Where There's Smoke

He laughed. “A woman with a sense of humor. I like that.”

“I wasn’t being funny.”

“Ah, but you were, señora. Very funny.”

Just then a woman dressed in dirty fatigue pants and a sweat-stained tank top launched herself against him. After an embarrassingly passionate kiss during which he openly fondled her, she purred, “Come inside. I have food for you.”

“Where is El Corazón?” he asked.

“Waiting inside.”

Still groping each other, they ambled toward a crude shack and climbed the rickety steps to a shallow porch and a curtained doorway. The other soldiers were being similarly greeted by women in the camp and given bowls of food dished from a communal cooking pot suspended over the campfire. They drank fresh coffee from tin cups. Lara would have settled for a drink of water. Her lip was still tender and swollen.

Two men with semiautomatic weapons were standing guard over her and Key. When Lara first saw him, she gasped. He was sitting on the ground near her, but the guards stood between them. The wound on his temple had coagulated. It looked nasty and needed to be cleaned and disinfected, probably sutured. She wondered if she’d be given access to her doctor’s bag, but thought not.

His eyes were ringed with shadows of fatigue, as she knew hers also must be. His clothes, like hers, were filthy and perspiration-stained. It was barely daylight, so the sun wasn’t yet a factor, but the humidity was so high that a mist as dense as fog clung to the tops of the trees in the jungle that surrounded the clearing.

Key was looking at her with a stare that penetrated, but she didn’t need this silent communiqué to realize how precarious their situation was. While he had her attention, he cut his eyes toward the camera bag. One of the soldiers had unloaded it and their other bags from the truck and dropped them near where she stood.

Lara cocked her head inquisitively, knowing he was trying to tell her something but unable to decipher what.

Then he mouthed, “Magnum.” She glanced quickly at the camera bag. When she looked back at him, he nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Señora, señor.” Ricardo swaggered from behind the curtained doorway and propped himself against one of the posts supporting the thatched roof. “You are very fortunate. El Corazón will see you now.”

A respectful silence descended over the camp. Those who were eating set aside their food. All eyes turned to the front of the shack. Even the children who’d been chasing one another and dodging toy machine-gun bullets ceased their play. The rebel soldiers stopped trying to impress the women with exaggerated tales of their exploits. Everyone’s attention was focused on the porch of the shack.

Ceremoniously, the curtain was drawn aside, and a man emerged.

Lara sank to her knees. In a voice almost soundless, she exclaimed, “Emilio!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Excuse me, Miss Janellen?”

At the sound of Bowie’s voice she almost jumped out of her skin, but she gave no sign of it. With the cool condescension of a Russian royal, she raised her head. “Hello, Mr. Cato. What can I do for you?”

He was standing in the doorway that connected the shop with the tiny office in its rear. The ugly, ill-formed building was quiet and, except for the two of them, deserted.

Bowie had brought in with him the scent of outdoors. The first hint of autumn was in the air, and she could smell it on his clothes. His hair had been mashed flat by his hat, the brim of which he was nervously threading through his fingers. His lips were chapped. She looked at him with concealed yearning.

“I was just wondering if you’d heard anything from your brother and Dr. Mallory?”

“No,” she replied, feeling a pang of guilt. It was selfish of her to be so wrapped up in her heartbreak over Bowie when their lives could be in danger. Key had promised to call home if he was able, but there had been no communication from him since their departure three days ago. Janellen was sick with worry, and, although her mother hadn’t admitted it, she was, too. She stayed in her bedroom except at mealtimes, when it seemed that even polite conversation was an effort.

“That’s too bad,” Bowie said. “I was hoping they’d be on their way back by now.” He fiddled with a loose straw in the brim of his hat.

“Was there something else, Mr. Cato?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am. My paycheck. It wasn’t in my box this morning. Any other week, I wouldn’t bother you about it, but my rent’s due tomorrow.”

Knowing full well that he spoke the truth, she looked toward the empty pigeonhole labeled with his name. “My goodness. I apologize for the oversight, Mr. Cato. I must have left your paycheck in the safe.”

The official company safe was a monstrosity that easily outweighed three pianos. It dominated one corner of the cramped room. The black steel facade was ornately trimmed with gold swirls and curlicues. It dated back to the days when her grandfather had paid his roughnecks in cash.

As she moved toward it, Janellen felt Bowie’s eyes on her, and it was unnerving. Thankfully, the combination to the safe was second nature to her. She opened it and withdrew his check from the drawer where she’d intentionally left it that morning. Since he hadn’t taken the initiative to approach her since the night they’d embraced in the kitchen, the night following Jody’s seizure, she’d made it necessary for him to seek her out.

He’d fled during a thunderstorm, preferring the cold company of lightning and torrential rain to the warmth of her arms. Bowie might have been disappointed in her kisses, might have been disgusted by her eager response to his caresses, but she was not going to let him simply ignore her and pretend that they hadn’t shared some degree of intimacy.