Chapter 191
Kate exited the center where she'd set up a small lab and where she'd spent the past few months holding endless meetings with AIDS researchers from all over the world, including the chief of the Division of International Medicine and Infectious Diseases from a highly respected United States university. In a few weeks, she would begin interviewing scientists who would be willing to work with her full-time.
The disc Jack had found in Dr. Forstin's lab had contained all of her father's notes combined with Dr. Forstin's notes, which was everything she needed to continue on with her father's work.
A group of bikers congregated in front of the graffiti-splashed wall across the street, one of the poorest slums in Port-au-Prince. They all chattered at once as she locked up the center and headed off for the docks to see if Esri needed any help with the boats. She waved the bikers off, shaking her head. They only grew louder, but she knew they wouldn't harm her. They were her people. She helped them and they helped her. It was a win-win situation.
Kate weaved around a manhole. That minor task made her think of Jack. If she tried hard enough, she could smell his cologne and remember the way he'd felt smack against her when she'd first run into him. Stop it, Kate. It's time to move on. He's not coming for you this time.
Avoiding the ruts in the road was not an easy task as she made her way to the docks positioned in a horseshoe bay at the foot of surrounding hills. The wide treeless streets did little to protect her from the tormenting heat of the midday sun. Still, not once since her return had she regretted coming back. There was no denying she missed Jack, so much so it pained her to think of him at times. But nearly three months had pa.s.sed since leaving him in the States. They had talked on the phone twice, and he sent a letter every week. But all correspondence stopped three weeks ago.
She tried to convince herself it was for the best. She couldn't expect a man like Jack to pick up and move to a place like Haiti all in the name of love. She only wished she had told him she loved him. At the time, she hadn't wanted to make it more difficult to leave.
A rickety old pick-up that had been colorfully transformed into a means of public transportation honked its horn until baskets and blankets covered with wares were moved from the dusty ground to make a pa.s.sage for the truck to get by. Vendors balanced their baskets on their heads, making it easier for them to get around and move out of the way. The smell of pork and meat-filled pastries floated in the air as she walked by.
Haiti would most likely always be one of the poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere, but there would always be color in the lives of its people. n.o.body could deny that they were resourceful.
Usually a white face in their midst was a strange occurrence, but Kate had been around long enough not to cause much commotion. They knew she was one of them. A gust of wind hit the street as she walked along, picking up the smells and giving the place some needed ventilation.
Esri Dalton waved when she saw Kate approaching. If not for Esri taking her in so long ago, Kate would more than likely not have survived. The woman had taken her under her wing, taught her to sail and given her a job. Esri's daughter, Fiona, was another story. Fiona didn't like sharing her mother's attentions, but despite the tension between them, Kate considered Fiona a sister.
"How is Kate today?"
Kate looked into Esri's kind dark eyes, saw a flash of mischief there and wondered what the woman was up to. "I'm well. Thanks for asking. I came to see if you needed me to take any tourists to the islands."
Without responding to her offer, Esri said, "Fiona was looking for you earlier. That boat of yours finally sold."
"Paradise?"
Esri nodded. "The man who bought it paid cash. Since I sold the boat, I will receive a hefty commission. Enough money to allow me to work shorter weeks, maybe even retire."
"What will you do?"
"Not sure," Esri said with a spark in her eye. "I think I'm going to sail away on this smaller boat here and spend a few days thinking about it."
"Where will you go?"
"Don't worry about me," Esri said, waving her off with a limp hand. "Don't you want to know who bought your boat?"
"It wasn't my boat. Besides, I have lots of work to keep me busy. I don't have time to sail off into the sunset." She had no regrets.
"Not even the least bit curious?"
"Nope."
"Fiona met with him earlier and collected the money for me," Esri went on. "She said the American man had Mel Gibson eyes and a nice-"
At the sound of movement on the Paradise, Kate whipped around. Jack stood on deck, looking way too good for man who hadn't called or sent word in three weeks. He had on a dark s.h.i.+rt and a silk tie. His hair appeared darker and had grown long enough to flip upward here and there, especially around his ears.
"You bought my boat, rookie?"
"Yeah, I did. What are you going to do about it?"
She headed his way, hips swaying with each step. "You don't think I'm the sort of woman who would make a deal, do you?"
He rubbed his stubbled chin. "No. You're right. I guess
Disappearing inside the cabin, he returned after a few minutes with his jacket draped over his arm. He asked Esri if she would take him to the Caymans.
Esri nodded happily.
Kate stiffened. "You're going to give up that easily?"
He snorted. "I've asked you to marry me three times, technically four. I'm not doing it again."
He jumped off the deck and onto the dock, leaving a fleeting kiss on her cheek before he hopped onto Esri's boat.
Esri looked at Kate, waiting for her to tell her what to do.
Kate jumped into Esri's boat and wrapped her fingers around Jack's tie. He smelled like sandalwood and soap. She wanted to haul him closer and kiss him until the sun went down, but Esri was standing right behind him and Esri might get bored. "Okay, rookie, have it your way. I'm only going to ask once because unlike some people, I don't like to repeat myself. Will you marry me?"
"I'll have to think about it."
She pulled on his tie until he was close enough to kiss, and then she planted her lips on his and let him have it. Moments of bliss pa.s.sed by before he lifted his head and said, "I thought you'd never ask."
"Are you two finished then?" Esri asked.
They both laughed.
Kate took Esri into her arms and hugged her tight while Jack climbed off the boat and onto the dock. After Kate finished saying goodbye, she leaned toward Jack and reached out for him.
He swept her into his arms and brought her feet gently to the dock.
After Kate released the ties to Esri's boat, Jack gave the boat a push. He put his arm around Kate's shoulder and together they watched Esri set the mainsail before heading out to sea.
After a moment, Kate turned to Jack. "Did you get him?"
He nodded, his eyes filling with something that looked a lot like satisfaction. "The DNA was a match. There was a funeral and my parents were finally able to lay my sister to rest. Annie's killer will be spending the rest of his days behind bars."
The sun threw sparks of light across her face.
"I love you, Jack."
"I know."
"How could you know?"
"I saw it in your eyes that first day we met when I cuffed you to my wrist."
She laughed.
"G.o.d," he said, taking her by the waist and pulling her close. "You have no idea how much I've missed that sound."
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming back."
"Nothing could have kept me away. I thought you knew that."
"What about the agency?"
"They'll do fine without me. I thought you could teach me to sail so I could spend my days searching for gardenias."
Her eyes sparkled. "We can make a difference, Jack."
He kissed the tip of her nose. "We can certainly try."
THE END.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
After reading my first romance novel in 1992, I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life...write novels...exciting tales of adventure that would provide busy women around the world, a few hours of entertainment. I knew I was truly a writer when I was working full-time while raising four children and nothing could stop me from getting the words to the page. I hope you enjoy the release of my first romantic suspense, Finding Kate Huntley. In 2008, Finding Kate Huntley finaled in RWA's Golden Heart compet.i.tion. Enjoy!
Website: www.theresaragan.com.
Wounded.
Jasinda Wilder.
PROLOGUE.
THE PRAYER.
First Gulf War; Iraq, 1991.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
The words were whispered under his breath, his fingers rubbing the beads of the rosary. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands trembling. He couldn't stand up, could only slump on his knees and lean back against the rough, cool stone of the wall.
He wasn't sure if the silence was real or if his hearing had been blasted away. Whatever the case, the world was silent around him.
A bullet bit into the wall near his head, and he threw himself to the side. He felt a brief spat of pain as his head crashed against the ground. He'd heard no gunshot, so his ears must not have been working. Another bullet, a third and fourth, and then a whole murderous hailstorm impacted the wall and the dirt road, shredding the stone and flecking him with stinging shards of rock. He lunged to his feet, stumbled into a run, and ducked into a doorway. Bullets followed him, thunking into the wood of the door, disappearing into the darkness within, zinging and ricocheting. He let himself fall to the floor, then rolled over and curled into the corner.
Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
His ears rang, popped, and cleared. Immediately, the sound of a.s.sault rifle fire filled the air, a harsh hackhackhack, a pause...hackhackhack; the whistle-whoosh of an RPG, followed by a brief, fraught, waiting silence...a deafening crump as the grenade exploded nearby, shaking dust from the ceiling.
A man screamed shrilly in Arabic a few feet away..."Allah! Allah!"
Another voice, farther away, screaming curses in English.
Silence.
Silence.
Hackhackhack...an AK-47; crackcrackcrackcrack...an American M16A2 returning fire.
He managed to rise to his feet without vomiting or collapsing. He was in no way ready for this-he'd signed up to take pictures, write a story, not to be shot at. He was a journalist, not a soldier. Stop shooting at me, he wanted to say but couldn't.
He huddled against the wall and inspected his camera, breathed a sigh of amazed relief to see it intact. A bit miraculous, actually, considering how he'd been throwing himself around. He poked his head around the corner, scanned the scene for a shot.
There: a man in a red-and-white checkered keffiyeh standing on a rooftop firing an AK-47, the stock of an RPG poking up above his head. The photographer swapped lenses, wide-angle for telephoto, focused in on the insurgent-snap-caught him as he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, one eye squinted-snap-again as he lifted the rifle above his head in jubilation. The photographer flopped down to street level, lying p.r.o.ne, snapsnapsnap, capturing the dying slump and fall of a Marine, the tortured disbelief on his face, the arms clutched about his red-weeping throat, then snapsnapsnap as his buddy knelt in the street beside him to draw bead on the insurgent, crackcrackcrack...crackcrack: The keffiyeh jerked and was stained pink.
He heard a rustle and whimper from a far corner: a boy and his sister huddled together, holding tightly to one another. The boy stood up slowly, resolve hardening in his eyes. He reached down to the floor, lifted a rifle, and aimed it. The photographer raised his hands to show he was unarmed; the boy jabbered something in Arabic, motioned at the photographer with the muzzle. He shook his head, edged backward, lowered his hands: he had a Beretta 9mm at the small of his back, a precaution he'd hoped he would never have to use.
If he'd learned anything as an embedded journalist, it was the single rule of warfare: kill or be killed.
He was already making justifications, excuses.
The boy began to yell, shrill and angry. The photographer backed up against the wall, hand edging slowly towards the hard lump of the pistol against his spine. He gripped the gun tightly, preparing to jerk and fire. If he had been facing an adult, the move would have been obvious, but this was a boy, just a boy, no more than ten or eleven.
He held the AK like he knew how to use it, however, and the desperate terror in his eyes spoke of a short life lived in a perpetual war zone. He probably had been lulled to sleep by gunfire and explosions as much as mother's song and father's arms. He probably had played with that rifle as a toddler, sitting on his father's lap, lifted it, pretended to shoot it, making the sounds boys make the world over when playing soldier. This boy, though, had actually seen war. He playacted things he'd seen, not just scenes from the imaginations of sheltered children. He had seen uncles and cousins shrouded by old blankets, still and cold, had seen Marines tromp through his village, tall and arrogant.
Maybe he had been given a candy bar by one, a cuff on the head by another, a cold stare by a third. Maybe his father had been killed by an American in desert camo. Maybe he was left alone with his sister. Now, here was an American, and he had a chance to even the score. What did this boy know about rules of engagement, or the dishonor of killing an unarmed noncombatant? Of course, the boy couldn't know anything of this, and of course, the journalist was not unarmed.
Holy Mary, Mother of G.o.d, pray for us sinners...
He pulled the pistol as quickly and smoothly as possible, fired once, twice. The boy jerked sideways, left arm blossoming red, dust pattering from the missed second shot. The boy fell in slow motion, blood blooming like a pink, spreading rosette. The look in his eyes was something the photographer would never forget. The boy looked at the American, his expression doleful, accusing, baffled, hurt, as if a toy had been stolen.
His sister was screaming, but the journalist couldn't hear it, his hearing gone out again, but her mouth was opened wide and her chest was heaving and she was leaning over her brother. She turned to the photographer, screaming at him, shaking her head no no no.