Defending the Eyewitness. Rachel Lee
Austin awoke in the morning considerably refreshed, knowing instantly where he was. He’d acquired that talent during his years as an agent. It was dangerous not to know exactly where you were and exactly what was around you, even when you slept. You never knew what you might wake up to.
He needed to rearrange the room a bit, but even as he sat up with the thought, he realized that would be overkill. He was in a safe little town in Wyoming, as far as he could be from anyone who might want to come after him...and no one should. They never knew his real name, he’d been whisked out of that damn Mexican prison so fast that the most his old compadres could believe was that he had been moved to another prison. Even if they suspected, they’d have no way of tracing him. Besides, by now, the rumor was probably running through the grapevine that he was dead. Killed in an escape attempt, maybe. That was the usual cover story when someone didn’t survive manhandling by the Federales.
So it was needless to think of having another way out of here besides the stairs. He didn’t have to live like that anymore. He repeated the mantra to himself several times. It was over. He didn’t need to live like that anymore.
It should have been reassuring. Comforting. Something. Anything except make him feel utterly at loose ends.
He rose and headed for the bathroom, where he erased the beard he’d worn religiously for six years. Sometimes he’d let it become scruffy, sometimes he’d neatly trimmed it, but it had been like a mask, concealing his real features just enough. He didn’t need concealment anymore, but by the time he got done, he looked at his unfamiliar reflection and could have laughed. The skin beneath the beard hadn’t tanned along with the rest of him, and the paleness almost glowed. His skin had a natural olive tone, but right then, in comparison, it didn’t look like it. He wondered how long it would take to catch up so he didn’t look like a clown.
It was time, he decided, to get the lay of the land around here and figure out what kind of clothes he’d need to fit in. If it didn’t involve a necktie, he’d be happy.
He heard a church bell ringing as he descended the stairs and realized it was Sunday. Hell, what did that mean for shopping around here?
He smelled coffee at the foot of the stairs and hesitated. Maybe he should just keep going and get breakfast somewhere.
But then he heard Corey. “I’m in here, Austin. Coffee’s fresh.”
Well, that drew him. He found her sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper in hands, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Help yourself,” she said pleasantly. “There’s cereal in the cupboard, if you like.”
“I need to go shopping,” he remarked. After the way she had looked at him yesterday, he wondered why she was being so friendly. At first sight, he’d been sure she wanted to send him packing.
She must have looked up as he went to get a mug, because he heard her say, “Oh, my gosh...”
He turned to look at her and she had clapped her hand over her mouth. Her blue eyes seemed to dance. For the first time, he allowed himself to notice what a pretty woman she was. Sort of like a Viking princess, maybe, with her long blond hair, milky skin and brilliant blue eyes. Even a nice figure, as he recalled, although it was invisible now in layers of thick blue terry cloth that seemed to cover a long flannel nightgown. He usually went for darker women, but this one was getting his attention. In the wrong way, considering.
He touched his cheek. “Beard?”
“You can’t exactly call that a shadow.” A laugh trembled in her voice.
“I know. I was thinking I looked like a painted clown.”
A giggle escaped her then. “I’m sorry. Really. It was just so unexpected, but I should be used to it.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got a men’s club here and the members grow their beards every winter. I think it may have started as a lark, but it became a charity fund-raiser. You sign up to support someone and offer to pay so much for each inch they grow. Anyway, everyone around here recognizes that look, so don’t worry about being mistaken for a clown. It’s not that bad, anyway. I was just surprised.”
He liked her laughter and didn’t at all mind being the butt of it. Smiling easily for the first time in a while, he joined her at the table with his coffee. “I need to go shopping for clothes and food. Recommendations?”
“Nothing opens until noon today, I’m afraid. And your choices are limited. One grocery store, one department store.”
“That makes it easy. Assuming they have everything, anyway.”
“Freitag’s is a good department store. I’m sure the big cities have better, but Freitag’s is enough most of the time. If I need something they don’t have, I order online.”
He nodded, taking it in, taking her in. He wondered if she had any idea how lovely she was.
“What’s it like in Mexico?”
He tilted his head. “It’s a big country. It depends on where you are and what you’re doing.”
“I sometimes think I’d like to see the pyramids.”
“Well, you could see some of them, anyway. There are a whole lot of them. The museums in Mexico City are great, too. But to get the most out of it, I would recommend hiring a good guide.”
“Why?”
“Because he or she will know where it’s safe for you to go.”
Her eyes widened, and in spite of himself he grinned. “I could say the same about a lot of places in this country.”
She flushed faintly. “You’re right, of course. Like I said, this is the only town I know.”
He sensed something then, and he always trusted his instincts. Something in this woman was locked up tight and for a very good reason. Fear held her caged in this town in the back of beyond.
He ransacked his brain for something he could talk about to get her mind off whatever disturbed her. Because, by the downward flicker of her eyes, he knew he had reminded her of something unpleasant.
He decided to return the conversation to Mexico. “The Tarahumara Indians are some people I’d like to help.”
Her gaze met his again. “Who are they? And why?”
“They’re some of the world’s greatest runners. Amazing, really. They can run fifty miles without water. They have this game where they kick a ball along a path as they run up and down the mountains of the Sierra Madre. Until recently they managed to survive without the rest of the world, pure subsistence living, but they were making it. Then they gained international attention with their tremendous running abilities. They started having conflicts with people who wanted their land, with logging companies and finally with drug traffickers. They’re poor, and they got even poorer after a drought started killing their measly crops. You can guess what happened.”
“Tell me.”
He had her full attention. “Because they’re such great runners, and they’re so close to the border, the drug cartels started offering them money to run backpacks full of drugs across the border.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes. And some of the younger people did it because it was too much money to refuse when they and their families were starving, when they couldn’t find jobs, or at least not jobs that paid enough. I mean, those who manage to find work are paid ten dollars a day.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Until recently, the Tarahumara were pretty much the people that Time forgot. They’ve had a really lousy introduction to the modern world.”
“But what can you do for them?”
“I don’t