Page 5 of Cutter’s Lady

Leslie’s eyes flickered toward him doubtfully. “Honestly?”

“Honestly. I wouldn’t lie to you. Look, I realize that Mr. Cutter is not the most savory-looking character, but there aren’t any boy scouts who know that area. Ashe Harlan assured me that Cutter knows it inside out. He lived there for several years.”

“And how do you know Ashe Harlan knows who’s an expert?”

“He works for Stone Oil, and he’s in charge of their Central American division. Besides, his wife is Valerie Stanton; she was married to a San Cristóbalian and lived there for years.”

“That’s right. I remember now. We went to school together.”

“Harvard? That doesn’t sound like a Stanton girl.”

Leslie chuckled. “Definitely not. It was at Chapin.” Leslie gave a wry smile as she named the exclusive New York City girls’ school. “I don’t remember her well; I think she was a year behind me. I do faintly remember seeing posts about her wedding on social media—looked like a lavish affair. Back then, I hardly knew anything about San Cristóbal.” She frowned and looked down at her hands. “So you think Ashe Harlan can be trusted?”

Avery shrugged. “As much as anyone, I’d say. I wouldn’t think there’s anything in it for him either way. Why wouldn’t Ashe tell the truth? He said Cutter once worked for the army or some government agency in San Cristóbal. Not the diplomatic corps.”

“I’m sure,” Leslie commented dryly.

“When he quit that, he worked for various private corporations there. I think he’s been back in the States only a short time, less than a year.”

“You think he’s really into smuggling?”

Avery made a noncommittal noise. “He’s never been arrested. But Mr. Harlan seemed rather positive that Cutter personally knew one or more of the insurgents’ leaders.” He shot her a significant glance.

“Meaning he’s a gunrunner.”

“Also meaning he has access to the very people who are holding Blake.”

“I see.” Leslie was silent for a moment as she chewed thoughtfully at her thumbnail. “You think I ought to hire him, don’t you?”

“If he’ll do it, yes. He doesn’t seem to be exactly eager.”

Leslie made a dismissive gesture. “He’s just holding out for more money. He’ll take it if I offer him enough.”

“Such cynicism in one so young.”

“But you know he’ll demand at least part of his payment before he leaves. How can I trust him to go down there and look for Blake? How do I know he won’t cheat me?”

Avery shrugged.

“You’re a lot of help.” She rolled her eyes but then sighed and patted Avery’s hand. “I’m sorry. You have been a tremendous help. You’ve gotten me further with this than any other person or even government agency.”

“I appreciate that, Leslie. But I don’t have any magic answers. You’ll have to take it on faith, I suppose—or not take it at all.”

“I don’t like the odds.” She leaned her head back against the seat. “I’ll have to think about it tonight. By the way, exactly where are we going to spend the night?”

Avery chuckled. “I’m driving back to San Antonio. It’s only an hour away, and it seemed worth the drive to find something better than Zymchek’s Lone Star Motel.”

“Amen.”

***

Cutter made his way across the graveled parking lot to the U-shaped band of motel rooms behind the bar, his footsteps only slightly unsteady. He’d been here so long that he hardly noticed the bleak, threadbare look of the motel anymore. He’d lived in rough places most of his life, it seemed—his adult life, at least. His quiet upbringing in a small Texas town was a dim memory now, with little evidence except the faintest trace of accent on his tongue. At thirty-six, he’d lived away from home as long as he’d lived there, and he no longer found much of the small-town doctor’s son in himself. Even the proud, flight-hungry boy who’d gained admittance to the Air Force Academy was pretty well buried under the years of reality since.

Once he’d wanted to fly only the fast, fierce military jets. Now here he was in Purcell, shuttling one lumbering cargo plane and a six-seater Cessna. Dreams had a way of burning off like mist in the morning sun. He’d spent the past few months trying to salvage what Jacky had left him—fixing up the planes, the hangar and the airstrip—and picking up jobs where he could find them, all the while arranging another run to Ixmal. It had taken all his time. Jacky had left things in his usual mess; even dying, he’d been a screw-up. Cutter did little but sleep in his motel room, and then he was usually too tired to notice its shabbiness.

But tonight he noticed. He saw the peeling paint on the stucco walls and the neon sign out front with three letters unlit. He saw the dinginess of the room and the naked bulb hanging in the bathroom, the rust stains around the sink drain and the ancient, cracking linoleum on the floor. He saw it with new eyes, as Leslie Harper would have seen it, and it was a depressing sight. A seedy motel. And a drunken flyer with engine grease still under his nails. No wonder she’d screeched when that Avery character tried to get him to take the job.

Cutter grinned. He could always see the comedy in even the worst situation, and this one was more comic than bad. He lowered himself onto the bed with the exaggerated caution of one who had imbibed too well and rested his elbows on his knees. Leslie Harper. Damn, but that woman had a sharp tongue on her. It was obvious she thought he made a habit of getting tanked every night. He hadn’t been about to excuse himself to her or try to explain that months of Purcell, the Lone Star Motel and Jacky’s miserable business had finally gotten to him, so he’d decided to forget it all for just one stupid night. Let her think the worst of him; she wanted to anyway.