by Liz Tolsma
“Glad to oblige, ma’am.”
A Dixie drawl if he’d ever heard one. The voice Rand remembered from the ambulance. Wilson grabbed Rand by the armpits and plunked him in the chair none too gently.
“Hey, watch out. I have multiple broken bones.”
The Southerner dared to grin like a cattle herder who had swallowed a cow. “Then I reckon you won’t mind another one or two.” He grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and, with Rand curling his toes over the edge of the footrest, took off around the corner and down the hall like he was racing cars at a dirt track. Rand managed to get a peek into Mrs. Markham’s room as he whizzed by. She was asleep.
They broke into the bright sunlight. Rand’s eyes watered. He lowered his head.
“Now ain’t that better? Just look at what a fine day it is.”
Rand studied the man. He appeared healthy enough—thin, to be sure, but the right amount of color in his cheeks. No apparent illness, no apparent injuries. “How did you happen to end up here? Why aren’t you at the camp like the rest of us?”
The man’s Texas-size smile faded, and he took a step back. “It’s a long story, and I have to help the sister with another patient. I’ll be back for you in a while.”
Very strange. Rand had heard of men escaping the city and hiding in the jungle. Was that where he’d come from? But why was he here? None of it made sense.
As his eyes grew used to the brightness, Rand surveyed his surroundings. He sat on a stone patio in the midst of a lush garden. Mango trees and palms gave shade while a riot of orchids, hanging lobster claw, orange peacock flowers, and scarlet bougainvillea colored the scene. A brilliant mangrove blue flycatcher sang in the trees, and a gecko played in the garden.
Japanese planes zoomed overhead, taking off from and landing at Nielson Airport, breaking the idyllic peace and quiet.
The November sun warmed him and made him drowsy. His eyelids drooped, and he imagined himself lounging beside his family’s swimming pool, a pretty girl on either side of him. Any moment Armando would appear with a tray of cakes and glasses of iced tea.
“Mr. Sterling, I’m happy to have run into you.”
The lilting, feminine voice snapped him back to the present day, though the woman before him was beautiful enough to have appeared in his fantasy. Her eyes were the color of the water in his dream, her nose pert and upturned, her mouth small and round. “Have I died and gone to heaven?”
“Pardon me?”
His vision cleared and he recognized her. “You’re the woman who brought me the message. What are you doing here?”
“I managed to wrangle a pass to visit my aunt. In fact, I’ve just arrived”—she lifted a small blue suitcase—“and haven’t even seen her yet.”
“Your aunt?”
“Anita Markham.”
“The woman from the ambulance?” The woman who made him promise to forgive her niece. It was beginning to make sense. Did she think he blamed her for not bringing the message in time? Did he blame her?
“Yes, I heard you came with her.”
“And you are?”
“Irene Reynolds. I know you’re Rand Sterling.”
“My reputation precedes me, I see. Yes, I did share an ambulance with your aunt. I passed her room just a few minutes ago, and she was sleeping. Have a seat, and I’ll try to keep you entertained until she finishes her nap. I’ve been told I’m good at that.” He tipped his head in the direction of the wicker chair to his right. “Please forgive me for not standing.”
She flicked her wrist. “I’ve spent a good deal of my life in the jungle. There’s no need for such formality around me.” She plopped in the chair and set her bag on the ground. “You have more color and aren’t grimacing as much as when I saw you at the camp hospital.”
He held up his heavily bandaged right hand. “Is that a compliment?”
She didn’t even flush. He must be losing his touch.
“Take it any way you like. What did the doctor have to say?”
“No tickling the ivories for a while. Carnegie Hall will miss me.” He tamped down the steam that rose in his chest. He might be able to forgive this gorgeous creature in time. He would never forgive the soldier who left him disabled.
“Carnegie Hall? Are you that good?” She grimaced. “Were you that good?”
“I was teasing, Miss Reynolds. I can’t play a note. Enough about me. Now you’ve intrigued me, saying you spent most of your life in the jungle. Like Tarzan and Jane?”
She shuffled her bakya-clad feet back and forth and bit her lip, as red as the bougainvillea.
What had he done?
Tears shimmered in the corners of her soft blue eyes. “My parents both left when I was young, so my aunt graciously took me in.” Her cheeks pinked. “I had nowhere else to go, being only thirteen years old. She just happened to be a missionary in the Philippine jungle. She taught the women about child care and nutrition and the Lord. I went with her and spent my time with the children. It was like having little brothers and sisters.”
Her story was so different from his. Abandoned by her parents. Then again, his own parents had left him to the care of his amah and Armando. “Imagine a creature as beautiful as you emerging from the wilds.”
“I did hear of you before our internment.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
“Yes. The son of a mining executive and a longtime Manila resident. You have quite the reputation. Anita and I were visiting friends of ours in Manila, and she pointed out your little red convertible as it sped past. And then the day the war started, you attempted to run over me with the very same car.” She uncrossed and crossed her ankles.
He did remember. How could he forget the curve of her long neck, her ivory skin, the legs that went on forever. “After the war, I’ll take you for a ride in that car. I like having pretty women in the passenger seat.”
“Mercedes was right when she talked about you.”
“She only had good things to say, of course.”
“Just that you were quite the rogue and I would do well to stay far away from you.”
A bubble of laughter built in his chest and a chuckle escaped. “Ah, good advice, but not good for my clubs.”
She leaned back and stared at the blue sky. “You fancy yourself a ladies’ man. Do you like that moniker?”
“I opened two very successful nightclubs and have plans for a string of establishments all over the city and throughout the country. Maybe even into Thailand and Hong Kong and the rest of the Far East. As part of my job, I have to make my clients welcome. Make them feel special, like they are the most important women in the world.”
“So flirting is work for you?”
He rubbed his left hand over the wheelchair armrest. “It depends on how you mean that. And what would be wrong with it?”
She came to her feet and grabbed the suitcase handle. “You have a suave and debonair exterior, Mr. Sterling. Dashing. Daring. That’s who you want the world to see. But who are you, really?”
She spun around, her red-and-white print skirt swishing around her legs.
“Not swayed by my good looks or obvious charm?”
She pivoted to face him once more, then drew a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. “This came for you the other day.”
She handed it to him and disappeared into the building.
He unfolded the paper, the ink smeared as if it had gotten wet.
Even so, he was able to make out the words.
The paper fluttered to the ground.
Chapter Eleven
Rand picked up the paper from the patio before the breeze could blow it away and stared at it in his hand with his one good eye.
You got lucky. Next time Fort Santiago will look like a picnic.
His heart froze, and he shivered despite the tropical heat. Who was threatening him?
He concentrated on the paper until the words blurred. Then he set it on his lap, his bandaged hand covering it.
The world narrowed, and all he saw was the trunk of the palm tree in front of him.
Was it even a threat? Could someone be playing a joke on him?
He discarded that ridiculous idea as soon as it came to mind. The tone was not teasing.
How in the world could he have enemies when he was locked in an internment camp? And here he sat at this hospital, unable to move much. He was no threat to anyone.
He scratched his head and then rubbed his eyes. The heat must be getting to him.
When he glanced at the note again, his heart rate accelerated.
Someone was after him. Wanted him back at the fort. Back to the unbearable torture. This time they would string him up by his thumbs, his shoulders popping out of their sockets, until he died of thirst.
And this time he feared not being able to withstand the pressure. He would give up Henry and Ramon for sure.
A shadow fell across his lap as Irene came to stand behind him. “Have you made sense of it?”
He shook his head, careful not to jar too much and get a headache started. “Who would threaten me this way? I have no enemies other than the Japanese.”
“Perhaps that is who sent the note.”
He leaned forward in his wheelchair. “That could be. My inquisitor spoke perfect English. The louse was educated at Harvard.”
“What could he do to you here?”
“He could take me to Fort Santiago whenever the whim struck him.” A cold vise tightened around Rand’s stomach.
“Or perhaps a member of your household sent it?”
A pain began behind his eye and escalated until he thought it would pop from its socket. He clenched his teeth. “No one from my household would do this to me. No one. Armando, our houseboy, has been with my family since I was a baby. He protected me. Was more a father to me than my own. He is the reason I tried to escape. I was going to see him because he’s very ill. His son was helping me. Never again suggest a member of my household. Never.”
She took a step back, holding her hands in front of her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just throwing out an idea. If you are so convinced of your servants’ loyalty, then discard that thought. Maybe I should have said a business partner instead.”
“My father is my business partner. He financed me and has let me run my business the way I see fit. There is a former employee who hates me. Who promised to ruin me after I discovered his embezzling ways. I’ll never forgive what he did, but I haven’t seen him in years.”
“You’re sure he doesn’t have someone feeding him information? Or he could be in camp with us.”
“I would have bumped into him after two years.”
“True enough. Do you recognize the handwriting?”
Rand studied the paper, squinting. The scrolled letters triggered no spark of familiarity. “No.”
She plunked into the chair beside him. “I’m sorry. I hoped you would know who sent you this.”
Rand crumpled it. “At some point, whoever sent this will have to play their hand. Give away who they are and what they want.”
Wilson Jennings, the Southerner who rescued Rand and Anita from the ambulance, strolled across the grounds, his hand in his pockets as he whistled “Dixie.”
Despite the seriousness of the news Miss Reynolds brought, Rand couldn’t help but laugh.
The woman beside him held her sides and giggled. “He’s whistling ‘Dixie.’ ” Tears streamed down her fair face.
“Oh, don’t. Laughing makes my ribs hurt.” But try as he might, he couldn’t stop. It was the best and longest laugh he’d had since the occupation.
A door slammed shut behind them, and he turned to find Sister Francis flying in their direction. He doubted her feet touched the ground. Red suffused her face. “Come quickly, everyone. Mother Superior is in her office with three Japanese soldiers, holding them off for as long as possible. We can’t let them find you, Mr. Jennings.”
The tall, thin man turned a shade of white Rand hadn’t seen since the ski slopes.
Rand shot Sister Francis a questioning look.
She glanced around and leaned in. “Mr. Jennings is an American soldier.”
Rand lay as still as he could in his bed, his sheet pulled to his chin. Despite the tropical heat and humidity, he shivered.
Mr. Jennings was an American soldier who had eluded the Japanese troops on the Bataan Peninsula, who worked with the guerrillas until a sore on his leg wouldn’t heal, causing a high fever. This was Sister Francis’s hasty explanation.
Rand struggled to breathe. If the Japanese discovered Mr. Jennings, Rand’s experiences at Fort Santiago would pale in comparison to what the poor Southerner would face. His captors would show him no mercy.
And a Japanese officer lay in the room next to Rand’s.
The sister told them that from time to time Japanese release officers came for an inspection, making sure that all who were here were truly ill enough to warrant their passes.
Rand could have opened five clubs in the time it took for Mother Superior and the soldiers to make it to the hall where Rand and Mr. Jennings had their rooms.
“Who is this? Why is he here? We have no record of him.” The soldier’s choppy English sent a shiver down Rand’s spine. They stood in front of Mr. Jennings’s room from the sound of it.
“Look at him, sir.” This was Mother Superior’s calm, unhurried voice. “He is German. That is why you have no record of him. He is an attaché here and caught jungle fever. It is very contagious for those who are not used to the tropical conditions. If he is to recover, he must not be disturbed.”
“German?”
“To the core. If you would follow me, please, it is imperative that we let him rest. You would not want to have to explain to the Germans why one of their most trusted men died in this hospital.”
“I will see him for myself.” Rand heard the door click open.
“I must insist that he be left in peace. Any disturbance could be fatal.”
“Then what is this woman doing in here?”
Rand assumed he meant Sister Francis. Mother Superior remained unflappable. “She is tending to his physical and spiritual needs in the quietest of manners.”
A moment of silence. Then, “This man is no German.”
Rand heard a sharp intake of breath. “Are you accusing me of lying, sir?”
“I have little use for you or your God or your morality. Yes, you are lying.” A pause. “This book is in English.” A thump as the book hit the wall.
“You cannot take him.” Rand imagined Mother Superior throwing herself between the soldier and Mr. Jennings. His shivers increased.
Sounds of a struggle came from next door—shuffling of feet, breaking of glass, thudding of fist meeting stomach.
Mr. Jennings cried out. Rand heard the guard drag him from the room and down the hallway. Heat spread throughout Rand’s midsection, and he clenched his jaw and one good fist. From the deep recesses of his mind, he heard the voices of his Japanese captors, shivered with the intense hot and cold and dampness, felt the crack of the hammer on his fingers. Rand stuffed his fist into his mouth to keep from screaming.
Mr. Jennings was a good man. He didn’t deserve this treatment.
The fire in Rand’s stomach grew hotter.
Irene pushed back a stray strand of hair and leaned over Anita, patting her hand. Anita slept, not even stirring when Irene straightened the pillows behind her. “When is all of this madness going to end?”
She sat on high-back chair, the sun slanting through the windows, and sighed. Too many questions didn’t have answers. “Rand is being threatened now. What more is going to happen?”
Unable to sit still, she rose and paced the room, peering out the window overlooking the garden. What a beautiful, restful place. A wonderful spot for meditation and prayer. The sisters must have planted it for that very reason.
But today her spirit was restless. Even the view didn’t calm her soul. Lord, be with Mr. Jennings. Protect him. W
atch over him. She turned away and adjusted the already-smooth blanket over Anita’s feet.
Voices rose in the hallway, then faded, then rose again. The Japanese inspectors neared.
She dipped the washcloth in the basin of water on the table beside Anita’s bed, wrung it out, and placed it on her warm forehead. After several more minutes the footsteps and voices paused outside of Anita’s room, and Irene turned to find Mother Superior and the three Japanese inspectors entering. She stayed put, hoping she wouldn’t be required to bow.
The shortest and stockiest of the men spoke. “Why are you here if this woman is nothing but your aunt?”
“She is the mother I never had. She raised me when my parents couldn’t.” Or wouldn’t.
Mother Superior nodded her white veil-clad head.
“Who gave you this pass?”
“A Japanese soldier. I don’t know his name. He helped me apply for it, that’s all.”
“She is to return to camp a week from today to reapply for the pass.” He made a note in the booklet he carried.
Heat rose in her chest. He couldn’t do that. Her pass was for a month. “But, sir—”
Mother Superior cut her off with a wave of her hand. “I hope that Mrs. Markham will be well enough by that time not to be in need of such intensive care. But her condition is grave.”
The soldier scribbled more notes, and Irene prayed they weren’t black marks against her for her outburst. She couldn’t let her behavior affect her aunt. She bowed her head. “I apologize, sir.”
“We will see you at Santo Tomas one week from today. At that time we will reevaluate your need here.”
When they walked out, Irene slumped in her seat. She removed the cloth from Anita’s head and cooled it in the basin before reapplying it.
Reapplying. Just like she would have to do with the pass. And without the favor of the guard, she doubted it would be granted. She would be forced to leave Anita alone.
Her aunt had never deserted her. How could she do it to her?
Trying to look for the blessing in all of this—something Anita had taught her from the first day she’d come to live with her—Irene supposed it was a good thing they said nothing about her aunt’s pass. At least Anita would be able to stay here for a good long while and regain her strength. She wouldn’t have to endure the crowded conditions for some time.