“Copulation!” Her hand slid between their bodies and grabbed at him, making him wince. “I think that I’d really much prefer it if you called it ‘making love,’ Captain Hilton.” She gave him another squeeze, more gentle. “Sir.”
She gave her slender body generously. In return, Jim drew on all his experience and resources to repay her sexual kindness, taking great care to ensure that Carrie’s pleasure came before his own urgent need. Finding restraint came much easier the second time around.
He eased himself up on one elbow, disentangling the long strands of her blond hair from his face. He ran his tongue over his lips, savoring the taste of the young woman, then glanced at the chron on his wrist.
“What’s the time?”
“Quarter past midnight.”
“Bright moon,” she said, her voice slurred with sleep. “Pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
“These days it’s up to you to keep your own soul, Carrie. Lord’s turned his back on us.”
There was no answer, and he realized that she’d slipped away from her half-waking world.
“Must take a leak,” he said to the empty, silver-lit room, wriggling out of the double-quilted bag, trying not to disturb her again.
The dusty wood-block floor was chilly to his bare feet, and Jim wished that he’d kept his socks on. The hall held an armory of angular shadows, and there was a heart-jumping fluttering from far above him, where a pigeon in the exposed rafters was shifting its position.
Jim had pulled his shirt on and was padding toward the stairs, feeling for the balustrade and finding the large carved acanthus at its head.
He picked his way slowly down to the first floor. There was a cool wind coming through one of the broken windows in the large room to his right.
For a moment he paused on his way to the open front door, imagining that he’d heard the sound of movement somewhere from within that room.
“Lampiron,” he breathed, smiling at the memory.
His smile disappeared as the sound was repeated, not a product of his imagination anymore.
Jim Hilton clenched his teeth, bitterly angry with himself for leaving the Ruger Blackhawk Hunter up in the bedroom, alongside the sleeping woman.
He froze there, halfway between the front entrance and the stairs, aware of a tall figure appearing, silhouetted in the doorway to the right.
“Please don’t try to do anything stupid,” said the voice.
Chapter Two
“Someone’s trying to flag us down,” said Jeff.
“I see him.” Nanci tapped on the brake pedal of the four-by-four they’d stolen from the Hunters of the Sun, warning the two vehicles behind her that she was slowing down. In the jeep and the Phantasm were the McGill family—Henderson McGill, his first wife, Jeanne, and Paul, Jocelyn, Pamela and Sukie.
“Do you think it’s a trap?” Jeff asked.
She didn’t reply at first, but watched her mirror to make sure that Jeanne McGill, at the wheel of the Phantasm, had spotted the signal. “Doubt it. Road’s wide open. Can’t see any way there can be an ambush around here.”
“We stopping?”
“Why not? Get that .38 cocked and ready for use, Jefferson. I’ll pull up a little short. Get your window down and cover him.”
There was a cool evening breeze blowing in off the Pacific, less than five miles to their left. Wraiths of mist clung in the dips in the switchback blacktop. They hadn’t been back on the coast highway for long after the detour where a bad quake had blocked their way.
The man wore a plaid shirt and working jeans tucked into hiking boots. He held a brakeman’s flag, waving it slowly across his body. Nanci had spotted an automatic of some sort tucked into the broad leather belt, and a hunting rifle was slung across his shoulders. His long dark hair was tied back from his ruddy face with a green bandanna.
The four-by-four stopped twenty paces short of the stranger, and Nanci wound down her window. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned. “State your business from where you are.”
Jeff Thomas was ostentatiously showing his own handgun through his window.
“Sure thing, lady. Glad to see folks taking some serious care of themselves. We seen some seriously stupid people passing this way.”