Chapter 20: Hideaway

The next three days at the Agency had gone smoothly, much to Laura's delight. Since she'd begun considering bringing Bernice back into the fold, she's been concerned about how Bernice and Mildred would both respond to the change. Bernice, when last there, had been one of three people central to the conspiracy of the mythical Remington Steele. She'd been part of every confidence, every meeting, knew about every case. They were a team, the trio of them – Bernice, Murphy and Laura – and they were close friends.

Mildred on the other hand hadn't know the secret of the mythical Steele and the interloper who filled his shoes for the first two years. It hadn't been until a moment of petulance, after Laura had flown to London to bring Remington home only for him to disappear, that their trusted major domo had been told: Mr. Steele was not Remington Steele. In the days after, the relationship between Remington and Mildred had been rocky: Mildred angry at the deception, Remington injured the woman he viewed as a pseudo-mother no longer trusted him or his abilities. Laura had finally had to intercede. The revelation had erected a speed bump in Laura and Remington's personal relationship as well, and had required a conversation of their own to get past.

Still, learn the secret, Mildred had. And, like Bernice, there were matters Mildred had been privy to from the start the Bernice had not: most specifically the relationship between Laura and Remington. The woman had zeroed in on it almost as soon as she met them, and Remington had been surprisingly open with Mildred about it and his ongoing frustrations where that relationship was concerned.

"I don't get it. First, she plays Gypsy Rose Lee for a former boyfriend, now she's playing Miss Sadie Thompson for a cheap crook. But for me, it's Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm."

"Maybe you frighten her."

"Yes, that's what she says."

"Oh, just remember. It's easy to let yourself go with someone you don't care about. Because there's no risk involved."

"At the moment, that's hollow consolation."

They'd never attempted to hide their personal relationship and its struggles from Mildred, not that they'd openly advertised it either. And, also similar to Bernice's days with the Agency, Remington, Laura and Mildred had formed a trio of their own, but this one not of good friends, but more like family.

There was every possibility things could have gone badly. Bernice and Mildred were both strong willed, opinionated women. The worry was for naught. Mildred, thrilled at the promotion was all too willing to turn the reins over to Bernice. Bernice was thrilled to once again be working at a job she'd truly enjoyed. Within half a day, as Mildred trained the younger women, they were tittering and casting conspiratorial looks towards Remington and Laura, drawing many an eye roll from the latter.

As satisfying as the outcome of the first addition to their staff was, the high point of the week was the signing of both the Fournier and Lloyd contracts. On Monday when Laura and Remington returned from Mexico, Remington would begin visiting all the sites in order to assess the current security systems and begin planning what needed to be done to protect the facilities from scurrilous activity. The Fournier contract, alone, would pay for the lease on the new offices for the next three years. With that thought in mind, a smiling Laura boarded the plane for Mexico with Remington Thursday afternoon.

They hadn't arrived at the bungalow Mildred had reserved for the until late. The plane had landed just shy of eight o'clock and by the time they'd collected their bags and secured a rental car, it was quarter 'til nine. They'd stopped for dinner on the way to Pepe's, then had made another quick stop a supermercado, where he'd purchased water, fruit, bread, and other ingredients he'd need to make them sandwiches for their trip to the cabin the following day. The combined work of Bernice and Mildred had provided them with a helicopter and pilot from 7 am until 4 pm the following day. They would be dropped near the site of the cabin by eight, and the pilot would return in two hour intervals to check and see if they were ready to depart.

While Remington unpacked the groceries, storing the cold items in the mini-fridge provided in the kitchenette, Laura unpacked their bags while studying the surroundings. Mildred had outdone herself, yet again. The private bungalow sat secluded on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. A palapa roof peaked high overhead and the one large room featured a kitchenette and bathroom along the back wall, while the bed, with its handmade bamboo headboard, sat in the center of the room. The furnishings were minimalistic and primitive, hand honed from native woods. A desk and chair resting against one wall, a table and two chairs by the kitchenette. The colors chosen were traditional Mexican: bright yellow walls with many bright blue and red accents; a yellow bedspread with vibrant blocks of reds, greens and blues checkered across it; and, of course the dark hues of wood in the furnishings, roof and beams. The room exuded warmth but it was the scene directly across from the bed which was the stunner. A wall of sliding glass doors were tucked into pockets, opening up to a wood balcony perched over the Pacific below. Even well after nightfall, the scene was beautiful as the moon and stars glistened off the water. Placing a pair of Remington's pajamas on the bed for their use later, she stepped out onto the balcony, crossing her arms over her body and taking in the view.

Remington had been keeping watch over Laura since they'd landed. His keen senses where his wife and partner were concerned had picked up on her slightest withdrawal into herself shortly prior to descent. Nothing he needed to be alarmed about just yet, but enough to make him determined to keep close watch over her during the day ahead. Approaching her on silent feet, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, back to chest.

"Breathtaking," he murmured next to her ear. Smiling, she stroked a hand over his arm.

"It is," she agreed.

"I wasn't speaking of the view," he corrected. She turned in his arms and looked up at him circling his waist with her arms. A soft laugh trickled across the air.

"A nearly full day's work, traveling to Mexico…. I'm a wrinkled mess and we both know it," she scolded, then gave him a smile. "But thank you, anyway."

"Even during the farce of that first wedding – wrinkled, hair sticking up here and there, muddied – you were the loveliest woman I've ever set my eyes upon." She was prepared to laugh the comment off when she saw the earnest sincerity in his eyes. Her hands glided up his ribs and over his chest so that her arms could loosely cross around his neck.

"Me sweet talkin' Irishman. Might ye be hankerin' after somethin'?" she asked, adding an Irish accent to her lilting voices, as her fingers softly toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. He leaned into the touch.

"Can I see you? Can I hear you? Is your perfume lingering in the air? Is someone speaking of you? Am I thinking of you? I can't think of a time I don't want you." His voice was smoky with desire. A single finger tipped up her chin, so his lips could glance over hers, before leaving sparks in their wake as they trailed over a cheek then blazed a path down her neck. His hands reached for her hips, drawing her closer to him. Closing a hand over one of his, she stepped away.

"Let's see what we can do about that," she suggested, leading him back into the bungalow.

An intelligent man, he didn't have to think twice about following.

Remington and Laura stood back, shading their eyes from the sun, and watched as the helicopter lifted off. He let out a long, slow breath then with concerted effort turned and smiled at her. She, on the other hand, didn't even make the effort to pretend all was well.

She had no memory of the cabin's exterior. She'd been unconscious after her fall down the cliff when she and Roselli had arrived and had been barely conscious, certainly not cognizant, when Remington had carried her away from the place. If she wasn't aware of the memories waiting within those four walls, she would have described the cabin as quaint, homey even. The fully wood sided building, featured a covered front porch which would be ideal for sitting under while enjoying a cool drink. There were two windows on the front of the building, yet she couldn't recall seeing a single window when she'd been inside. Not that she'd been alert very long when last she was here: only long enough to wake and then to battle to keep Roselli from raping her. Lifting a hand, she kneaded at her brow. Pull it together, Holt, she commanded herself.

Unfortunately for Remington, he did remember the exterior of the cabin. Remembered running up those very porch steps, knocking down the door with the help of Murphy, then finding Laura trapped in a corner, knife held in shaking hand, before her tiny body was lifted and slammed into a wall. And the silence. The silence after she slid down that wall. It was more than he was prepared to handle, reliving those memories and, without plan, he slipped into the persona of Mick O'Leary – light hearted, devil may care, take nothing too seriously, Mick O'Leary.

"Once more into the breach, and all that, eh, Miss Holt?" he asked, pressing his hand on her lower back and guiding her towards the house. Her brow furrowed at the realization her husband had donned a mantle to face his own nightmares within the walls ahead. She promptly set her concern aside… along with her own trepidations.

"The sooner the better, Mr. Steele," she concurred, lengthening her stride.

When they reached the door, he reached around her to swing it open. Her stomach churned at the sight. It appeared to have been untouched since the last time she was here. The bed sheets were still tossed and rumpled. A kitchen drawer stood open. Before the memories could assail her, she removed herself mentally from the scene. She was Laura Holt, private detective. This was just another case. Find the clues, solve the mystery and move on. With vicious determination, she forced the cool composure for which she was known into place.

"Bit sparse," Remington commented behind her.

He wasn't wrong. A table with a couple of chairs, the bed, two night stands accounted for all the furnishings in the room. The kitchenette held six total cabinets, two up and four down.

"If you take over there," she indicated the bed and night tables with a flick of her hand, "I'll search here," she indicated the kitchen. Without answer, he veered to the closest nightstand while Laura opened the first cabinet in the kitchen.

He sorted through the contents of the single drawer: An old Hustler magazine, a couple of bondage magazines, hand cuffs, a flogger and crop, blindfold, a gag, strips of material to bind, lubricant. Even as his lip curled in distaste, he found himself unsurprised. The lunatic had shown no finesse when on his best of behavior, preferred to use force instead of skill. Bondage, domination, fit with what he knew of the man. Picking up each of the magazines, he shook them. Nothing hidden among their folds. Shoving the distasteful material back in the drawer, he circled the bed. Then froze in place, when his eyes caught site of the blood spatters and smears on the sheets.

The glimpse had done its damage as images of Laura - battered, sick, and drugged – fighting off the man sparked his imagination to life. Her screams of pure terror, which had reach the ears of he and Murphy when they landed, filled his head. Then later, the silence, the awful, fear invoking silence to his calls.

"Laura, okay?"

"Laura, okay?

His eyes moved from blood stain to blood stain, while he tried to speculate which wound had caused them.

"Two concussions, two fractured eye orbitals, a fractured cheekbone, three ribs with a hairline fractures, a displaced shoulder that has been reset, a torn Achilles tendon, along with multiple lacerations and contusions. The more pressing matter is a combination of the dehydration coupled with the sepsis. We're pushing fluids, and we have a triple antibiotic cocktail on board to fight both infections. She is showing signs of acute respiratory distress syndrome, or ARDS, so we're giving her oxygen. The ARDS, should it develop, will be our biggest battle, as if it advances, it has a one in three mortality rate…"

One in three….

One in three….

The fear, the helplessness he'd felt then settled like a dark cloud over him, accompanied by blinding fury. Fury with the man who had caused her such harm. Anger with himself for failing to protect her from it. His hands clenched and unclenched next to his sides as his body shook. He needed to pummel something. Needed to put his hands around the buggering bastards' neck and squeeze the life out of him. He needed to get the hell out of here. He needed to hold her and never let her out of his sight again.

Laura looked up from where she'd completed searching the first of two cabinets only to find them filled with plates, pots, pans and various cooking tools. The interiors of the pots and pans had revealed nothing stashed within their depths. She turned to tell Remington the first two cabinets had come up clean, then stopped short. Her heart ached at the helpless, furious look on his face, watched his body shake from it, his fists clench. She marched across the room and slung the blankets over the blood stained sheets, then stepped to him.

"Remington, look at me," she commanded. His eyes flicked in her direction but he didn't move. "I'm here. I'm fine." Her words of assurance held no weight so she turned to what invariably produced a response. "Mr. Steele! The case at hand if you don't mind!" she commanded in a strident voice. His fists loosened, his eyes sparked fire, and lips tightened.

"OF course, Miss Holt," he agreed, voice tinged with anger. Never the less, he stooped down to open the second drawer.

Sighing inwardly, she returned to the unsearched cabinets. She knew what he'd needed. Touch, to be drawn out, to be assured. But she didn't have it in her right now, not when her own self-control was so tentatively held on to. She opened the next cabinet and continued her search. She tried to shut out the cacophony of memories.

"Not happening, Laura. There's nothing I hate more than a little tease. You offered and you'll follow through now."

Icy calm, icy calm, icy calm. She repeated the mantra through the last of the cabinets, finding nothing. She turned to see how he was faring. Judging by the look of things, he hadn't had any luck either. The mattress had been toppled from the bed, sheets torn off, foundation opened with a knife to find nothing within. Her shoulders slouched with defeat. They'd come all this way for nothing.

"Start checking the walls and floors for any hidden latches," he directed. "He's been involved in far too many furtive organizations not to have a secondary route of escape and a place to conceal information he wants no one to know of."

She nodded her agreement, returning to the cabinets and removing all their contents, then pressing against the wood, while sensitive fingers searched for any cracks that might signify a compartment. Behind her, wood scraped against wood as he hauled the bedframe out of his way and to the other side of the room. She was midway through the fourth cabinet when he called her.

"I've got something," he announced. Laura turned and watched as he tugged at an unmovable nightstand.

She joined them and together they searched for the release without luck. Similarly, yanking on the table together failed to make it move. Opening the drawer, she grasped the lip for better hold. This time a yank sent them both sprawling onto their backs on the floor, the nightstand laying face down.

"Drawer… release," she panted, wind knocked out of her from the impact on the hard surface of the floor.

Scrambling on hands and knees, they peered downwards into the three-by-three gap in the floor which now stood open.

"You wouldn't happen to have a flashlight, would you?" he asked her.

"Not a one," she confirmed what he already knew.

Searching his pockets, he grinned when he came up with his gold lighter. Giving a look that clearly her to allow him to take lead, he shimmied forward, then arms first, dropped head and shoulders through the hole. Beneath the floor, he flicked the lighter. A table littered with papers, shelves lined with non-perishables and enough water to last for days. A cot tucked against one wall, and army foot locker sitting at the end of it. He sidled back out of the hole.

"A hideaway," he told her sitting up and peering around the room. "Didn't happen to run across any candles during your searches, mmmm?" Her eyes widened.

"I did. A drawerful." She shot to her feet.

Crossing the room, she grabbed a handful of candles from the door she'd mentioned then, as an afterthought, retrieved several small plates from a cabinet before returning to him. Stretching out on the floor next to the hole, she turned around, prepared to drop feet first through the breech. A hand on her ankle stopped her and she turned to look at him.

"Me first, if you don't mind. I don't think either of cares to chance you landing wrong on that ankle of yours and being forced to start anew," he commented brows raised. Pursing her lips, she nodded.

He sidled his lean frame through the hole, dropping into the darkness below. Reaching upwards, he took the plates and candles she handed him and set them near his feet, then turned to grasp her waist as she eased her way backwards into the hold. Placing her lightly on the floor, he reached for lighter again. As soon as the dim light lit the area around them, she stooped down and retrieved candle and saucer. Lighting the candle with the flame, she tilted the candle until a small pool of wax dripped on the center of the saucer. Placing the candle in the melted wax, she waited until the wax solidified, then set the improvised candle and holder on the steam trunk before reaching for another candle and plate.

"I never ceased to be amazed by your creative mind, Mrs. Steele." She smiled at him, more so because he had returned to calling her Mrs. Steele which mean Mick O'Leary was banished for now.

"A trick my grandmother taught me. During the depression, candleholders were a luxury few could indulge in," she explained.

"Ah," he replied, his only commentary as they turned their attention to the papers on the table.

Remington let out a long breath as he scanned a stack of papers he'd picked up. Laura in turned leveled a wide-eyed look upon him.

"Articles on our cases, background checks on each of us…" he announced, as he continued to finger through the papers he held.

"Notes of his conversations with Keyes, a list of people we've put away, backgrounds on some of those people, pictures of the women you've escorted from the society pages…" she added.

"Interviews with people as well, it seems," he held up a stack of handwritten notes.

"Let's just gather them together and take it all with us. We'll sort it out back at the hotel," she suggested, while scooping up additional papers off the table and putting them into a neat pile. In agreement, he gathered a stack of his own, then handed them off to her.

A check of the shelves in the room confirmed it was filled with staples and nothing more. They turned their attention to the army locker. He held out his hand to her, giving her lead. Kneeling next to the trunk, she found it secured with a lock. Standing aside, she watched as he slipped a pick from his case, then opened he padlock with ease. Backing up, he gave her the honors.

Reams of papers were tossed haphazardly within. She shifted through the plucking out random pages.

"His discharge from the Army, more backgrounds although not on us, pictures of him, more newspaper articles," she shook her head. "None of it any form of order. It could take days to sort this all out."

Remington glanced at his watch. "It's a little after eleven. Fernando will be back to check on us in less than an hour's time. How would you feel about us packing all this up, taking it with us, and having a bit of lunch while we wait for our escort?"

"Makes sense," she agreed. She eyed the trunk and contents. "Any idea how we'll get this out of here?" she asked, setting the stack of papers on the floor into the trunk, then closing and locking it.

"I have a plan," he acknowledged, grasping her hip and moving her aside then dragging the table under the opening in the floor above. Lifting the trunk so it stood on its side on the table, he pulled himself up through the opening, then reached down and maneuvered the trunk upwards. Once it was set aside, he called down to her.

"Candles, if you don't mind… Not that I'd mind burning the place to the ground," he said under his breath. He watched as the flames were doused and the room below darkened, before Laura hoisted herself through the opening. Grasping a hand, he helped pull her up, waiting until she was steady on her feet before letting her go.

They closed the entryway, placed the other night stand back in place, then together shoved the bedframe back in position and repositioned foundation and mattress, before tossing the bedding atop it. Neither of them had the stomach to remake the bed and view the proof of her abuse. Five minutes later, they sat hip-to-hip on the footlocker, their back to the cabin, as they took long draws on their bottles of water.

"Eat," Remington ordered, handing her a sandwich. He was no more hungry than she, after spending the morning in the cabin, but forced the sandwich down as he watched her pinch small bites off and reluctantly eat. "What do you want to do now? There's nothing left here to find."

"As much as I'd like to tell you to book us on the next flight home, I think until we know exactly what is in this locker we need to stay in case there is anything locally we need to pursue." He nodded his head, of much the same opinion.

Reaching for her hand, they fell into silence as they waited for the helicopter to arrive.

(TBC)