by Don Prichard
The bedroom carpet was wool; the Oriental rug was flame-retardant. Could Neal still be alive? She backed away. She didn’t want to know. He didn’t deserve to live.
She fled to call the fire department. “Get out of the house,” they yelled. She sped toward the front door.
No.
She couldn’t leave Neal to die, no matter how she felt about him.
In the narrow hallway, the smoke now hung a yard above the floor. She wet a towel, tied it around her face, and crawled on hands and knees to the bedroom. At least the carpet in the rest of the house was flame-retardant.
The heat was intense. Her clothing itched as if ready to burst into flames. Why hadn’t she thought to douse all of herself with water?
A hedge of inch-high flames barred the bedroom doorway. Paint on the doorframe and plaster walls bubbled. She clamped her lower lip between her teeth and crawled faster.
With no more wool to fuel it, the carpet fire on all sides of the Oriental rug burned with low flames. She stood and stomped wobbly-legged through them to the relative safety of the Oriental rug. Groping for the recliner, she ducked back down below the roiling smoke. A glimpse across the room disclosed flames from the bed licking the ceiling.
She choked back her grief and shook Neal. Savagely. “Neal, wake up!” His skin was hot. She tried to detect a pulse in his neck, but her trembling fingers wouldn’t cooperate. The towel around her head was drying. They had to get out, now.
She grabbed his legs and pulled. She weighed a hundred pounds; he was at least twice that. Impossible to put his arm over her shoulders and walk him out.
His body slid easily off the leather recliner. His head clunked with a whump onto the floor. If he was alive, it didn’t wake him up. She’d have to drag him through the inch-high flames between them and the hallway, but at least his face was up.
The doorway wasn’t far. She aimed her backside at it, positioned herself between Neal’s knees, and tugged with all her might. At the threshold, she saw tiny sparks of red in the cuffs of her pants. Her feet were numb. She kept tugging. Smoke curled off Neal’s clothes.
She was barely conscious that she was praying. The words hummed over the gray cells of her brain as if it were a beehive. When she collapsed, her ears picked up the distant shriek of sirens. Bursts of gasped air scalded her lungs. She curled into a fetal position. Her body throbbed. Smoke stung her nose, her throat, her eyes. The gauze curtain closed her eyelids.
Betty.
Jake? What was he doing here? She reached out, and a hand enveloped hers in warmth. Warmth that released her from pain. That warmed her soul. He took her other hand and lifted her to her feet.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. But not at Jake’s face … at her Lord’s. His name pounded out from her throat, and she fell to her knees, bowed her head to the floor.
“Come,” He said. “We go together.”
She rose, knowing their destination. “Abba!” she whispered. Her joy crescendoed in exultation. “Our Father!”
PART 3
Chapter 45
March
Eve stiffened at Brad Henshaw’s remonstrance. The words snapped like flames from his flushed face. “Don’t take the girl!”
Eve’s emotional thermometer skyrocketed. “You had no right to withhold this information from me!” She picked up the file folder on his desk and brandished it at him, knuckles white from her grip. He was not going to get away with this!
“I did! You were fresh out of the hospital; you’d had an encounter with your brother; and Danny Romero tried to kidnap you. The last thing you needed was more stress.”
“That was nine months ago! And you’ve kept on interfering with my life. With my decisions!” Spittle wet the corners of her mouth. She swiped at it, lips trembling, nostrils flared. “You are not going to make this one. I am meeting with Crystal Oakleigh.”
Brad flung his hands in the air. “Can’t you see? It’s a manipulation. You may as well throw your door wide open and invite Romero in.”
Eve shook the file folder at him. “Here’s what I see in here: Speculations. Fear. Unwarranted conclusions. A court case based on the contents of this file would get nowhere.”
“Convince me.”
“All right.” She flipped open the folder, selected a document, and slapped it onto Brad’s desk. “A report written by you about a phone call from the U.S. Embassy in the Philippines saying three people rescued by the Philippine Coast Guard claim to have been marooned on an island with me—Jacob Chalmers, Betty Parker, and Crystal Oakleigh. No further follow-up from the embassy or Coast Guard.”
“The three said your name was Eva Gray.”
She shrugged. “The name we agreed I’d use when I went undercover to Guam. Why I maintained it with those three is unknown. Any guesses are pure speculation.”
Brad’s clenched jaw twitched.
She slapped down the letter from Orville Marsh. “There is follow-up from the State Department: it found no confirmation of birthdates given by Jacob Chalmers for Betty Parker and Crystal Oakleigh. Unknown if they were a lie on Mr. Chalmer’s part, or merely poor memory. Otherwise, all information he gave about himself was validated, including the fact that he is a veteran with high honors.”
“As I recall, Mr. Marsh found his story untrustworthy.”
Eve flicked her eyebrows in dismissal. “Unwarranted conclusions based on Mr. Chalmer’s appearance and possible bad memory. Next,”—she tossed the letter from Neal Oakleigh onto the top of Marsh’s—“a letter from an attorney encouraging you to investigate Mr. Chalmers for murder. An attorney who just happens to be the brother-in-law of Betty Parker and the grandfather of Crystal Oakleigh.” She pursed her lips. “Sounds like a hidden motive in there bears checking out.”
Brad opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she slammed the file’s final two documents onto the pile. “Lastly, there’s a sweet letter to me from Betty Parker, and a restraining order from you to keep her and Mr. Chalmers away from me—without my knowledge or consent.”
“All right, stop!” Brad’s face went beet red. “Sit down and listen to this.” Mouth so tight his lips disappeared, he jabbed a phone number into his telephone keypad and hit the speaker button. “This is a wiretap on Danny Romero’s phone.”
Eve refused to sit. At Chalmers’ voice on his answering machine, her heart skipped a beat —funny, since she didn’t recognize it as part of her past. Then Danny Romero’s voice, gruff, demanding, left a two-word message for Chalmers: “Kill her.”
Her knees collapsed and her bottom hit the chair seat hard. She stared blankly at her boss.
***
Wringing her hands, pacing the floor of her foyer, Eve reviewed for the umpteenth time what she would say to Crystal Oakleigh. She did her best to ignore Lisa, sipping coffee in the kitchen, an irritating smile teasing her lips as the number of Eve’s steps mounted. Wonder Woman’s return was a concession to Brad, but, truth be told, Eve was glad for her presence. Danny Romero’s mandate to Jacob Chalmers had set Eve’s nerves ricocheting. Kill her was not the same as kill Eve, and the mandate could be a set-up—it was on a tape recording, for heaven’s sake. But her dream at Marianne’s apartment of the scarred brute on the island was incentive enough to yield to Brad’s caution.
“You don’t find it suspicious that all three of Crystal’s legal caretakers died in one big house fire?” Brad’s question cast thunder and lighting over her meeting with Crystal. Why was she even considering the responsibility of taking on Crystal as her ward in the first place? She didn’t know Crystal. She didn’t know Betty Parker. And she didn’t know why Mrs. Parker had designated a stranger to be Crystal’s guardian.
Because they might not be strangers. What if Crystal was the child hovering at the edge of Eve’s memory? She had to check it out. The hunger of her heart one-upped the fear of the scarred monster in her nightmare.
The doorbell rang, and Eve halted. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
B
ehind her, Lisa’s chair scraped the floor. “Want me to answer?”
“No.” The answer tiptoed from her lungs. Her fear wasn’t of a gun, but of the wrong child.
She stepped to the door.
Unlocked it.
Slid her hand down to the doorknob.
Turned it clockwise.
Swallowed a cannonball of saliva.
Pulled.
Chapter 46
“Hello, I’m Hannah Lavender.”
Eve blinked at the pretty face, the hand extended to grasp hers. She took it, resisted the compulsion to yank the woman out of the way.
“And this is Crystal. Crystal Oakleigh.” The woman obligingly stood aside.
Crystal. Tall for a twelve-year-old. Arms and legs too long for her torso; front teeth too large for her face. She wore an acid-wash jeans miniskirt over striped, neon lime leggings that almost, but not quite, matched her shirt. Black Dance Reeboks with double tongues housed big feet. A scrunchie held a side-ponytail of long, crinkled blonde hair.
She was adorable.
***
Crystal stared at the beautiful woman in the doorway. Eve had been awesome on the island, but now, like, wow, she was totally radical. Shoulder pads huge in a stonewash denim jacket over a silk print shirt; hair big like the stars on Dynasty. Jake would fall over backwards.
She swallowed. Aunt Betty had said Eve didn’t remember them. Didn’t remember the island. Didn’t remember they were family. Miss Lavender said Eve wanted to meet Crystal. Meet. Not live with her. Not be her guardian.
Not be her mom.
Only one way to deal with this. She raised her hand and fluttered her fingers. “Hi, Mom.”
Eve’s eyes went huge, her hands flew to her mouth. She stepped forward and pulled Crystal into her arms. “Crystal.” Eve’s voice choked. “I don’t remember you, but my heart knows you.”
A sob stirred to life in Crystal’s lungs. “Oh Eve, I missed you so much, and now Aunty’s dead.” She threw her arms around Eve and hugged back.
***
The noise of hammering and men’s murmurs faded as Jake read through his mail. Slim pickings today—only two letters, one from the twins, one from Crystal. Nothing from Betty. He used Crystal’s envelope to fan his face and scatter mosquitos while he read the twins’ letter. With Detective Lee’s weekly visit to oversee the transportation and sale of the prisoners’ furniture, the number of letters didn’t bunch up anymore.
He stuffed Brett and Dana’s letter into his pocket and opened Crystal’s letter. It was surprisingly short. Usually she wrote every day and sent it as one long letter. This one was not only short but hastily scribbled in large script.
Jake!
Aunt Betty is dead. And Grandma and Grandpa. I can’t stop crying. Miss Lavender came and told me. It’s awful! The house caught on fire and they were in it. I can’t write, it’s too hard. I wish so much you were here. What am I going to do? I love you, Crystal
Betty, dead? For a moment, Jake couldn’t grasp it. He read the letter again. Slowly, the reality poured over him like wet cement, weighing him down, blocking his brain. He sank to his knees. A groan scraped up his throat. Moans choked his breath.
Several men dropped their tools and ran to his side. “What’s wrong?” Puno asked. He glanced at the letter crumpled in Jake’s fist. “Bad news?”
“Betty …”
“Your mother?”
“Dead.”
The men dropped to their knees, placed warm hands on Jake, bowed their heads. Prayers surrounded his grief, reached out to lift their brother’s leaden soul to heaven.
But there was no comfort.
He inhaled a jagged breath. A behemoth with coals for feet tromped from his lungs, through his windpipe, and out his throat, shoving his heart before it with broken wails.
Chapter 47
“It’s only for three months.” Eve patted Crystal’s hand. “Your Aunt Betty put her will on the fast track, so we’ll be good to go by the time school ends. Our trial period will be done, you’ll officially be my ward, and we’ll have all summer together.”
Crystal turned her face to the airplane window, the corners of her mouth down, lower lip imprisoned between her teeth. Her lip quivered nonetheless. “Can I call you Mom then?” The words were barely a whisper above the muted roar of the plane’s engines.
“You can call me Mom now.” Eve smiled. The kid was like a flame on a candle, constantly melting Eve’s heart. She had not a smidgeon of doubt this was the child from her memory. No matter what Brad said, Crystal was not a ploy of the Romeros. She was staying.
“Can we talk about the island when I come live with you?” Crystal rotated her head enough to see Eve out of the corner of her eye.
Eve’s throat tightened. “Not until I’m ready.” A shiver ran from her spine and down her arm, transplanting itself onto Crystal’s palm. “We’ve talked about the island enough for now. It’s giving me nightmares.” Nightmares of the scarred man seizing her screaming from the jungle floor.
Crystal squeezed Eve’s fingers and turned to fully face her. “I heard you yelling in your sleep. I’m sorry. There were some scary things that happened.”
All it had taken to shut Eve down was Crystal’s admission that Jake had scars on his face. Kill her, Romero had ordered him. Had he already tried it once?
“I bet,”—Crystal’s face brightened—“like, maybe it was that python—”
“Stop.” Eve withdrew her hand and raised it flattened at Crystal. “No more. Our lives from now on have to be based on this day forward, and not on what happened on the island. Can you do that?”
“But what about—?”
“Those are my terms, Crystal. Can you do that?” Her demand came out harsher than she intended, but taking Crystal on as her ward was already loaded with more challenges than she knew how to handle. “What will you do when the charm wears off,” Brad asked. “Throw her back into the water like an unwanted fish?”
She wouldn’t do that. Would she?
Crystal’s mouth quirked down. Her shoulders slumped. “All right. I won’t talk about it until you want to.”
“We’ll make new memories, okay?”
Crystal nodded, but there was no sparkle in her eyes.
“Now, tell me what Arlington Academy is like, what you’re studying, and who your friends are.”
Crystal screwed her mouth into a do-I-have-to expression. “Okay, but first, who’s Marikit? You yelled her name in your nightmares.”
Marikit? Eve hadn’t thought about her since moving out of Marianne’s apartment. She’d as good as thrown the young girl back into the water, hadn’t she? The guilt stung. “Someone who died. I’m looking for her friends.”
And she would. As soon as she returned home.
***
What would the warden think of Jake’s new idea? For sure Mendoza liked the money he had pocketed the last several months from the furniture sales. Constructing a fenced-in area at the back of the prison had done the trick. The area was easier for the guards to monitor, and it protected the furniture from destructive inmates. Jake huffed. They still had no proof Emilio was behind the sabotage.
Tarp placed over the furniture at night was used during the day to provide shade by attaching the pieces to the tops of ten-foot-high poles. Heat rose to the underside of the tarp and rolled off to a hungry sky, creating a nature-made, if somewhat warm and humid, fan. Unfortunately, it had no deterring effect on the swarms of mosquitos attending the laborers.
Jake peered through the new fence to the land enclosed by the outer, twelve-foot-high chain link fence surrounding the prison. There had to be a swamp back there to generate so many mosquitos. He’d need binoculars to see where the fence ended, the land was that extensive. He grinned. Perfect for his plan.
A plan he ached to share with Betty. Grief stumbled from his gut to his bruised heart, past lungs shoving broken sobs into hiding, up and over his tongue to swipe the grin from his lips. He blinked back tears,
pretended they were sweat to rub from his face. Hard, so hard to believe there’d be no more visits from her. No more hugs of encouragement. No more interceding for justice.
Crystal is with Eve. Betty is in heaven. Jake’s heart leaped. Yes, Lord. Yes! Yours is the perfect plan! He slid his hand into his pocket, touched Crystal’s letter conveying the good news about her and Eve, and smiled.
The men’s chatter stopped, signaling the warden’s daily visit to the furniture yard. Jake joined the others in dropping tools to the ground and standing with arms bent at the elbow, hands flattened to show they held nothing. Six guards trailed the warden, rifles at the ready, pushing men aside for the warden to inspect their work. He stopped at Jake’s station last for a report on their progress.
“More men want to join us.” Jake avoided the term prisoner or inmate in order to emphasize the men’s humanity—a concept Mendoza sneered at. “To accommodate them we would have to expand the fence and buy more tools.”
“Do it.” Clearly it was no skin off the warden’s back. The cost would come out of the prisoners’ pockets, and the increased profit would line the warden’s.
“I have a suggestion for using their labor in an even more profitable way.” Jake waited for Mendoza to respond. “Keep him in charge,” Puno warned. “Never be a rung above him on the ladder.”
The warden ran his fingers over a finished table, stooped to examine its underside. “This work is inferior. Too many of these pieces are.”
“I’m bothered too. As you’ve pointed out, unskilled workers hurt our products and waste our time. What do you think of putting those workers to better use—to bring in money from another trade?”
Mendoza eyed him warily.
“Horticulture.” Jake swept his hand across the vista outside the furniture yard. “All that fertile soil is going to waste. In May the rains will start. Enclose the land to grow food, and the unskilled laborers can plant and harvest it to sell to the prison at a sizable discount. Salonga will have money left over from its food allowance for other purposes.”