Though she couldn’t see the soldiers’ faces now, she’d seen them in the village before she’d fled. They had all looked terribly young to her—no older than most of the boys she taught back home in Atherton. She’d noticed the dozen-or-so youthful soldiers with wicked-looking rifles slung over bony shoulders as soon as she’d climbed off the bus, but she hadn’t thought anything of it. Not really. Soldiers were a common sight in San Tomás.
Everything had happened so fast. When the bus driver had announced they had to stop for repairs; she hadn’t minded because she’d needed to find a ladies’ room. Seconds after she went into a local cantina, a boy she had met on the bus had come running in. He’d tried to warn her, but she hadn’t believed him—not until she’d been washing her hands in the tiny rest room, and had heard gunfire.
She’d crawled out the narrow window and had run for her life. The dirt path she’d stumbled across had led her straight to this lake, and her bush.
“Hernández is a fool,” one of the soldiers said in Spanish. “Do you see a woman? Of course not, because she isn’t here. Why would anyone head this way, right into the lake? Even a silly norteamericana would not be such a fool. But even if we find her, what good will it do us? Will any of that ransom he talks about find its way into our pockets?”
The other soldier chuckled and made a crude comment about what Hernández could do with his orders. The first young man laughed.
Whom had they been shooting at, back at the village? Jane tried not to think about that. It made her shiver, and she didn’t want to move, not even a breath. But it was hard, very hard, to be still.
There was a bug on her hand. It had climbed on when she’d gripped one limb of the bush—another move that she repented too late, because now she didn’t dare move her hand to release the bush. They might hear.
The bug was a huge, horrid monster of an insect as long as her little finger. It sat on her hand and stared at her, its carapace shining greenish-black in the sun, and it had too many legs. That was how bugs were. They had all those squirmy little legs. Jane purely hated being touched by squirmy little bug-legs.
Jane stared at the bug while she listened to the obscene joke the first soldier told, and to the second soldier’s laughter. Her other hand—the bugless one—gripped a tiny locket that hung on a chain around her neck. The two young men argued about where each of them would search for her.
Then they talked about what they would do if they found her.
When she heard one of them leaving, she waited for the tight band of terror around her chest to ease. It didn’t.
They’d just been talking tough to impress each other, she told herself. In spite of the guns, they were just kids—kids the same age as the ones she taught Spanish to, back at Atherton High, for heaven’s sake. They’d been talking about things they didn’t understand. Surely they couldn’t understand the reality of what they had said they would do to her.
Fear nearly choked her. The edge of the little disk she wore around her neck dug into the pads of her fingers, nearly cutting the skin. Papa, she thought, why did you always tell me I was like you? I’m not. I’m not cut out for adventures.
She wondered what had happened to the other foreigners who’d been on the bus. Please, God, she prayed, let them be all right. That German couple had been so nice, and so had the other passengers—like the quietly gorgeous man with the wire-rimmed glasses who had sat in the bench seat across from her. Jane couldn’t stand to think that the gunfire she’d heard had been directed at him. She’d talked with many of the others on the bus, but hadn’t gotten up the nerve to speak to him.
Normally, Jane made friends easily. That was one advantage to being unremarkable. She might secretly long for one outstanding trait, good or bad, but people did relax with her because she was so very average. New acquaintances often said she reminded them of someone—a niece, a friend from school, the daughter of a neighbor.
But something about the man she’d mentally dubbed “the professor” had made her uncharacteristically uncertain. Maybe it was the East Coast look of him, with those trendy glasses and baggy chinos, that had intimidated her. He’d seemed rather reserved, but she’d decided he was probably shy.
And his hands... For some reason, his hands had fascinated her. He’d had big hands, curiously graceful, with long, elegant fingers, yet she’d seen a number of small nicks and scrapes such as a workingman collects. She’d been downright silly about his hands, in fact, letting them feature in a mildly sexual fantasy. It had been perfectly safe to fantasize, of course. He hadn’t noticed her. Men seldom did.
What had happened to him? she wondered now. If the guerrillas were looking for hostages to ransom, surely they wouldn’t have hurt any of the foreigners on the bus.
Ten feet from her bush, the army boots moved.
The bug decided to move, too, tickling her hand with its squirmy feet Jane grimaced. It was hard to hold still with a monster bug strolling around on her arm.
She couldn’t see what Army Boots was doing, not through the shrubbery, but her ears told her he hadn’t gone far. She heard the scritch of a match being struck and smelled sulfur. For one panicked moment she thought he was going to burn her bush down, then the scent of tobacco smoke drifted her way, making her feel foolish. He’d stopped to light a cigarette, of course, not to commit arson upon her hiding place. He stood there smoking it about fifteen feet from where she crouched, sodden and scared.
The bug paused, waved its fuzzy antennae at her, and rounded the bend of her elbow.
So far, this was shaping up to be one hell of a vacation.
Cinnamon trees mingled with kapok, yellow cedar, mahoe and boxwood in the tropical forest. Some of the trees would die over the next year, their roots or trunks rotted away by the new lake. The big mango tree sitting several feet back from the northern edge of the water would probably survive.
The man perched in that tree had a lot in common with it. Few of the locals realized that mangoes weren’t native to the island. Mango trees had been around long enough and had adapted readily enough that it didn’t occur to anyone that they didn’t belong. Like the tree, the man was a survivor. Like it, he was good at fitting into places where he didn’t belong. He rested comfortably in a vee formed by the trunk and a thick branch, and watched the woman and the soldiers.
The newly-formed lake was, for him, a mixed blessing. The woman had found a place to hide, which was good. But water covered the dirt track he’d planned to take to his pickup spot on the other side of the island. Not so good.
The situation had changed. He had some decisions to make.
The mango tree did a better job of hiding him than the woman’s bush did for her. He could keep track of the ragged soldado from Ruiz’s so-called Liberation Army who stood smoking a cigarette some twenty feet to the west. He also had a decent view of the woman in the lake. Her pale sundress floated out around her in the muddy water, making her easy to spot.
She looked pretty pathetic. Even her hair was dispirited—a dark, dripping cap plastered to her head.
But he’d seen her hair when it was dry. Dry, it held fire hidden in its depths, a richness that only showed when sunlight struck sparks off it. On the bus, he’d watched her. His life sometimes depended on how well he observed those around him, so he’d taken note of all the passengers, including the cheerful American tourist who had chatted with the others in surprisingly good Spanish.
Maybe he had rested his eyes on her more than was strictly necessary. She was so very American, so blessedly ordinary. It had soothed him to look at her. Of course, her hair wasn’t ordinary at all, though it pretended to be. Such a warm brown it was, and thick enough to make a man’s hands itch to touch it.