Rising Storm

"Maybe they are going mountain climbing," he'd suggested.

Marietta had only shrugged and rolled her eyes expressively. But he'd known what she meant. Ever since he'd met Senora Krieger, Senor von Rossbach had been going away without warning to do who knew what.

Epifanio shook his head as he watched the dust plume grow closer. The senor was a nice man, and Senora Krieger and her son, they were nice, too. But since they'd come home, Epifanio himself was the only one involved in running the estancia. True, he was the overseer, it was his job. But not so very long ago Senor von Rossbach had taken an interest in every aspect of the ranch, riding out to check the cattle, making plans to improve the stock and the land. It was worrying to see such a change in him.

Marietta thought it was for the best. "He is much more alive," she'd insisted. And she favored the senora's presence. But that was a woman for you, always hoping for romance. To him it seemed there was never a woman more cold and businesslike than Susan Krieger. Although she, too, was neglecting her business, staying mostly at the estancia fiddling with the computer. And that bandage on her hip… He was a peaceful man, but he knew a gunshot wound when he saw it.

The dust wasn't coming from a delivery truck, it seemed, but from a small sedan, so covered with dirt that its original color was completely hidden. His brows rose. Those were Brazilian plates—common enough in Asuncion, but not in the country.

Epifanio rose from his seat on the portal and went down the steps to stand before the great house, patiently waiting for the car to arrive. No doubt it was some lost traveler, for the vehicle certainly didn't belong to anyone Ayala knew and the senor and his guests never received visitors.

He could dimly see the figure of a woman through the dirty glass of the side window as she pulled up beside him. Epifanio waved some of the swirling dust that accompanied her aside with his hat and took in details to relate to Marietta

later on.

The car was new and designed for city driving; its low-slung chassis must have had a hard time on the rough roads surrounding the estancia. A very impractical vehicle, with no storage capacity to speak of and much too small for a family of any size. It seemed to be a pale blue under the dust.

The woman inside slumped behind the wheel, unmoving, and after a moment Epifanio tapped lightly on the window to get her attention. She lifted her head with a start, as though she'd fallen asleep, then she rolled down the window.

He saw that she hadn't been sleeping, but reading. It was a girl, perhaps nineteen years old and very tired looking, dressed in black velvet and sweating because of it. She glanced from him to her book and brushed a hank of sweat-soaked dark hair back from her face with one hand.

Then she told him, in terrible Spanish, that she was looking for John Krieger.

Really, it was only the name that gave him a clue as to what she wanted. What a terrible accent, he thought. She probably didn't speak Spanish at all, but was parroting phrases from the book.

"Senor Krieger is not here right now," he said politely. "He will not be back for several hours, I think."

Epifanio had taken care to speak slowly so that she would understand, but the girl looked back at him with big eyes that held no more understanding than a cow's. Si. No Spanish at all. And not likely to speak Guarni, which was his only other language beyond a few words of German. She looked so tired, and so lost, that he couldn't help but take pity on her.

"Senora Krieger? Perhaps she could help you?" he offered.

Alarm flashed briefly in her eyes, then her mouth firmed and she nodded once.

Opening the door, she stood, as stiff as an old lady. Then she said, " Si. Senora Krieger, por favor."

Epifanio smiled at her, pleased at their progress, and gestured toward the portal with his hat, holding out his other arm as though to herd her into the house. To his surprise she put her hand on his arm to steady herself and he instantly took her elbow to support and guide her.

Marietta was going to love this.

Sarah looked up from her work, frowning, at Epifanio's knock. Beside him was a young woman in a long-sleeved, ankle-length, and ill-fitting black dress. If her hair hadn't been purple Sarah would have thought she was a very young nun.

Suddenly something about the girl clicked and Sarah said to herself, American.

"Yes?" she said aloud.

"Pardon my intrusion, senora. But the young lady"—he gestured at the girl with his hat—"is looking for your son, I think."

Sarah's eyes flicked to the girl, and if looks were bullets Wendy would have been dead before she hit the floor. Only part of it was due to the continuing dull pain in Sarah's hip. "Thank you, Epifanio," she said, rising from the desk. "I'll take care of it." Switching to English, she said to the girl, "Won't you come in?"

The girl swallowed visibly and, with a nervous glance at the overseer, tottered stiffly into the room.

Sarah frowned. "Are you ill?" she asked.

"No, ma'am. I've just been driving for a very long time." The girl gave her a nervous smile. She dropped into the chair that Sarah had indicated like a sack of potatoes.

What a wuss. "Hungry?" Sarah asked crisply.

"Yes, ma'am."

She asked Epifanio to tell his wife to bring sandwiches and fruit juice and watched him go before she sat down again. Then she looked across the desk at her—no, at John's visitor.

"You're from MIT," she stated. John's recruits had been sending reports every other day, but there had been no word in over a week. Obviously something had gone seriously wrong. Perhaps wrong enough to send a messenger. "What happened?"

It was hard, but she kept the anger out of her voice as much as she could. This child was so spooked she'd probably faint if she had any idea how close to killing mad Sarah was. She should reserve her anger for John, who had obviously given out just a little more information than he should have. Forcing herself to seem calm, Sarah leaned back and waited for the girl's explanation.

God, what a bitch, Wendy thought. It had never occurred to her that John

wouldn't be home when she arrived, and she longed for him now more than she longed for sleep. If she'd thought about his mother at all it was as a distant presence to whom she would be brought after she'd explained everything to him and at least had a shower.

She hadn't felt this much like an importunate intruder since her first interview at MIT.

Well that was nothing, Wendy told herself, squaring her shoulders, and I'll get through this. After waking up to find one of her heroes blown to pieces in front of her and the police after her for the murder, one overbearing woman shouldn't be too hard to take. But, oh, how she longed for John.

She took a deep breath and rapidly gave John's mother a succinct report. By the time she finished she was slurring her words in exhaustion. Just then a motherly-looking woman came in with a tray of food.

John's mother cleared a section of the desk and said something in Spanish. The woman gave Wendy a thorough looking over and a slight smile.

Wendy could feel her color rise. She'd never felt—she'd never been so grubby in her life. She actually smelled! Tired as she was, the embarrassment she felt was almost too much. Tears welled up in her eyes and she looked down, hoping to hide this final humiliation from John's hard-assed mother.

I will not cry! she thought fiercely. I will not.

Sarah poured juice into the glasses, glancing at Wendy from under her lashes.

The kid looked like she was going to break down and bawl at any moment. My

God, what a wuss! What did John see in her?

She handed Wendy a glass of juice and the girl took it with an almost inaudible

"thank you."

Sarah sat down and took a sip from her own glass, watching Wendy take careful sips of the juice. "Not thirsty?" she asked. "You don't have to drink it."

The girl glanced up, then looked down again. Yes, her eyes were red and her eyelashes moist, a real crybaby.

"I haven't eaten or drunk anything for a while," Wendy said at last, her voice sounding surprisingly strong. "And I'm nervous, so I'm just being careful." One corner of her mouth lifted and she raised her eyes to meet Sarah's. "I wouldn't want to be sick all over your parquet floor."

"Thank you," Sarah said, her chin resting on her fist. "It's not my floor, but I appreciate the thought." She straightened up and crossed her legs, taking a sip of her juice. "What I don't appreciate is that you're here, and why."

Wendy dropped her gaze to her drink and went absolutely still as once again, color flooded her cheeks. She tipped her head to one side. "I guess"—her eyes met Sarah's—"that we thought you might be able to tell me what to do."

"Because of being unjustly accused and all?" Sarah asked with a wave of her hand.

Wendy nodded, her gaze unwavering; something in her eyes told Sarah that she had caught the sarcasm and didn't like it.

"To be honest," Sarah said, picking a speck of lint from her skirt and smoothing down the fabric, "I don't think I've ever been unjustly accused."

She grinned at Wendy's undisguised astonishment. "I've done it all." she said breezily. "I've bombed, I've run guns, I've smuggled drugs. Extortion, bribery, destruction of property- assault and battery." She ticked her crimes off on her fingers. "I'm guilty, guilty, guilty. I've never killed anybody—anybody human—

I've never been involved in a kidnapping—not that I didn't have opportunities—

and I've never sold myself. But other than that…" She shrugged, watching for the girl's reaction.

"Even better," Wendy said after a moment's pause. "If you're guilty of all that and you're still not in jail, you could probably write a book on the subject."

Sarah was taken by surprise. So, maybe the kid does have a spine, she thought.

She hoped so if John was in any way involved with her. Still, she'd come here in trouble and so possibly dragging trouble behind her. "One of the ways we've stayed out of jail is by not allowing people being chased by the police to come directly to our door," she said pointedly.

"Nobody knows where I am," Wendy said. "The closest anyone could trace me is Sao Paulo."

"That's closer than I like," Sarah snapped.

"Look," Wendy said carefully, "I didn't stop driving once I left Sao Paulo. I bought a bunch of food, which ran out the day before yesterday, and juice, which ran out last night. I haven't stopped or spoken to anybody since I left the border