Standing at the wheel of Blaine’s boat, she could remember with her whole body the feel of that little sloop as the growing waves tossed it around.
Her grandfather had struggled with the sail, having to keep it partly furled in the strong wind that had arrived with the clouds. She had wanted to say “Can we go home, Grandpa?” but she sat silently. He obviously wished to get home too.
When the first drop of rain hit her arm, she thought that she had never seen such a large drop of water. It was soon followed by another and another.
As their tiny craft rounded Mushroom Island and her grandfather eased them into a turn toward Southwest Point, they were hit by one large wave that nearly knocked her into the sea. His large hands grabbed her and shoved her into the growing puddle at the bottom of the boat.
She remembered that he’d smiled again. “We be home soon.” His eyes narrowed as another wave broke over the railing, drenching both of their faces. “You not gotta swim for it. You know everything gonna be fine, Peta.”
She had nodded, though she hadn’t known that at all.
“Grandpa—I’m scared.”
The little boat had passed Southwest Point and the rocking eased a little. Her grandfather hugged the coastline to stay in the lee of the island. “I know, little one,” he’d said, leaning forward. “But I tell you, when you not alone, you not ever be afraid, okay?”
In that moment, it hadn’t mattered that the sun was gone, or that their faces were wet with the streaming rainwater, or that the ocean wanted to come into the boat. They were together, and there was nothing to be afraid of.
Alone in Blaine’s boat, Peta looked to the east and saw the line of rain approaching. A bright silver flash in the sky ahead of her heralded the arrival of an airplane at Point Saline Airport.
Today, she would stay ahead of the storm.
She would make it back to St. George’s and watch the storm from the safety of her own home.
The image of the strange mural on the wall of the cavern rose in her mind and she knew there was a much bigger storm brewing than the little squall that was blowing in from the Atlantic.
Who am I kidding? she thought.
Her grandfather had been dead for over twenty years and she still missed him; would always miss him, the way she would always miss her father and Arthur.
No matter how much she missed them, though, they were gone and they weren’t coming back. She was alone now. And she was afraid.
27
Joshua Keene sat up gingerly, as if his body might be rigged to explode. Slowly, he captured a few memories. He recalled flashes: fighting the terrorists onboard theYucatán; seeing Terris McKendry shot in the chest two, maybe three times, impacts that knocked the big man backward, as if missiles had been launched into his body’s core. He saw battered bicycles, heard them clattering to the oil tanker’s deck, felt as much as heard the bamboosnap of a terrorist’s neck under his own grip.
After that, the explosion, fire, his body flung backward as if he had been kicked in the chest by Bruce Lee. He remembered the night and the smoke and the long, long fall to the dark water that cushioned him about as softly as a concrete parking lot. He recalled the water closing over his head, a vision of sharks, and then…nothing.
He tried to focus his eyes to see where he was, but all he could see was the foggy image of a beautiful tanned woman with a haze of red-brown hair that looked like a halo.
An angel, he thought. I’m dead. And passed back into semiconsciousness.
The next time he awoke, his vision was clear. The same woman stood beside him. “I’m Selene Trujold,” she said. She poured a finger of scotch into a white enamel cup and inhaled its aroma. “Here. Drink this and then we’ll talk.”
He took the cup from her, remembering the brief glimpse he had caught of her before all hell broke loose. “How long have I been out? Hours? Days?”
“You’ve been here for a couple of days. I had you fished out of the water after the explosion on the tanker.”
“Why?”
“There were helicopters coming, a lot of chaos. I couldn’t be sure you weren’t one of us.”
“You could have tossed me back to the sharks when you found out that I wasn’t.”
“You’re right. I could have done that. I still can, if you don’t prove useful to us.”
Sheis a piece of work, Keene thought, remembering his assessment of her when he’d first spotted her on theYucatán . “I had a friend with me,” he said. “He was fighting one of your people. Somebody shot him—one of your goons.”
“None of us are goons, Mr. Rip Van Winkle or whoever you are.” Her tone, acrid at first, softened. “But Iam sorry about your friend.” To Keene’s surprise, she sounded sincere. He sipped at the scotch, then drained the glass. The whiskey burned in his chest.
“More?” She took the cup from him.
“Not yet. I want to keep my head clear.”
She smiled. “That’ll be a switch. You haven’t been conscious, not to mention compos mentis, since we hauled you into the Zodiac and cruised away from the tanker.”
“Did you achieve your objective?”
“We thought so—at the time. I expected a much larger explosion, but I’ll accept any victory. If nothing else, I’m sure we called some attention to Oilstar’s activities.”
“And your own,” Keene said.
She shrugged. “For better or for worse.” She poured some of the scotch into the same cup for herself. “Scotch and coffee, two of the greatest amenities of Venezuelan civilization.” She looked contemplatively into the honey brown liquid and raised the cup. “Even out here in the jungle, I wouldn’t do without them.”
Antagonism crawled down Keene’s spine. He looked at her angrily, started to say something, and passed out. He woke up with a pounding head and a throbbing body hinting at more wounds than he wanted to know about. His skin felt oily with perspiration, but he could not determine whether the sweat was from jungle humidity or a severe fever.
He’d been having the most bizarre dreams he’d ever remembered. First he was making love to a woman with velvet skin, short cinnamon hair, a coffee-with-too-much-milk complexion, large intent eyes, a small nose, and a delicate chin. In the midst of their lovemaking, she ripped off her face as if it were a mask and he was catapulted into fiery nightmares filled with terrible visions that pounded inside his skull.
He pressed his fingertips to his chest and found bandages and pain. He touched the patchwork of injuries, pressing down hard because the pain reminded him that he was still alive. His mind was full of questions. Where was he?
He heard jungle crickets, the belching music of small frogs and of trickling water, the crackle and whisper of dried leaves woven into a fragrant roof over his head.
“You awake now?”
Keene turned his head and groaned as even the small movement set a series of pains in motion.
Selene sat on the ground, her back against the inner wall of the hut. She gave him an odd smile, an expression that surprised him more than the amazing fact of finding himself alive. He tried to talk, but his voice came out in a squeak that embarrassed him. “What…happened?”
“You’ve been dried, fed, and nursed back to life. Now it’s time for some payback.”
“Payback?”
She laughed. “Nothing too strenuous, I promise you. First you tell me who you are.”
“Joshua Keene.”
“I assume that since you and your friend were on theYucatán, you work for Frik Van Alman. Is that correct?”
“Not precisely.”
“Then what, precisely, were you doing on the tanker?”
Keene hesitated, confused by his pain and wondering how the beautiful woman questioning him could be the enemy. “It’s complicated. Terris and I are…were in a group with Frik. He asked us to look for you,” he said at last.