Killer Cargo. Dana Mentink
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approached a small wood-sided house with a stone chimney that poked out at an awkward angle. Cy eased the front door open with his foot and held it open for her.
The interior was small and blissfully warm, thanks to a fire that crackled in a stone fireplace. A worn sofa and wooden rocking chair huddled on a braided rug. She could make out the outline of a miniscule kitchen that adjoined the living room and a hallway that led to the back of the house.
Maria was deliriously happy to huddle close to the fire and warm her numb fingers. She kept a close eye on the rabbit. And her host.
Cy eased the cage onto the floor and peered through the bars. “Good thing this cage is solid. He seems okay. I’ll get him some celery while I heat up the kettle.”
Maria listened to him bang around in the kitchen. She paced the cozy room, eyeing the crowded bookshelf. Most of the volumes were biology-related with a few poetry books and one about photography. A Bible with a tattered cover sat on a tiny wood table. Behind the writing desk was a large paper map stuck full of pins. Her attention was diverted by a small movement. On the pass-through between the kitchen and the living room was an aquarium. She bent closer until her nose almost touched the glass.
A frog about the size of a baby shoe peered back at her. His smooth mottled skin blended in perfectly with the rock and foliage on which he sat. She watched his throat vibrate. “Hi, little guy. What are you doing here?”
Cy appeared over the counter. “I’m sure he would say hello right back at you if he could.”
“What’s his name? Is he your pet?”
“His name is Rana pretiosa but you can just call him a Spotted Frog. He’s not a pet, he’s a patient. A feral cat got hold of him and chomped him up pretty good, but he’s on the mend. He’ll be back looking for a mate in no time, God willing.”
“So you’re a frog doctor?”
Cy laughed. “I’m a frog doc among other things.” He rounded the corner and handed her a mug of tea. Droplets of water shone in his hair. She put his age at somewhere in the midthirties.
Maria tore her gaze away from his intense stare. She moved back to her position by the fire where she could watch him as he offered Hank the celery stalk. The rabbit yanked the thing into his cage and began to munch with gusto.
Cy nodded in approval. “He’s got a good appetite. Speaking of which, I think you said you hadn’t had more than doughnuts. I’ll just warm up some soup and bread. Will that suit?”
She nodded, mouth watering.
“I’ve learned your fuzzy friend’s name, but I still haven’t met you properly.” He held out a hand. “Cy Sheridan, as I said before.”
She put her hand in his. “Maria de Silva.”
“Maria. That’s a lovely name. Maria what?”
“Maria Francesca Joaquin de Silva.”
He laughed. “Maria, it is. Well, Miss Maria, not meaning to be forward here, but perhaps I could loan you some dry clothes?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”
“You can’t be too comfortable.”
“How do you know that?”
His cheeks darkened. “Well, forgive me for saying so but you’re soaked to the bone.”
She noticed for the first time how her soggy clothes were creating a puddle on the floor. It was her turn to blush. Meekly, she followed him down the hallway, past a room filled with empty aquariums and cardboard boxes.
Cy led her to a tiny bedroom with a cot and a wooden trunk crammed in the corner. He opened the trunk and fished around until he came up with a pink sweat suit.
She watched him smooth the fabric as if he was soothing a small child.
“You may as well wear this. It does no good in a box when there’s a person who could use warming up.” He coughed. “Er, I’ll go see to that soup.”
Maria stripped off her wet clothes and laid them over the metal cot frame to dry. Then she pulled on the outfit. It smelled slightly of cedar and the whole getup was about two sizes too big and definitely not her color. Still, she was grateful to have something soft and dry against her chilled skin. As she rolled up the sleeves she wondered about the previous owner of the pink garments.
In the kitchen Cy stood over a pot of bubbling soup. He dished up two bowls of the creamy brew and put them on the table. When he saw Maria his expression changed. Was it sadness that shimmered in those hazel eyes?
He cleared his throat. “So the clothes will work? They’re on the large side, but they’ll be okay?”
“Yes. Thank you for loaning them to me.”
He busied himself setting spoons on the table. “Best to put things to good use. Sit down. Let’s get something in you besides junk.”
Her mouth watered as she sniffed the soup. “It smells great.”
Cy smiled and bowed his head to pray. Maria did the same.
“Heavenly Father, we thank You for this humble meal and for the warmth of the fire. May You use it to strengthen and nourish our bodies and souls. In Jesus’ precious name, Amen.”
Maria added a silent thought. And thank You, God, for keeping me and Hank alive this far.
The soup was divine, a thick creamy collection of vegetables and noodles. She ate greedily, trying not to slurp. “This is wonderful.”
“They say hunger is the best seasoning. It’s just all the dribs and drabs left over from the week cooked together.”
“It reminds me of ensopado. Have you ever had it?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”
“It’s a thick chicken soup with a little taste of lime. My mother makes it all the time. She learned from my grandma.” She licked the last drop from her spoon. “I don’t suppose I could…”
Without a word he went to the stove and refilled her bowl. As she settled in to eat, he leaned back in his chair. “Suppose, Maria Francesca Joaquin de Silva, now that you’re warm and not quite so hungry, that you tell me how you wound up at One Word?”
“Where?”
“One Word. That’s the name of my property.”
“Why do you call it One Word?”
“I’ll tell you sometime, but for now, why don’t you do the talking? I’d like to know who I’m eating with.” He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Maria’s heart thudded. Marty the Murderer didn’t believe her story, so why would this man? “Well, uh, I’m a pilot, you see.”
His eyes brightened. “Really? Stew is a pilot. You two can talk shop on that subject.”
She tried to read his expression. Was he testing her? Did he think she was lying already? The thought made her bridle. “I own a small plane and I make my living shuttling cargo. I poked around and found something I shouldn’t have.”
He nodded for her to continue.
“It was, er, contraband. I decided to get out of there and I wound up here.”
“I see. So that wild blue excuse for a car is yours then?”
“Er, no. I borrowed it from a guy named Jacko at the airport. It belongs to his cousin Duke who’s in jail.”
“All right. You borrowed a car. How did you wind up here?”
“I was sort of in a hurry, and I lost all sense of direction. I fell asleep at the wheel.” There. That was the truth, ridiculous as it sounded.
He pulled her cell phone from his pocket. “I