If I'd Never Known Your Love

by Georgia Bockoven

  "I was waiting for you by your car to ask you for a ride and you never showed up.

  When the bus left, I had no choice but to come looking for you."

  "You're nuts. You know that, don't you?" He shook his head. "People must tell you all the time."

  "So does that mean you 're going to give me a ride? You wouldn't want a crazy girl on crutches wandering down the road by herself, would you?"

  For a heartbeat I thought I'd gone too far, been too bold, chased too hard and lost you forever. I was scared and mentally scrambling for an apology that didn't sound as lame as I felt, when you mumbled, "All right."

  If driving me home meant you'd put a tentative foot in the web I'd spun, my dad managed to haul you in all the way when we arrived. He came out of the bam as we drove up and, instead of lending a hand, stood by and watched while you helped me out of the car. He must have liked what he saw, because once I was upright and balanced, he came across the yard to shake your hand.

  "Can't tell you how much I appreciate you doing this," he said, taking your measure the entire time. "Getting on and off that bus is a real chore for Julia, what with those crutches and all. Stepping up and giving her a ride till she's on her feet again is a right nice thing for you to do."

  I almost laughed at my university-educated father's attempt at homespun but would have stuffed a sock in my mouth before I let you know that you'd been had. Plainly, my dad saw something in those few minutes you were helping me out of the car that he felt was worthy of his precious daughter. Or at least of withholding judgment at the bad-boy image you projected. Which was 50 out of character for him and his usual cranky behavior with the boys I brought home that I couldn't help but wonder if this new strategy wasn't some perverse plan to drive you away.

  You could have protested, of course, made up some excuse for not being able to give me a ride, but you didn't even try. You looked at my father with a kind of quiet understanding. "What time should I be here in the morning?"

  "Julia?" Dad asked.

  "Seven-thirty." For once I managed brevity.

  You nodded and moved to leave.

  Dad stuffed his hands in his back pockets and shifted his weight, studying you as you rounded the car. Obviously, he wasn't ready to give me over to you for those "kindly"

  rides to and from school without getting to know you better, because he said, "If you're not in a hurry I can show you around the place a little. You don't look like someone who's spent a lot of time on a farm."

  You surprised both of us when you said, "I’d like that. "You gave my dad a lopsided grin. "You can tell that just by looking at me, huh?"

  I now know my dad experienced his own version of love at first sight that day. He had a passion for the land and farming second only to his family. You not only embraced that passion, you absorbed it and made it your own.

  During dinner that night Dad told us that you were curious about everything, eager to know the why and how and when of whatever he told you, whether it was crop rotation or grain lost to rodents or hail damage. An hour turned into two, and when Mom said supper was on the table, Dad said he tried to talk you into staying, but you begged off. You weren't ready.

  Or maybe it was simply that you didn't know us well enough yet, that you were terrified of what would happen if you let us in and we discovered everything about you was a lie.

  C H A P T E R 3

  Thee-and-a-half weeks passed and nothing. Not a word from the kidnappers. Paul Erickson, from the State Department, George Black, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Matt Coatney, from International Security Operations, had used every resource they had to try to find out who had taken Evan and why they were waiting so long to make contact. No one knew anything. Or if they did, they weren't talking.

  All three men told Julia not to read anything ominous into the silence, and she heeded their advice most of the time. But when she'd finished her phone calls at night and was alone in her room, with only

  Evan's shirt or jacket to wrap around her, his socks on her feet to give her comfort, absorbed by her letter and memories, she didn't do nearly as well as she tried to make everyone think she was doing.

  Shelly and Jason couldn't understand the delay, no matter how many times she tried to explain. They wanted her home. Shelly cried almost every night when Julia called.

  Jason just got harder and harder to talk to.

  Barbara and her mother assured her that everything was fine, that the kids were dealing with her absence all right—at least, most of the rime—and that Julia should concentrate on what she had to do and they would continue to do everything they could to make sure Shelly and Jason understood why Julia had to stay in Colombia.

  Guilt became as familiar as the small mole at the corner of her eye, something she accepted as readily. Someday, somehow, she would find a way to make them understand why she'd seemingly abandoned them to stay in Colombia with their father.

  She knew how desperately they needed her because she needed them every bit as much.

  But Evan needed her more. Wherever he was, the one thing he could count on, the one thing she believed that he understood without question, was that she was in Colombia, doing everything she could to bring him home.

  Her father had stayed two weeks, leaving with a promise to return as soon as he could make arrangements for someone to take care of the farm. As much as she'd insisted she hadn't wanted him there, she had fallen apart when he'd left. She'd stayed in her room all the next day. When Harold had called to check on her, she'd told him she had cramps

  — the one sure way she knew to keep him from asking more questions.

  She had pulled herself together by the next morning and started working on a plan to get Harold to go home to be with his family for Thanksgiving.

  "It's not going to happen, Julia," he'd told her over breakfast. "Mary and I have discussed it, and she agrees with me. My place is here with you and Evan."

  "I'm not saying that I think you should stay home, Harold. I understand how important it is for you to be here when they finally contact us. But even if we should get a demand while you're gone, you know we're not going to do anything before you get back."

  After making them wait this long, Matt and George both insisted it was critical that they wait at least a week before answering the kidnappers, once they did make contact.

  Intellectually, she understood the process and how dangerous it would be to seem too eager; emotionally, she had miles to go. The dreams that threaded their way through her sleep— the images of Evan beaten and starving, huddled in the corner of a dirt-floor hut or, worse yet, left without any shelter at all—carried into the day, overwhelming her when she least expected it, leaving her shaken and sick to her stomach with fear.

  "I'm not sure I'll be able to do that, Julia. I don't understand this game playing. I especially don't understand why we can't just pay them the money and be done with it."

  "It's because you don't think like them, Harold," she said patiently, going over old territory."If we just hand over the money, they'll get the idea that there's a lot more where that came from and they'll up the demand. We have to make them believe they're getting everything they can possibly get or they'll never release Evan." George and Matt had cited case after case where things had gone wrong, and almost always it came down to missteps in the negotiating process.

  There were so many small things she never could have known without their expertise, such as using pesos instead of dollars for negotiating, that showing restraint didn't indicate weakness even to the most hardened criminals and that one of the most important aspects of time passing was that it would allow Evan to bond with his kidnappers, which would likely increase his chances of being released unharmed. The more she learned, the more it terrified her to think of what she didn't know.

  Harold finished his breakfast and put his napkin beside his plate."Is your father coming back to spend Thanksgiving with you?"

  If she made the lie too big, he woul
d never believe her. "He's trying. But even if can't make it, I've been invited to dinner with Paul Erickson and his wife. So I won't be alone." At least she could see he was considering leaving.

  "You know you really need to spend some time at the office, too," she added. "You may have the best people in the business working for you, but they need your guidance once in a while. Especially with both you and Evan gone."

  "There really isn't any reason you couldn't fly home for a couple of days, too," he said reluctantly, giving a little, "Shelly and Jason must feel lost without you."

  She pushed her plate away, hoping Harold hadn't noticed how little she'd eaten. She had trouble getting food past the constant lump of fear in her throat. When she did, she invariably wound up sick to her stomach.

  "I thought about it," she said. Every minute of every day. "This is beyond hard on the kids." She was haunted by the thought her children could wind up with lifelong scars from what they might someday perceive as neglect. "I hear it in their voices every night." Along with the tears that shredded her aching heart. "But I can't leave until we hear something." No matter how she hurt for her children, they were with people who loved and cared for them. Evan had no one.

  "What about bringing them here? Don't they get a week off school at Thanksgiving?"

  She shook her head emphatically. "I don't want them anywhere near this place. Even the idea terrifies me."

  "I knew it was a stupid suggestion the second I made it." He flagged the waiter and gave him his credit card. "I'm afraid I'm not doing very well with this whole business, Julia. I've never felt this helpless. Or this useless. I function best when I have something to do."

  "Me, too, Harold." She reached across the table to touch his hand. "It would help us both if you went home for a couple of days."

  "What would you do here alone?"

  "I'd double up on my Spanish lessons. And Paul's wife, Luanne, has offered to show me around the city. She's convinced I'll find solace visiting the colonial churches. She said there were a couple of pre-Colombian gold exhibits I might like, too." Julia had politely nodded and kept her mouth shut when hearing of all the delights in Bogota.

  How anyone could think she'd be interested in playing tourist while waiting to hear whether her husband was alive or dead was beyond her. But then, as she'd been told over and over again, kidnapping was a way of life here. You either found a way to live with it or it destroyed you.

  "You're not fooling me, you know."

  She shrugged and released his hand. "It was worth a try."

  "Why is it so important to you that I leave?"

  "It's not that I want you to leave, Harold. It's that I want to stop feeling guilty about keeping you here."

  "Ah, I should have guessed." He took his credit card from the waiter and signed the receipt. "I don't agree with you, but I do understand what you're saying. I promise I'll consider it."

  Harold flew out the same day that Julia's father flew in. Before he left, he saw her settled into an apartment, a place she could feel more rooted and cook an occasional meal for herself. It also had an extra bedroom for her father. When she met Jim at the airport, she dropped all pretense that she wasn't ecstatic to see him.

  "Any news?" he asked on the taxi ride back to the hotel.

  "I can count to a hundred in Spanish."

  "You're going to have to learn to count a lot higher than that," Clyde said.

  The implication of his words hung heavily between them for several seconds. Then they looked at each other, and in a moment of insanity born out of exhaustion, they started laughing.

  Seconds later Julia's desperate laughter dissolved into tears. She moved into her father's outstretched arms. 'I’m so glad you're here, Daddy," she sobbed into his shoulder. "Thank you for not listening to me."

  He kissed her forehead. "You're welcome, sweetheart. Before I forget, your mother wanted me to tell you that she sends her love—and some molasses cookies that she got up at two o'clock this morning to bake."

  Deciding a change of scenery would be good for the kids, her mom had taken them to the farm for the holiday. "I hate molasses cookies," Julia told him.

  Clyde chuckled. "I know you do. But somehow your mother got it in her head that they were your favorite."

  "They're Evan's favorite," she whispered. "She baked them for him."

  "Well, maybe he'll get to eat them. Nothing wrong with hoping for our own little miracle for Thanksgiving."

  She put her arm around his waist. "Nope, nothing wrong with that at all."

  He pulled a small package out of his coat pocket and handed it to her."Your mother and I bought you a present. It's one of those gifts that's as much for us as it is for you."

  She smiled when she saw what it was—a new cell phone. "I assume there's something special about this one?"

  "It's guaranteed to work. As long as you stay in the city, of course."

  * * *

  There was a small miracle over Thanksgiving, just not the one they'd hoped for. They received word through the local police that one of their undercover operatives had spotted a man who fit Evan's description in a small jungle village somewhere between Bogota and Tunja. The informant said that Evan had a beard and that his wrists were red from having his hands tied, but that otherwise he seemed healthy. By the time the police had arrived, however, he was no longer there.

  The image of Evan was burned into Julia's mind, and was one she would carry with her forever. Appearing unbidden, it was like a hand taking hold of her heart and squeezing. Tears of frustration and fear and longing would tighten her throat and spill from her eyes and she would be lost in a cloud of agony.

  As soon as they could, Julia and Clyde pored over maps of the region, noting the average nine-thou- sand-foot altitude, the amount of rainfall and temperature in this part of the Andes Mountains. Because of the direction the kidnappers had taken, Matt and George both figured it was the ELN, the National Liberation Army, that had taken Evan, and aggressively went after the contacts they had within that organization. The local authorities questioned their own informants and talked to a man who had been released recently from the same region. Nothing.

  The kidnappers finally broke their silence in the middle of February. The ransom demand arrived a week to the day after an article about Americans being held hostage overseas appeared in a popular newsmagazine in the United States. It was an in- depth piece about the dangers of traveling to certain countries and included a lengthy sidebar with pictures of several hostages, including Evan. The information and photograph had been supplied by Harold's assistant, one of the few people they'd forgotten to tell not to give interviews. Undoubtedly believing she was helping, she'd told the reporter how important Evan was to Stephens Engineering, adding the un- publicized fact that he'd recently been made a partner.

  George Black called her on Valentine's Day, her cell phone ringing in the middle of her Spanish class at the Embassy. "Julia, it's George. Do you have a minute?"

  She got up and left the classroom. "I always have a minute for my favorite FBI guy."

  She moved farther down the hallway, where the reception was better. "What's up?"

  "We've heard from the people who have Evan."

  Her knees went weak. She put her hand against the wall for support. "And?"

  "They're asking for ten million."

  She did a quick calculation. "What is that? About forty-five hundred American?" That was not only doable, she should have at least that much in her checking account. If not, she could get a cash advance on her credit card. Had she ever learned how, she would have done a cartwheel right there in the hallway.

  "Not pesos, Julia," George said. "Dollars."

  Five seconds of joy. Was that all she was given after four months of agony? It wasn't fair. She fought to keep the fury and frustration from her voice."I don't understand. Why so much? We can't possibly pay it. What in the world would make them think we could?"

  "Obviously, someone got hold of the art
icle and figured if Evan was a partner in Stephens Engineering he must be worth a lot of money. I don't know...." For a brief, rare instant, he sounded discouraged. "Maybe this is what they've been waiting for all along."

  "Do we know who has him? Is it the ELN?"

  "They didn't identify themselves. My guess is they decided that for someone this valuable and with this amount of money involved it's more important to get paid than take credit."

  She squeezed her eyes closed to block the inevitable tears and tried to concentrate on the fact that at last they had what they'd been waiting for— contact. "Now what?"

  "We begin the negotiating process."

  "How far will they come down?"

  "I have no idea," he admitted.

  "We can't pay ten million," she repeated. "That kind of cash outlay would cripple the company." Pain radiated through her like a sprung roll of barbed wire.

  "I'm going to tell you something you already know but might need reminding. Every time you get frustrated with the process think about this."

  She nodded, even knowing he couldn't see her.

  "Negotiation is like creating a statue out of a block of marble. It's imperative to understand the stone before you strike a blow. Once something is removed, it can't be replaced. If we make a misstep with these people, we can't go back and start over."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "As soon as we give them an answer, I want you to go home and see your kids and not return for a couple of weeks. There's no way we're going to hear from them again sooner than that."

  "When will we answer them?"

  "We're still working on that."

  For the first time she felt an unbearable sense of hopelessness. She desperately wished she hadn't talked her father into leaving again. "I understand."

  "I know you do," he said softly. "And I know that understanding doesn't make it any easier. Just keep telling yourself that this is a good thing. We've finally heard from them."

  Four Months Missing

  For seventeen years I'd lived in a cocoon, sheltered by parents who loved me and believed without question that I was special, and a brother and sister who didn't just tolerate me but actually liked me. At least most of the time.