stretched out her legs. “Dimitri, Douglas. Tell me.”
He’d hoped to set her mind on some other scene. He should’ve known better. “Jabba the Hutt in an Italian suit,” he said as he bit into the fruit. “Dimitri could make Nero look like a choirboy. He likes poetry and porno flicks.”
“Eclectic taste.”
“Yeah. He collects antiques—specializes in torture instruments. You know, thumbscrews.”
Whitney felt the little pulse in her right thumb throb. “Fascinating.”
“Sure, Dimitri’s a real fascination. He has an affection for soft, pretty things. Both of his wives were stunners.” He gave her a long, level look. “He’d like your style.”
She tried not to shudder. “So, he’s married.”
“Married twice,” Doug explained. “And tragically widowed twice, if you catch the drift.”
She did, and bit into the fruit thoughtfully. “What makes him so… successful,” she decided for lack of a better term.
“Brains and a streak of ice-cold mean. I’ve heard he can quote Chaucer while he’s sticking pins between your toes.”
She lost her appetite for the fruit. “Is that his style? Poetry and torture?”
“He doesn’t simply kill, he executes, and he executes with ceremony. He keeps a first-class studio where he tapes his victims before, during, and after.”
“Oh God.” She studied Doug’s face, wanting to believe he was weaving a tale. “You’re not making that up.”
“I ain’t got that much imagination. His mother was a schoolteacher, I hear, with a few wires crossed.” Juice dribbled down his chin and he wiped at it absently. “Story goes that