Remember the Lilies

by Liz Tolsma

  A door banged shut.

  With a whoosh, she let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Armando must have arrived.

  The clack of her shoes rang out as she headed toward the front of the house. “Armando?”

  Silence.

  “Armando? Ramon?”

  She inched forward two steps. She couldn’t breathe. Armando would have answered her. How could she get out of here?

  Footsteps sounded behind her. She ran.

  But not far.

  Not far enough. Or fast enough.

  With powerful, muscular arms, a man grabbed her from behind and dragged her toward the stairs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rand wheeled himself up and down the busy hospital hall, past other patients and the nuns, until his arm burned. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. No sign of Irene anywhere.

  The foolish, headstrong woman had gone off in search of adventure on her own. Really, he preferred the meek, moldable women who frequented his clubs.

  No, if he was honest with himself, he liked women like Irene. And like Catherine, so long in his past. Real women. Women who put away pretention. Women who had minds of their own.

  Though a woman with a mind of her own was the most frustrating thing in the world.

  At last, Sister Francis arrived in the ward and made her way down the hall. He hurried to meet her halfway. “Have you seen Irene Reynolds?”

  Sister Francis nodded, her double chin jiggling. “I met her in Anita Markham’s room an hour or more ago. She told me she had a pass to go out for a short time and asked if I would keep an eye on her aunt. I could tell she hated to leave, but she said she had an important errand. I do worry about her in the city by herself. You can never be too careful these days. But she was determined to go.”

  “And you haven’t seen her since? She hasn’t returned?”

  “No, not as far as I know. When she gets back, shall I tell her you’re looking for her?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.” He wouldn’t need her to announce Irene’s arrival because he planned to station himself at the gate and wait there until she marched onto the hospital grounds.

  Crazy, stubborn woman.

  She would never find Armando. She didn’t know where to look. He couldn’t direct her to the baryo where his most trusted servant now lived because he had never been there himself.

  His stomach knotted. Those from Santo Tomas who had managed passes brought back word of the danger on the outside. The Japanese were not kind taskmasters. Homes had been looted, women taken advantage of, innocent Filipinos killed.

  That was the world into which naive, all-too-trusting Irene Reynolds stepped.

  He wheeled around in circles in the front of the building. When he tired of that, he pushed himself to his feet and, holding the handles of his wheelchair, paced along the wall.

  He hadn’t done enough to stop her. He should have warned her in more specific terms what could happen to her. Whoever was threatening him might not be so receptive to Irene snooping around. He suspected Dewey Boulevard teemed with Japanese living in the finest homes in the city. Why, oh why, had he ever let his emotions take over when he spoke about his house, giving away its location?

  She was young. She didn’t know the ways of the world. She didn’t understand hate and cruelty. She saw good wherever she looked.

  Hadn’t she learned anything during the almost two years of captivity? If nothing else, she should have learned from his experience at Fort Santiago.

  He slammed his left hand against the back of the wheelchair.

  At times like this, he wished he were a praying man.

  Irene bit back a scream as her attacker tightened his grip around her shoulders. She focused all of her attention on delivering the hardest kick she could to his shin with her heel.

  Unaffected, he yanked her hair and dragged her toward the stairs.

  She couldn’t let him reach the top.

  Once up there, she would be at his mercy. He may be small, but he was strong. Powerful. Determined.

  Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it.

  As much as possible, she squirmed and struggled. She freed herself enough from his stranglehold to bite his arm. She clamped down hard.

  Her attacker let out a cry and kicked her feet from under her. Only his grasp around her kept her from falling to the ground. He held her tight against his side, the tip of his finger missing on his right hand. She scrambled to her feet, slipping on the smooth marble tile.

  Only a few more steps and they would be at the stairs. God, no. Give me strength, Lord. Give me Samson’s strength.

  Thunder rolled in the distance.

  She knew the fate that awaited her if she didn’t escape. The soldier would steal everything important from her. A gift that could never be regiven. He would ruin her forever.

  She tasted metal and blood. Her heart pounded in her ears and in her chest, an uneven rhythm no proud dabakan drummer would use.

  She kicked again. This time she aimed her oxford higher.

  Her assailant squealed like a pig, dropping his hold on her. Knowing she only had a moment, she sprinted away.

  His boots thumped behind her.

  Blood pounded behind her eyes. She focused on the front door. If she could make it there, she would be safe.

  Safe.

  Safe.

  Her shoes pounded out the rhythm.

  She slid. Her arms and legs flailed as she struggled to maintain her balance.

  She screamed at the top of her lungs, “No, God, help me. Help me. Help me.”

  She stayed erect. Like a football player, she lunged for the doorknob. The brass was cool and smooth in her hand.

  Her fingers and palms dripped with sweat. She couldn’t turn it.

  The soldier shouted at her. He was right behind her. She tensed, waiting for his hands to grab her.

  Let it open.

  And it did. The knob turned in her hand. She leaned her weight against the heavy door and it flung wide. Sunshine assaulted her eyes. She took a deep breath.

  Run, run, run.

  Her lungs burned, the fire in her legs matching them in intensity. Sweat dripped into her eyes and stung. The gate blurred.

  Had the soldier been armed? Was he going to shoot her in the back?

  “Driver. Driver.” Perhaps the man in the carromatas would hear her. Help her.

  The gate swung in the breeze on its iron hinge. Her pursuer continued to shout at her. By his voice, she knew he ran mere feet behind her.

  She would not stop. Never. Ever.

  It took a small eternity, but she reached the gate. Dashed through it.

  Through her tears, she spied the carromatas waiting at the curb. She took a flying leap and landed on the tufted leather seat. “Go. Go. As fast as you can. Don’t stop until you get to Santiago Hospital.”

  The soldier appeared in her peripheral vision.

  “Get moving. He’s after me.” She hoped the driver understood. She wished she spoke more Tagalog.

  He whipped the horse, and the carromatas took off with a jolt. Irene dared to look back. Her attacker stood at the curb, yelling and gesturing in her direction.

  She gulped air, her heart galloping faster than the horse. Sweat covered her, and her arms and legs went weak as adrenaline coursed through her body.

  As the driver rushed up and down Manila’s streets, she lay panting on the seat. She combed her fingers through her hair, all of her pins having mutinied.

  No matter how long she lived, she would never be able to erase the soldier’s sneering image from her brain. She would forever remember the feel of his hands on her bare arms, the aroma of saki surrounding him, the tickle of his breath on her neck.

  Rand and Mother Superior had been right.

  How would she ever face them?

  Rand watched from Santiago’s gate as a carromatas careened around the corner on two wheels. Were all Manila horsemen crazy?

 
; The driver reined his frothing horse to a halt in front of the hospital. Rand’s heart zinged. Irene? Was this her returning?

  Not caring how much trouble he could be in if caught outside of Santiago’s confines, he went to the carromatas as a disheveled Irene stepped from the carriage. Her hair fell around her flushed, perspiring face.

  He took her small, trembling hand, but she flinched and drew it back.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I didn’t find them.”

  They walked inside the hospital walls side by side, him pushing his wheelchair, her stumbling on unsteady legs. “I told you they weren’t there.”

  “You were right. Mother Superior was right.”

  “About what?” His stomach lurched at the thought of what they might have been right about.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Did he hurt you? The soldier at my house?”

  She stopped short, and he turned to face her. “How did you know?”

  “Why else would that carromatas driver whip his horse into such a frenzy? What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He touched her upper arm, and she winced. A lump formed in his throat. “He hurt you. That dirty beast hurt you.” His words seeped through clenched teeth.

  “It will heal.”

  “Did he …?”

  She shook her head with great vigor.

  “You can tell me. Please, tell me.”

  “I have to sit down.”

  She didn’t object this time when he led her by the elbow to the garden. With as much gentleness as he could muster, he lowered her into the ornate iron chair. She crossed her long legs. He leaned on his wheelchair for support. “Tell me everything.”

  “You don’t want to hear.”

  He cursed their occupiers. “I promise I won’t think less of you. And I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.” The heat in his belly turned to ice.

  “A soldier came while I was at your house.” She bit her lip until it bled.

  He stroked her hand, hoping to calm her, reassure her that she could trust him. “And then what?”

  “I was looking for them. I was so sure I would find them or some trace of them at your home. Even if they weren’t there, I might find a clue to their whereabouts. I didn’t. I’m sorry. More than anything, I wanted to help you. To give you news about Armando’s health.”

  “And that’s what makes you a special lady. Crazy and headstrong, but special.”

  One corner of her mouth flicked up.

  “What else happened?” He urged her on, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what she had to say.

  “He tried to drag me up the stairs. I fought him, bit him, kicked him. God helped me, and I was able to get away.”

  Now Rand sunk to the chair beside Irene. “You’re going to be fine?”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  His heart flipped. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” He leaned toward her.

  “If I had only listened to you … This is all my fault.”

  “None of it is. He had no right to frighten you. Or to put his hands on you. Those Japanese are … are …”

  Her soft blue eyes filled with tears.

  Anger seared his heart. If he ever got his hands on that man …

  Chapter Fourteen

  His dark eyes narrowed, a man with a round face approached Irene. A growl issued from his throat and talons sprang from the tips of his fingers. He prowled in a circle around her, stalking her like a lion. She tensed, ready for him to pounce. When would he get it over with?

  Another man appeared, lighter haired, sneering, also with claws for fingernails. He marched in a circle, too, in the opposite direction of the other man. He sang a strange, haunting song, leering at her.

  She turned in one direction, then the other. No matter where she looked, one or the other was there. They closed in on her, tightening the noose, ready for the kill.

  An obstruction in her throat cut off her breath. Her pulse pounded in her wrists.

  She tried to run but slipped.

  She couldn’t get to her feet.

  And then four beast-like hands reached for her.

  Irene woke with a start. Her heart raced as fast as the carromatas did yesterday. Rain pounded at the window overlooking the hospital garden. The rivulets streamed to the sill. When she was little, she loved to watch the droplets race each other down the pane. She always tried to guess which one would win. More often than not, she was wrong.

  Like yesterday.

  What had possessed her to go out at all? An unrequested pass could only mean trouble. And it did. As the carromatas drove away, she got a glimpse of the man’s face.

  A pockmarked face she had seen before.

  A man missing part of a finger.

  The man who had issued her pass.

  He hadn’t been kind. He’d been conniving. Duplicitous.

  Why had she ever trusted him?

  Mercedes. Irene sat up in bed so fast she got dizzy. She had to warn her friend. Tell her not to depend on the two-faced soldier.

  Mercedes’s soldier may or may not be the same man as the one who attacked her. Regardless, he was no friend. None of them were.

  If she ever saw him at Santo Tomas, she didn’t know if she would run away in fear or run toward him and give him a few more well-placed kicks.

  She shifted positions, her bruised body a constant reminder of her folly.

  Rand had been gentle, understanding, not judgmental. She hadn’t expected the tenderness and compassion from a high-and-mighty society man. He had been genuinely concerned for her welfare.

  He, who had warned her not to go, who could have given her the I-told-you-so speech, wanted to make sure she hadn’t suffered more than physical injuries. Hadn’t chastised her for her decision. Had been touched that she wanted to help him.

  She stared at the ceiling, watching a black spider make its way from one side of the room to the other. When he anchored his tether and swung free, Irene gasped.

  In an instant like that, life could change.

  Sister Francis floated into the room. “How are you this morning, dear?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. You’re not a patient here, technically, but I wanted to check on you, to see how you were making out.”

  “Other than stiffness, I’m well.”

  Sister Francis nodded toward the window. “Another typhoon. Don’t you love the Philippines in November? Do you want me to bring you a little breakfast?”

  “No, thank you. I can go to the kitchen for a tray later. How is my aunt?”

  “She is doing better. Her fever broke yesterday afternoon. She’s been asking for you.”

  Irene clung to the bedsheet. “Did you tell her that I went out? That I was attacked?”

  Sister Francis nodded. “She asked us direct questions as to your whereabouts and why you didn’t come to visit her last night.”

  And, of course, they wouldn’t lie. Irene swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulling the white cotton nightgown over her knees. Sister Francis left, and Irene dressed in her plain brown cotton dress with red buttons on the bodice and red piping on the pockets.

  Rand met her in the hall and his golden eyes widened. “You’re up.”

  “And you’re standing. I’m off to see Anita.”

  “Yes, I’m getting stronger each day. Let me walk you there.”

  “I’m steadier on my feet than you are.”

  “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, after all you’ve been through.”

  “You don’t need to stick to such conventions for my sake.” The very last thing she wanted was for him to feel obligated to be near her.

  “We can lean on each other.”

  Irene offered him her elbow as they made their way to the end of the hallway. “It’s the least I can do.” He stood at least six inches taller than her own five feet six.

  He cleared his throat. “Did you sle
ep well last night?”

  “No. I kept seeing his face. And his hand. I remember that hand, missing some of a finger. He’s the one who was kind to me, who gave me the pass.”

  Beside her, Rand stopped short and squeezed her elbow. His forehead creased. “The same one? You’re sure?”

  “Positive. He … he planned it all.” She swallowed hard.

  A muscle jumped in Rand’s cheek. “That … that …”

  “I’ll never speak to another of the guards again. Ever. I promise.”

  “It’s not your fault. Not at all.” He took a deep breath. “You were set up. He planned the trap from the beginning.”

  Just thinking about yesterday’s incident caused a shiver to run up and down Irene’s spine, so she pushed it from her mind.

  They came to the end of the hall. Rand had walked the entire way, not really leaning on her. “You’ll be able to go back to Santo Tomas soon.” The thought of not bumping into him in the hall brought a tinge of sadness.

  “Unfortunately, yes. It’s much nicer here, being pampered by the nuns.”

  And he would know about pampering.

  He shrugged. “But it doesn’t feel like real life. It’s more of a holiday or a movie or a dream that has to end.”

  “I have to make the trek to the internment camp later this week to reapply for my pass.” Dread grabbed her midsection and refused to let go. In every Japanese face, she would see that man. Maybe, because she would be requesting an extension, she would even run into him.

  She shook away his image and focused on the man beside her. “Thank you, Rand. I appreciate your walking me here, unnecessary though it was.”

  He bowed just a little. “My pleasure. Really. Anytime.” With a wink, he returned the way they came.

  Irene tapped at her aunt’s door. “Anita?” She wound a curl around her finger before letting it bounce back.

  Her aunt sat up in bed, her breakfast tray on her lap. Her thin, wrinkled face brightened when she heard Irene. “Come in, my dear, come in. It is good to see you.”

  Irene shuffled to the chair beside her aunt, sure she would receive a tongue-lashing. “I’m glad you’re awake. You’ve been ill for a long time. I was worried about you.”