She didn’t know how he was able to keep from running to find out what, if anything, the old man had discovered. “Do you suppose he’s heard news of Liam?” she finally asked.
Cal glanced at her. He didn’t answer right away, the hard soles of his cowboy boots making a soothing rhythm on the sidewalk.
He gazed out over the harbor as he spoke. “The summer before I turned eighteen, my granddad died.”
It appeared to be a non sequitur, but Kayla knew if she waited long enough and heard him out, it would all make sense. “You mean the one who was your guardian.”
He nodded. “Uh-huh. Although he didn’t do much looking after us—didn’t do more than sit and listen to the radio. He’d lost part of one leg to diabetes a few years before my father died, and…” He smiled. “He lost more than a few marbles at about the same time. The old man was a sly one though. Most of the time he didn’t know where he was or who he was talking to, but he could fool you really well. Fooled the social services folks into granting him guardianship of Liam and me, which was just fine with me. But then, of course, Granddad went and died nearly six months before I was old enough—according to the eyes of the state—to care for Liam on my own.”
He fell silent for a moment, remembering, lost in his past. And what a past it had been. He’d raised a child, starting at age fifteen, while putting in the long, grueling hours of a working cowboy. He was, without a doubt, the strongest man Kayla had ever met, both physically and spiritually. His power was written on the lines of his face, in the muscular curve of his shoulder, in the quietness of his gaze.
Kayla realized she was staring at him, but he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. His eyes were distant, as if he were far, far away—or somewhere back in time.
“I still remember her name.” He was talking more to himself than to her. “Corinna Pinter. She worked for the state, and she came out to the ranch and she took Liam away. Just like that. Took him to some lousy foster home clear across the county.”
He was quiet again, and the only sound was the click of his boots on the sidewalk.
Kayla couldn’t keep quiet. “What did you do?”
He glanced at her and smiled. “I turned eighteen, that’s what I did.”
“You mean you waited until your birthday and then—”
“Hell, no. I didn’t wait for anything. One of my cowhands had done some hard time down in Kansas, and he knew a guy who knew a guy who dabbled in something he called the ‘creative altering’ of official documents. We took a little road trip south and my birth certificate, along with my driver’s license and an entire slew of authentic papers were ‘creatively altered.’ Instead of being born November seventeenth, I now had proof that I’d come into the world in January of that same year. I was instantly eighteen. The Asylum town clerk backed me up, saying that it was her mistake—a typo. She said she’d added an extra number one to my month of birth on the papers that Corinna Pinter had gotten from the town files.”
“So you got Liam back.”
“Yeah, I got the kid back.” His smile faded. “It doesn’t seem likely, does it, that I’ll be that lucky twice in one lifetime?”
Kayla didn’t speak. There was nothing she could possibly say. But she prayed with all her heart that the old man in the shop had good news for them—that he’d found out where Liam was hiding, that Liam was still alive.
Cal lengthened his stride as they crossed a road, and Kayla realized that they were approaching the shop.
Glass crunched under their feet. The small restaurant across the street had suffered a broken window. It had been broken from the inside, since the glass had sprayed outward, into the road.
All those soldiers had been in town last night. No doubt that little café had been the scene of a brawl.
Cal opened the door to the shop, holding it for Kayla, and they both went inside.
The old man was behind the counter. He greeted them by reaching down to a hidden shelf and pulling out a small box. He opened the box, taking a small gold object out and placing it on a black cloth spread on the counter in front of him.
Liam’s journalism ring.
Kayla reached for it, but then stopped. It was dirty, the inlaid letters caked with some kind of mud or…
Blood.
“I didn’t clean it,” the old man said quietly. “I thought you would want to see it as it is.”
“Thank you,” Cal said. His voice sounded tight. “Where did you get it?”
“Last night many soldiers came into Puerto Norte on leave,” he told them. “An old friend of mine likes to relieve them of their pay by engaging them in games of chance. My friend won this ring from one of the soldiers. This soldier told him he had cut it from the finger of a dead prisoner some time ago.”
Cal didn’t move. “Dead.”
The old man nodded. “Yes. I am sorry. It appears I was wrong about the Americano. He was quite real.”
Was.
“But the story I had heard had been altered—the story about the village being destroyed for harboring this man,” the shopkeeper continued. “This soldier told my friend that the Americano did escape from the prison, badly injured. He was hidden in a nearby village and cared for by the people there, even though he was very sick. The SFP searched for him for weeks, and, through no one’s fault, they discovered that he had been taken to this one village along the coast. The people were trying to smuggle him out of the country by boat.”
Cal hadn’t moved once while the old man spoke. He just listened.
“The Special Forces captain ordered all of the villagers into the town square. He lined up all the town officials and their families. He told the villagers that unless the Americano surrendered to them immediately, the village would be burned and their leaders would be killed. But no one said a word. And that was when the Americano came out of hiding.
“He was weak, hardly able to stand, but he would not let these people die for him.” The old man drew in a deep breath. “But the captain ordered the executions and had the village bombed anyway. Even though this man had heroically given himself up, dozens of innocents were killed that day.”
“And the Americano?” Kayla asked quietly, tears in her eyes.
“He was taken back to the prison and beaten. But he was a very strong man, and it wasn’t until just a few weeks ago that he finally died. That was when our soldier acquired this ring.”
Cal picked up the ring. “How much do we owe you?”
The old man hesitated. “I paid fifty dollars, American, for it.”
“Thank you,” Cal said. He took two crisp hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. “For all your trouble.”
But the shopkeeper was shaking his head. “The information I have given you is free. And if I can think of anything else that might be helpful—”
“Do you know the name of the SFP captain?” Cal asked.
“He is known as El Capitán Muerte by the people—Captain Death,” the man replied. “He is an unassuming man, a gentleman—he doesn’t look like the monster that he is. It is said he never wears the SFP uniform, and that he drives a car that cost more than the wages fifty families earn in five years’ time.”
Kayla looked at Cal, and saw that there was murder in his eyes.
“His name,” the shopkeeper told them, “is Tomás Vásquez.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the hotel,” Cal told Kayla. “You’re packing your things and I’m putting you on the next flight out of here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I didn’t. I got caught in a bizarre time warp and heard the voice of some delusional Neanderthal who thought that just because he was bigger, he could order me around.”
“Kayla, dammit, I don’t have time for your crap—”
“When will you have time for my crap?” She put her hands on her hips and stepped in front of him, forcing him either to stop walking or step around her. He stepped around h
er. She chased him. “Will you have time for my crap after you do something stupid, like confront Vásquez and get yourself thrown in the very same prison Liam died in? Or maybe you’ll have time after you’re beaten into a pulp and killed too.”
She was furious, her breasts rising and falling under her T-shirt as she struggled to keep up with him.
Sweet Lord, what was wrong with him? Liam was dead. Cal was almost one hundred percent certain that his little brother was dead, yet here he was, still alive and still lusting after Kayla. Dammit, couldn’t he shut these feelings down for even a few minutes? For a moment of silence, a moment of respect for a man who had forsaken his own safety, a brave man who had died in an attempt to save others’ lives…
He couldn’t do it, not even for a few minutes.
All he wanted was to bury himself inside this woman, lose himself and all his pain in her sweet warmth.
With a groan he reached for her, and she went willingly into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close, so close it took his breath away.
“Please, let’s get on a plane together,” Kayla whispered in his ear. “If Liam’s dead, Cal, there’s nothing more we can do for him.”
“If Liam’s dead.”
She pulled back slightly to look up at him. “You don’t still think…”
“God help me, I don’t know what I think.”
Kayla was gazing at him, her greenish eyes full of compassion and sorrow. “He’s dead, Cal. That ring was cut from his body, for God’s sake! Please, let’s go home.”
He pushed her hair back from her face, needing to touch her, needing her to understand. “It’s all hearsay—stories, rumors, innuendo. There’s no real proof.”
“The ring—”
“Yeah, we have Liam’s ring. It could have been…cut from his hand while he was still alive. Hell, maybe the blood on it proves that it was. Would he have bled if he were already dead?”
Her eyes were wide. “I don’t know.”
“I need proof,” he repeated, “or there’s always going to be a part of me wondering if maybe I went and gave up too soon.”
She touched him, as if she had the same ache inside that he did. She ran her hands across his shoulders, placed her palms against his chest, touched the rough side of his face where his late-afternoon beard was already coming in. When she finally met his eyes, hers had filled with tears. “Please, Cal, I don’t want to lose you too. Don’t you understand the kind of people we’re dealing with? A man who could order the execution of innocent children…?”
“Ah, there you are! Just the Americans I was looking for.”
Cal could see a sudden flash of fear in Kayla’s eyes, and they both turned to see Tomás Vásquez’s expensive car in the road alongside them.
“Of course, there are so very few Americans on the island these days, so that made my job a little bit easier.”
Vásquez had opened his door and stood gazing at them over the car roof.
“However, I am afraid that this afternoon I am the bearer of bad news,” he continued, his friendly smile turning into an expression of solemnity.
Cal released Kayla, stepping very slightly in front of her. He could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck. How could such a terrible killer—someone nicknamed Captain Death—appear so gentle and innocuous? It didn’t make sense. But it didn’t have to make sense. In all likelihood, this was the man who, directly or indirectly, was responsible for imprisoning and torturing and killing his brother—along with hundreds of other innocent people.
He felt Kayla grip his hand, clasping his fingers and squeezing slightly.
He read her silent message loud and clear: Don’t go ballistic and kill this son of a bitch right where he was standing. Good plan. He wouldn’t. At least not yet.
“I have news of your brother,” Vásquez told him. He gestured to his car. “Come. Get in. We’ll talk.”
Kayla was right. They had to leave San Salustiano right away. But Cal would come back. He would charter a seaplane out of Puerto Rico and fly in at night, under cover of darkness. He’d find the San Salustiano rebels, talk to that girl with the big machine gun. She knew more than she had told them. He would find the proof that he needed to allow himself at least to sleep at night….
“We’d rather walk, thanks.”
Vásquez shrugged and locked his car door. “That’s fine too.”
Well, that ruled out the possibility of Vásquez luring them to their untimely death. If he’d wanted to do that, he’d have insisted they get into his car, wouldn’t he? It would have taken very little effort on his part, considering that the man was armed. He was wearing an expensive-looking sport coat, and it had opened slightly to reveal a small but deadly looking gun ensconced in a leather shoulder holster.
“I regret to have to inform you,” Vásquez said, looking thoroughly regretful as he joined them on the sidewalk, “that William Bartlett is indeed dead. I apologize for not being able to provide a more private place to tell you this, and for not delivering this news more tactfully, but I’ve found it best in this kind of situation not to delay. There is no easy way to share such tragic information.”
Once again Cal found himself gripping Kayla’s hand. “How did he die?” he asked, marveling at this man’s effortless ability to sound so sincerely concerned.
Kayla was staring down at the street, as if afraid if she looked directly at him, Vásquez would read the fear and revulsion in her eyes.
“According to my investigation, it seems that a rescue mission was attempted—but the rebels had been forewarned. Thirty-eight of our soldiers were killed that day, along with your brother and several other hostages, including a cabinet minister’s twelve-year-old daughter.”
Vásquez reached inside his jacket, and Cal tensed, knowing that a gun was in there. But the man only pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“Your brother’s death certificate.” He handed the paper to Cal.
Cal looked down at the wrinkled paper he was holding in his hands. Liam’s death certificate. This was the proof he’d been looking for. He opened it slowly, aware that the photo had been cut from Liam’s passport and stapled to the document.
The words were all in Spanish, but Kayla was there, reading over his shoulder. She translated quietly. “Name: William Bartlett. Identification: Positive, from photo. Cause of death—” She broke off, and when Cal looked up, he saw she was crying. She took a deep breath. “Cause of death: Gunshot wounds. Date of death—” She looked up at Cal, wiping her tears from her face. “The ink’s smudged—the date’s been obscured.”
“It was October,” Vásquez told them. “Four months after the bus was bombed.”
“Was it?” Kayla asked, and Cal knew what she was thinking. They’d just heard a story that had Liam alive up until just a few weeks ago. Was that why the date was smudged—because the story Váquez was telling was just another lie?
The only similarity between the two tales was that Liam was dead.
“This document was found in a box of papers due to be destroyed,” Vásquez claimed. “I was lucky to find anything at all.”
Cal nodded, gazing at the doctor’s official signature, at the seal that had been stamped onto the thick paper.
Liam’s death certificate.
He wished he were like Kayla. He wished he could cry—wished he could express his grief so openly and quickly. But he couldn’t. It ran too deep, and once he brought it to the surface, he might never be able to keep it from destroying him.
He looked up at Vásquez. “What happened to his body?”
“That I don’t know. I suspect it was left, along with the other dead and injured when the San Salustiano soldiers were forced to retreat. Apparently that area of the jungle wasn’t recaptured by our troops for nearly two months. When our men went in, all the bodies were gone. It’s believed that the rebels buried them—your brother included.”
“How do I find out for certain?”
“You d
on’t,” Vásquez told him. “You take your lady friend back to your hotel and catch the next flight off the island. Your brother was killed by the rebels, Mr. Bartlett. Don’t risk the same fate yourselves.”
12
Liam was dead.
Kayla looked at Cal, and from the bleakness in his eyes she knew that the very last of his hope was gone.
Liam was really dead.
Kayla had called the airport from a pay phone, but the next available flight off the island—to anywhere—wasn’t until the next afternoon.
It seemed too long to wait, but even the chartered flights were booked until the evening. And the tiny airport shut down tight at dusk. The best they could do was book two seats on the next flight out—and hope that the violence that was about to boil over remained at a slow simmer for just a little bit longer. There was one small charter service that suggested they arrive at the airport at five A.M., in anticipation that there might be some suddenly available seats on its six A.M. flight. It would be well worth the early wake-up call if they could get off the island that quickly.
They’d stayed downtown for most of the afternoon, walking and sitting by the harbor, watching the boats with their brightly colored sails. Cal was so quiet, Kayla felt as if she were totally alone. She gazed out at the water, letting herself grieve for Liam—for his wonderful, vibrant, brilliant life cut much too short, for all that he endured between the unknown number of months she’d been told about the bus explosion and the date that he truly did die.
Cal didn’t say more than seven words to her all afternoon. He didn’t touch much of his dinner either, and Kayla ached to say something, to do something, anything that would give him some small comfort.
She felt responsible. He’d been dealing with Liam’s death. He’d lived with it for more than two years. But then she had to come along and give him false hope. Make him believe.
But Liam really was dead. All she’d given Cal was a fresh dose of pain and grief.
It was dusk by the time they returned to the hotel, and when they got there, the entire hotel was dark.
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