When they reached the hospital wing, Emily sat on the sofa and tried to still her pounding heart. Is this where Peter has been for the past three years? Why hadn’t he called anyone? Why hadn’t he cared that no one had known whether he was dead or alive? Her shoulders sagged as she dropped her face in her hands.
She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, hadn’t wanted to face the implications of such a sustained absence. A part of her hoped he was alive, but she hadn’t known for sure. Now she did. But was he trafficking in drugs?
She thought of all the damage drugs did to the users and their families and all the problems they’d had in Colorado Springs lately—the increase in victims of violence at the Galilee Women’s Shelter and all the overdoses at the hospital. She sighed. No, the Peter she knew could never be involved with drugs. Maybe he was still with the CIA? He could be working undercover, that would explain why no one had heard from him for so long. And why he didn’t want Baltasar to know they knew each other. Either scenario meant he wouldn’t be much help to her and Robert. She would always come second to his job, no matter what it was. She always had.
She thought back to their marriage and how much she’d loved him, and the more she loved him the more afraid she’d grown as he became more and more entranced with his job. She knew it wouldn’t have been long before he’d be working undercover, going on dangerous assignments and getting himself killed. The explosion that put him in the hospital was a real eye-opener for her, and she knew she couldn’t live that way—always wondering, always worrying.
She’d made an impulsive and emotional decision to walk out on their marriage. Then she’d waited for him to come home and tell her how foolish she’d been, to assure her that he’d be fine, that he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks, that he wouldn’t put his job before their marriage. But he never came. He hadn’t loved her enough to fight for her. He accepted her reasons and let her walk away, even though it was the last thing she wanted. Tears stung the back of her eyes. No, as always, she was on her own.
“Emily?”
She opened her eyes to find Robert staring down at her.
“Is everything all right?”
She shook her head, but couldn’t find the words to speak. Peter is here. She wished she could tell him, but she’d been the wife of a CIA agent long enough to know better. She patted the couch next to her. After he sat, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “I believe Escalante is a drug lord.”
“What?”
“I heard him talking about kilos. We have to get out of here.”
“I agree, but how?”
“I don’t know.” Certainly not by counting on Peter. He hadn’t even batted an eye at seeing her again. The tears she’d been trying so desperately to keep at bay flooded her eyes. Peter had been her husband. She should be able to count on his help. She should be able to depend on him.
Robert placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. God will hear our prayers.”
“I hope so,” she whispered, but somehow she didn’t think He was listening.
Chapter Three
At that moment, a bout of coughing had Emily rushing into Marcos’s room, driving home her point more. If God was there for people, if He listened to their prayers, her prayers, how could He let such suffering happen to those the least deserving—the young and innocent? She checked the boy’s chart and saw that he’d already been given his medicine. There wasn’t much she could do for him. She took his temperature then had him sit up as she handed him a glass of water.
“Thank you, Dr. Señorita,” the boy said.
“You’re welcome.” She watched him finish the water then took the glass from him.
His coughing abated and he gave her a big toothy grin. “I have a loose tooth.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh. See?” He stuck his finger in his mouth and wiggled an incisor.
“Look at that,” she said with a big smile. “You have a loose tooth.”
He nodded in happy agreement. “Do you have children?” he asked with eagerness lighting his big brown eyes.
His question poked a wound that would never heal. “No, pequeño. No children. If I did, then I wouldn’t have time for all my children patients.”
“Then it is good, no?”
She smiled at him. “It is good. Now close your eyes and try to get some rest.”
He nodded. “I am extra tired today,” he said as his eyes drifted closed.
The poor boy was getting worse by the hour. Emily sat by his bedside and held his hand, thinking how unfair it was that he should have to spend his day in bed. Children should be running and playing and driving their parents crazy with their unrelenting energy.
She gave herself a mental shake. She was being absurd. Seeing Peter had brought back all the painful feelings of fear and loss and wanting a child more than she wanted her next breath. She sighed. It wasn’t meant to be. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t live with a man who put danger and his work before her. Never again. She had loved him too much to watch him die. And he hadn’t loved her enough to try something different, something new.
She pulled the sheet up to Marcos’s chest. It didn’t matter now. She was over Peter and had been for a long time. The wallop her heart had taken when she saw him earlier was only her feeling of relief that he was still alive, nothing more. She should be thankful and put him out of her mind.
She brushed the hair back from Marcos’s forehead. The poor boy was so thin and pale. Each breath was a struggle for him to take. He was in the beginning stages of Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, an opportunistic infection that had stolen in to take advantage of his shattered immune system.
“Dr Señorita?” He opened his sleepy eyes.
She smiled at him. “I thought you were going to rest.”
“Will you pray with me?”
She hesitated.
“My mama used to pray with me. Every day we’d pray together and ask God to watch over us. And every night before I went to sleep, but ever since she died—” His words broke off and pain filled his eyes.
“Of course, I’ll pray with you,” she said. She couldn’t stand to see the heartache filling his little face.
“Papa doesn’t pray anymore,” he said. “He’s mad at God for my disease, he doesn’t understand it’s not God’s fault.”
Emily squeezed his hand. “Your papa loves you so much, it hurts him to see you sick. I’m sure he doesn’t want you to see him sad.”
Marcos’s lips trembled as he smiled. “You must be a very smart lady.”
“I like to think so.”
“My mama would have liked you.”
His words tugged at her heart and tightened her throat. “She must have been a wonderful lady to have such a special boy.”
He smiled with all the sweetness and optimism that eight-year-olds hold close to their hearts, then pushed his hands together.
“Do you have a favorite prayer?” she asked, hoping he didn’t want her to come up with one. It had been so long since she’d prayed, she wasn’t sure she could remember the words.
He nodded.
“Okay, then, let’s hear it.”
He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that his cheeks compressed and his small mouth straightened into a thin, serious line. As Emily watched him, pure joy filled her heart. He was such a treasure. His little voice, weak and tired, sounded crystal clear like the first drops of rain on a cool fall morning. She sat up straighter to listen.
“Dear Lord, now it’s time for me to rest, today I tried to do my best. Watch over me as I lie in sleep, help me to have faith in Thee. Care for all the world’s little children, the sick and the poor, give them Your blessing. Care for Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Fletcher and Papa the same, this I pray in Jesus’s name. Amen.”
His big brown eyes opened, capturing hers, and from that moment on her heart was lost.
“You’re supposed to say ‘Amen,’” he whispered.
/> “Amen,” she said quickly.
He gave a triumphant smile and she rustled his hair. “Are you ready to go to sleep now, young man?”
He nodded.
Emily leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Sweet dreams.”
“You, too, Dr. Señorita,” Marcos said with a sleepy smile and fell back to sleep, as only children can do, the instant he closed his eyes.
Emily sat staring at him. She had just prayed. It was as simple as that—as simple as closing her eyes and talking to someone who loved her. She sighed. Nothing was ever that simple. She rose, straightened his covers, and then turned toward the small connecting room that held his medication and other supplies.
“You’re very good with him,” Baltasar said, startling her as she entered the room.
Surprised, Emily wondered how long he’d been standing there watching her. “Thank you,” she responded and cringed as her voice broke. The last thing she wanted was for him to suspect she’d figured out the truth about him. “He’s a special boy.” Too special to deserve a drug lord for a father.
His eyes softened, and he dropped onto a stool next to the long blue counter. “He’s all I have left in the world that matters to me.”
As much as she didn’t want to, Emily believed him. She’d had to deal with parents of terminally ill children before. She knew only too well the heartache that lay ahead for him. She wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy. Not even her kidnapper.
“Are the phones up and working yet?” she asked, though she knew it was futile, knew if he had any intention of being aboveboard, he would have asked for her assistance, not demanded it.
“Why do you want to contact the outside world so badly? Are you not happy here? Not treated well? Is the food okay? Your quarters?”
“Yes, everything is fine, that’s not the point. There are people at the clinic waiting for Dr. Fletcher and myself, other people, other children, who need us.”
“I have talked to Dr. Haynes, the Doctors Without Borders representative, and have assured him that you both are fine, and that you are assisting me with my son on an extremely sensitive issue. He understands completely and has asked me to tell you not to worry about the clinic, things are fine. They have sent for other doctors who will be arriving within the next few days.”
“That sounds convenient,” she said, the words coming out more bitter than she’d expected.
Baltasar stood. “I love my son and will do whatever I have to do to ensure his last days are comfortable. You can either have a pleasant stay here at my estate, or you can be treated like a prisoner. The choice is entirely yours.”
The gloves had just come off.
Emily stiffened and was thankful when he turned and abruptly left the room. She walked into the kitchen and with trembling fingers poured herself a cup of iced tea. As nice as the estate was, she was still a prisoner being held against her will and unable to communicate with anyone. Anyone except for Peter. She had to convince him to help her, and right now was as good a time as any.
She downed her iced tea then made sure Esteban wasn’t lurking around before heading out the front door. As soon as she stepped outside an invisible barrier of heat, hot and clinging, hit her. She pushed through it, hugging the side of the house, hoping no one had seen her. She kept to the cobblestone path that led through the tall bushes. Their branches reached for the sky, fighting for the sparse rays of sunlight that made it through the thick canopy of trees.
As she traveled deeper into the grounds, the trees became denser, the sounds more foreign to her. What was she thinking? How could she ever find Peter out here? She didn’t even know if he was still at the estate. She would do better to try and find a way to escape on her own. The truth, whether or not she cared to admit it, was that she didn’t know who Peter Vance was anymore. He certainly wasn’t that long-haired ruffian she’d seen talking about kilos in Baltasar’s study.
A loud squawking sounded above her. Her gaze snapped up onto the beady black eyes of a multi-colored bird. The raptor-looking thing was more menacing than an object of beauty, with its clawlike beak that could easily tear into her flesh and rip it to shreds. She rubbed her arms. The birds in her travel brochures certainly hadn’t looked like this one.
Even the thick tangle of flowering vines appeared to be slowly squeezing the life out of the trees, rather than draping down their trunks like the bridal veils the brochures described. Ha! It was more like suffocation, slow and Machiavellian. She gulped a deep breath, finding it harder and harder to breathe. There was no air here, not even the slightest breeze.
In some places she thought she could see steam rising from the soft earth buried under a thick layer of dead leaves. She grimaced, not even wanting to think about what she could be stepping on. “I’m slowly being cooked alive,” she muttered. And, for a second, wondered when she’d veered off the cobblestone path.
A giant insect buzzed past her head. She ducked, then dragged her forearm across her damp forehead. She’d better go back. This wasn’t such a good idea. Even if she could find her way off this compound, she’d never find her way out of the jungle. She was trapped.
Something crunched beneath her canvas tennis shoe and her face contorted in disgust. She stared down at the giant cockroaches scurrying around her feet. They were as long as her hand! A hoarse cry erupted from her chest, then caught in her throat and choked her. She turned and ran, unsure of where she was going, just heading back in the direction she’d come, hoping to find her way back to the estate.
She’d been such a fool to come to South America! “An adventure,” she muttered. She had seen brochures of incredible beaches, water so blue it made you think you’d found heaven on earth—tropical flowers, waterfalls, beautifully colored birds, paradise on earth.
Paradise? Ha! She was a fool and an idiot. A sharp pain stitched her side, making her stop and double over. “Lord, please help me,” she begged, then realized she’d just prayed, again. Twice in one day! A twinge of guilt jabbed her. She stared at the ground waiting for it to open up and swallow her.
She was such a hypocrite, only asking for help when she was desperate and then not living up to her promises, not giving Him the respect He deserved. And this place was her punishment, she thought as she walked down the path carefully watching each strategically placed step. Perhaps if I ask God to forgive me, if I tried harder to be good….
Something shifted in the corner of her eye. She stopped and turned, her eyes widening painfully as she stared into the diamond-shaped slits of a hissing reptile. A snake! Not a common garden snake that kids scurry about to catch, but a giant snake with a body the thickness of her thigh. She stood frozen, her heart pounding, unable to move, to scream, to breathe.
Then it began to move. She stood horrified as its sinewy thickness slid up the vine-laden tree beside her. Involuntarily, her mouth snapped open and she gasped a breath of air, allowing the adrenaline to slam into her chest and give her control of her body once more.
Her loud, piercing scream fractured the jungle air, sending flocks of birds fluttering up through the trees and into the sky. Squawking erupted, filling the air, and before she could make her legs move, or let loose another sound, a large, sweaty hand covered her mouth. Her eyes bulged as she was pulled roughly against a hard, masculine chest. A strong arm locked around her waist, lifted her off her feet, and pulled her into the thicket.
She struggled, but it was futile. Dear Lord, help me. Peter. Where was Peter? The man stopped moving and dropped her back down onto her feet. He lifted his hand from her face and she could finally draw a deep breath. And she did, lots of them, so many she started to hyperventilate and grow dizzy. She bent over, her hands braced on her knees.
“Stop panicking,” the voice snapped.
“Panicking? I’m not panicking. I’ve passed panicking, I’m bordering on hysterical,” she babbled, and then it hit her. She knew this voice. She knew this smell, strong as it was. She knew this touch. She swiveled. The beast who h
ad stuck his hot, sweaty palm across her mouth was Peter. A haze of red fury seized her, clouding her vision. “Are you out of your mind? What were you thinking grabbing me like that, scaring me half to death?”
“Be quiet!” he demanded.
“No, I won’t be quiet. Don’t you even tell me to be quiet—”
Once again he picked her up, this time swinging her over his shoulder. The air whooshed out of her lungs and she found she couldn’t say another word as he marched off the path and through the bushes.
How dare he? Who did he think he was? And what on earth was wrong with the man? Did he not think she could walk? Something swatted her face. Abruptly she brought up her hands, covering her eyes, not only to protect them from an occasional branch, but also from what she thought she caught sight of scurrying in the bushes. Some things she just didn’t want to know about, especially at such close range.
“Ugh!” she groaned as his shoulder dug into her stomach. Her anger intensified and she realized that she was doomed, because there was no way God was going to forgive her for what she was planning on doing to this man once he finally set her down. Before she could contemplate the many ways of primitive medieval torture devices, he unceremoniously plopped her onto the ground.
The blood must have rushed to her head, because she’d barely managed to find her footing, or get a handle on her surroundings through the stars swimming in front of her eyes before he was dragging her in through the back door of a small bungalow.
She opened her mouth to let loose on the cretin, then suddenly the cool air hit her. Abandoning the colorful curses teetering on the tip of her tongue, she immediately rushed to the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet and drowned herself in the icy cold water. Relief. She’d finally found sweet relief, she thought as the water cascaded across her hot sticky skin and rolled around in her mouth.
A rough grip on her shoulder pulled her head out of the sink.
“What did you do that for?” she demanded.
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