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.
He shook his head. Silly woman. She was clutching her bush as if it made her invisible. Couldn’t she tell that as soon as the soldier moved east along the shore of the little lake he’d be able to see her?
Probably not. Few people saw the world accurately, and she was a civilian. Her only experience of hiding had probably ended when she and her friends had stopped waiting to hear “Ally, ally, outs in free,” and had started playing kissing games.
The thought of playing kissing games with the woman snagged his attention for one surprising second. He remembered the way she’d laughed on the bus. She’d been talking to that boy, the one he’d bribed to warn her of the guerrillas’ plans She had a warm laugh, as warm and inviting as her hair.
He’d thought of kissing her then—when she’d laughed.
The soldado threw down his cigarette butt and shouldered his rifle. He started moving east.
The woman didn’t move. She stayed put—poor, foolish creature, huddled up to her armpits in lake water, hiding behind her bush. He doubted she could see the man who was looking for her. She didn’t realize the guerrilla would be in a position to see her soon.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. What he’d learned about the ties being formed between two terrorist groups would affect the lives of a great many more women than this one. If she were caught—no, when she was caught, he amended, because she obviously would be—she shouldn’t suffer too much. Ruiz was after ransom, and the self-styled generalissimo wasn’t a vicious man; he would have no need or intention of harming his hostages. The woman might have a rough couple of weeks, but she should be okay. Ruiz didn’t want to look like a barbarian in the press. He just wanted money.
Only...Ruiz wasn’t a real general. He wasn’t even a real soldier, though he wore a fancy uniform and quoted Che Guevara. His control over his troops was poor, and, while some of his soldiers were as decent as men in their positions could be, others gave beasts a bad name.
If the woman were raped, he thought, she wouldn’t laugh that warm laugh anymore. Not for a very long time.
Maybe not ever.
It had nothing to do with him, he reminded himself; nothing to do with his purpose for being here. He’d seen that she received a warning. He’d even lingered after sending that warning, hoping to see that she’d gotten safely away. There was nothing more he could do without risking himself inexcusably.
He told himself these things, but his hands were already moving to find the grips he needed to climb out on a limb for a wet, frightened woman.
The bug was three inches past Jane’s elbow when she heard a thud—a sudden, solid thud, as if something heavy had fallen on the nearby shore.
She jumped. Her arm moved, the branch jerked, the leaves rustled and the bug fell into the water.
There was a grunt and a dull smack. A hitting sort of smack. After seven years as a teacher and twenty-nine years as a sister to two quarrelsome brothers, she knew that sound. She swallowed the whimper trying to climb out of her throat and crab-walked backward, sure she had to get away. Her wet dress clung to her legs, hampering her movement.
She paused, still crouched low. Now she couldn’t hear anything. Even the birds were quiet. That stupid bug was swimming toward her, and she had no idea where the soldier was, what was going on, or what she should do. Jane was used to being sensible, but common sense wasn’t much help in such an utterly uncommon situation. So she stayed where she was, frozen by indecision, straining to hear.
What was that? Behind her—
Before she could turn, a hand clamped over her mouth. Panic sent her heartbeat into triple time. She tried to bite the hand, but long fingers dug into her cheeks and she couldn’t get her mouth open. The hand jerked her head back. She took a deep, panicked breath through her nose and inhaled her attacker’s scent just as his other arm wrapped around her. He forced her off-balance so that she knelt, water lapping at her breasts, with her upper body bent awkwardly back. The hand on her mouth kept her head tilted, exposing her neck.
She thought about necks and knives. Nausea mixed with the panicked drumming of her heart.
A voice spoke in her ear in tiny puffs of air, softer than a whisper. “The soldier with the cigarette is unconscious, but there’s another one in the trees to the west He’ll hear us if we make any noise. Are you going to scream if I take my hand off your mouth?”
He spoke English. American English. Relief made he limp, and she managed to shake her head in spite of the bruta grip of his hand.
At last that hand left her mouth, though his arm stayed wrapped around her. She held her breath, trying to reassun him with her silence that she had the sense to be very, very quiet.
When he let go, she nearly toppled over backward. His hand on her shoulder steadied her. Taking care not to splash she stood, turned—and almost forgot the need for silence.
His glasses were gone. Everything else was the same—the loose white shirt, baggy chinos, and straight brown hai pulled back in a ponytail—but the glasses were gone, and with them had gone the man who’d worn them. It was the eyes, she thought. Those cold, blue-as-heaven eyes meeting hers didn’t belong to a shy professor. No. The man standing in front of her now, his pants wet from the thighs down, was something else; something so far outside her experience, she couldn’t put a label on him. She stood, mute and shaken staring at the stranger in front of her.
He held a finger to his lips in the age-old gesture for quiet and she realized his hands were the same. The same long fingers and palms, the same calluses and small nicks. Even though the man was different, the hands were the same. I was absurdly reassuring.
She nodded her understanding.
He turned.
She started to follow, but paused, looking down at the water that came up to her thighs now that she
