One Grave Less

hit the ground hard. Her club tumbled out of her hands.
    The man had her by the ankle and was pulling her to him. His face was red with rage and pain. Maria kicked at him and reached for the gun in her waistband. He found his first and pointed it at her.
    “Who the fuck are you?” he asked. His hand was shaking. He was having a hard time holding on to the gun—it was the hit to his ulnar nerve.
    She stopped moving and thought hard. She had to do something before the pain subsided to the point where he had better use of his hands. But then again, that might take a while. She had hit him pretty hard.
    “I know who you are,” he rasped. “You’re that Fallon woman—Julio’s prize catch.”
    “Why does he want me?” she whispered. She figured it might be easier to interrogate him when he had the gun. He would feel freer to talk, maybe brag.
    “Money. You’re worth a lot of money to some guy he knows.”
    “Who in the hell would I be of that kind of value to?” she asked.
    “Julio won’t tell us that. He trusts only that bitch he’s with. But I got you now . . . and maybe I’ll make the deal.”
    The man spoke good English. He sounded American—Midwestern.
    “You don’t know who to deal with,” she said.
    “Minor detail,” he said. “I can find out. See, he’s gonna be all panicked that you’ve escaped. He’ll be calling people. Talking. Patia will be screaming and cursing. She’ll let something slip. Or he will. I’ll find out.”
    She already had her hand on the gun in her waistband behind her back. She could swing it around and shoot, if she could be sure . . . sure of her aim . . . sure she would be quicker . . . sure she could even shoot the damn thing.
    His face was still screwed up with pain. She’d done a number on his knees—at least his right knee. It was hurting him.
    He was having a hard time holding the gun. He needed to switch hands. He needed the gun in his good hand.
    “What does May third mean?” she asked.
    “What do you mean? Why you asking so many questions?” he said.
    “Because, damn it, I want to know why this is happening to me. I overheard the head guy, Julio, talking with someone on the phone about May third. That’s some kind of important date. That’s a long way off—past the rainy season. What does May third have to do with me?”
    “Julio has lots of deals going, not just you,” he said.
    “It has to do with me,” she said. “He was talking only about me.”
    She had been gently pulling her leg, gradually adding pressure. Just look away , she willed. Look away, damn it, just for a second .
    She waited for an opening. She knew one would come. He didn’t strike her as being a patient man.
    “I have friends who will ransom me,” she said. “Maybe for more money than you can get from Julio’s man.”
    “It might come to that. But, see, I get the idea this guy Julio’s got is willing to pay a lot of money.”
    “It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “I’m simply not that important.”
    She had been pretending she was Diane Fallon. It seemed easier. It seemed like a way to get information about what they wanted without exposing her own identity to them. She wondered what Diane Fallon had done in South America that had made someone want her so badly.
    “Was it Patia who pointed me out to Julio?” said Maria.
    “She sometimes works for archaeologists here—a good way to get information. Julio lives off information,” he said.
    Then you’d think he’d have been better at gathering it , she thought. Do they think Georgia has only one forensic anthropologist?
    His face screwed up again, apparently from a wave of pain. “My leg hurts, damn you,” he said. “I might just teach you a lesson before I turn you over to the buyer.”
    Suddenly he made his move. She hadn’t seen it coming. He acted so quickly she had no time to respond. He was on top of her with his gun pointing at her face, his good hand resting on her throat.

Chapter 9
    Diane stared openmouthed at Martin Thormond.
    “What?” she managed to say after several moments of being completely dumbfounded. “Drug smugglers? Someone told him I was involved with drug smugglers?”
    “I told him, of course, that it was ridiculous.” Martin pulled a piece of paper from his inner coat pocket. “I have his name—Brian Mathews.”
    Diane took the paper and stared at it for a long moment.
    “I have no idea what this is about,” she said, “but I’ll find out.” She paused. “You