Читать книгу Not Without The Truth - Kay David - Страница 8

Summer 2005

Near Machu Picchu

THE ROPE BRIDGE SWUNG LAZILY in the bright Peruvian sun. Every so often, a loose strand of hemp would free itself and float on the warm breeze before drifting away. Most of the strings fell to the river thirty feet below where the water rolled over the rocks in an easy rhythm. No hurry, the gentle rippling sound seemed to say, no rush.

On either side of the precarious walkway, scarlet macaws preened in the warmth, their iridescent feathers flashing against the thick green foliage like priceless jewels. The birds’ exotic calls filled the air, along with the perfume from the nearby balsam trees.

Pausing on the edge of the gorge, Lauren Stanley studied the tranquil scene spread out before her. For as far as she could see, serenity and beauty lay. Breathing deeply, she tried to trap the essence of the moment and transfer its peace to a spot inside herself.

She failed.

All Lauren could feel was the fright that had her nailed to one spot. Big spiders and heights, tight spots and snakes. Lauren’s list of fears was a long one and there were some things on it she couldn’t even name. Despite their numbers, she’d managed to face most of them because she was too stubborn to give up on something just because it was difficult. The perfect example of that was right ahead of her. Seeing the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu would have been a straight-forward journey, but she’d had to come to the lesser ruins first, even though it had meant hacking a path through the jungle and crossing remote bridges like the one she was staring at now.

A second passed and then another one. Finally, she managed to break her paralysis. Opening her eyes, she lifted her hands and stared at them. They trembled violently, as did her body.

Behind her, Joaquin, the guide she’d hired, said something encouraging. At least, that’s how she interpreted it. He spoke almost no Spanish and they’d had to make do between his Quechuan and sign language. She looked over her shoulder and the young man made a go-ahead motion with his hand. She faced forward once more and eased her right foot out.

The bridge was made of three ropes, two that acted as handrails and one Lauren would have to balance on as she walked across. They were lashed together with extra fibers at gaping intervals. The woven strand beneath her boot was probably two inches in diameter, maybe three at the most. She had forty feet to go and there was no other way to get to the other side.

She knew she shouldn’t, but Lauren glanced down. The space beneath her seemed to widen and the green cliffs on either side shifted accordingly. A sickening dizziness swamped her.

I can’t do this. She shut her eyes again. I can’t do this. What was I thinking? Why did I come here? Am I crazy or what?

The questions were rhetorical because she knew the answer to each. She’d come back to Peru because she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life living in fear. She refused to. She’d spent enough time there and she was ready to move on. She had a great career ahead of her and nothing but opportunity. All she had to do was conquer the final frontier—her past. And she probably was nuts, but that had never stopped her.

Enough thinking, it was time to go. Lifting her left foot, Lauren carefully placed it in front of her right. She was near enough to the metal rings that held the ropes steady that the bridge stayed immobile under her shifting weight and her confidence took a step forward as well.

She continued, blanking her mind to anything but reaching the other side. Measure by measure. Heartbeat by heartbeat. Breath by breath.

She was halfway across when the rope’s tension seemed to change. Gripping the side ropes tightly, she told herself she was imagining things. Then the birds became quiet.

Turning her head slowly—it seemed to take a year—she glanced behind her. Joaquin was gone, the platform where the guide had been waiting now empty.

She puzzled over his disappearance. Maybe he’d slipped behind the foliage for a moment’s privacy…. Maybe he’d sat down on the forest floor to wait for his turn to cross…. Maybe he’d gone back to his village and left her to her own devices…. She couldn’t reverse her steps so she looked the way she’d been heading and tried to calm her concerns.

Then the rope bucked.

It steadied almost instantly and she sucked in a gasp of relief but before she could exhale, the cables went completely slack.

She screamed in terror as air replaced the support at her feet. The rope swung wildly and, burdened with her weight, headed for the rocks in front of her. If she held on, she’d slam into the side of the cliff.

The rough hemp burned through her palms, peeling the flesh from her fingers and setting them on fire with pain. The overhang zoomed closer. A tree branch, reaching out from the precipice as if to help, scraped her cheek instead.

A thousand different scenarios careered through her head but she knew she only had one choice. She held on until the last possible moment, but she finally opened her hands and let go.

She shrieked all the way down and hit the water with a splash. There was silence after that. When the last echo died, the birds resumed their calls.

“HOW YOU DOING? Seen any ruins lately?”

Meredith Santera spoke in a casual way but Armando Torres wasn’t fooled by her tone. Meredith wasn’t a woman who telephoned just to chitchat. Her intensity never abated and she remained focused at all times. On occasion, she pretended otherwise, but in reality, she never let up.

“Why do you wake me in the middle of the night to ask how I feel?” A native of Argentina, Armando’s accent became more obvious. “I think you have something other than my welfare on your mind.”

A pause came over the line before she answered. “How come you say so little but understand so much?”

He made a sound of dismissal. “If you listened more and spoke less, you would hear what I hear. I have no special skills.”

“I disagree, which is exactly why I’ve called you.”

He waited in silence.

“I had an interesting conversation yesterday,” she began.

Armando heard the sound of shuffling papers and he imagined Meredith sitting at her desk in Miami. She’d moved there after she’d left the CIA and started the Operatives. At the beginning, there had been four of them—Meredith, Armando and two others, Stratton O’Neil and Jonathan Cruz—but in the past few years, some changes had come about.

Stratton had been the first to leave. Following a job that had gone tragically wrong, he’d moved to L.A. to escape his past and disengage from life. His plan had been foiled when he’d taken one last job then had fallen in love. Cruz had been next. He was teaching at Langley now and he, too, had a new wife. She happened to be Meredith’s best friend. Cruz had married her after he’d rescued her and her son from the drug kingpin who was the child’s father.

Armando had also wondered from time to time about leaving the team. He had more work at the clinic than he could handle and it was good work, productive work. But what he did with the Operatives was important, and he wasn’t sure he could ever give it up.

Meredith’s voice brought him back. “I got a call from a doctor in Dallas by the name of J. Freeman Stanley. He’s a very well-known child psychiatrist. His expertise is in repressed memories. Does his name sound familiar?”

Armando held his breath, his past rising up from the grave where he kept it buried. “Not really,” he lied.

“You’ll remember when you hear the rest. You must be getting old.”

I am, he thought, and growing even more so as you speak. He’d never told Meredith much about his early years. Her father had helped her form the company and he’d been the one she’d trusted to choose the men. He’d known everyone’s secrets but he was gone now. All Meredith knew was that Armando had been involved with the Peruvian job. She had no idea he’d seen the girl. No one knew that, except for him and her.

“Dr. Stanley has a daughter named Lauren,” she said. “Her mother was Margaret Stanley.” Meredith paused. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember her. She was—”

“One of the consuls in Lima.” He dropped his pretense. “Christmas eve, 1989. I was sent there that night, but she was already dead before I could get to her. They said she interrupted a burglar and he killed her. I remember.”

“Finally! I was getting worried about you for a minute.”

He interrupted her, an act of discourtesy he’d normally never indulge in. “What’s wrong?”

If she noticed his shortness, she ignored it. “Lauren Stanley is twenty-six now. She’s a writer for a travel magazine called Luxury and she’s been on assignment in Peru doing an article about the ruins.”

“Luxury, eh?” Armando forced the tightness in his chest to loosen. “That sounds like a nice job. To visit rich people’s resorts and write about them.”

“It sounds good, yes, but something must have happened. About two weeks ago, she stopped checking in and her father is getting frantic.”

“How did he connect with you?”

“He didn’t. My father was still in Washington when Stanley’s wife died and Dad debriefed the doctor after he and his daughter left Peru. According to Stanley, Dad told him if there was ever anything he could do for him to call. So he did. The office forwarded the message to me. Stanley had no idea that my father was dead.”

Her voice seemed to thicken but Armando knew he was imagining the sound. Meredith’s emotions were so tightly controlled he didn’t think she even knew how to feel them anymore.

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“She’s missing. You’re there. I thought you could at least ask around—”

“She is a grown woman,” Armando said sharply. “She probably found a lover and ran off with him.”

“I hope so, but the situation’s a little more complicated than it appears. Freeman Stanley said the mother’s death left Lauren Stanley unstable and prone to depression. Considering her past, I think he has a right to be concerned. I would be if she were my daughter. So would you.”

Outside his open bedroom window, somewhere in the undergrowth beyond, Armando heard the foliage rustle and the low grunt of an animal. He didn’t try to guess what it was. The rugged mountainous terrain provided a home for many living things, as well as for some things that weren’t. The Quechuan were a superstitious lot, but not without good reason.

Meredith’s voice held her first hint of impatience. “Have you seen anything—”

“I’m not that close to Machu.”

“No, but you’re not that far and a lot of people visit those smaller ruins close to where you live, too. She could have done that.”

“It’s possible,” he said reluctantly, “but I’ve heard nothing.”

“When was the last time you went into the village?”

The clinic was located near a dot on the map called Rojo. It was located between Cuzco and the ruins of Machu Picchu. “I haven’t been to Rojo in a month,” he said. “Maybe two. I forget.”

Meredith made a tsk-tsking sound. “You’re turning into el ermitaño, Armandito….”

“A hermit is better than what they call me now.”

“The locals still think you can make yourself invisible?”

“They must,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing but el médico del fantasma could do so, I presume.”

“You need to get out more,” she remarked. “Go to Rojo for me. Be my ears and eyes. I want to call this man and help him out.”

“And if we cannot do that?”

“Then I’ll tell him that, too,” she said. “But you have to ask around first. I don’t want to lie to him either way.”

Armando sighed. He didn’t want to get involved, but guilt was a powerful motivator—and a heavy weight. Of all the cases in his past, why had this one come back? He’d lost more sleep over the little girl with the haunting eyes than he had over any of his other assignments.

“How would I know her?” he asked reluctantly.

“I’ll fax you a photo. She won’t be hard to miss. Believe me, if she’s anywhere around there, you’ll know. She’s gorgeous. Blond, blue eyes, thin. She looks like a supermodel.” Meredith hesitated, then corrected herself. “No, wait. Actually, that’s not quite true. She looks like her mother. Exactly like her. Do you remember her?”

“Yes.”

Oblivious to what his one-syllable answer signified, Meredith continued. “Maybe you’ll fall in love with her,” she teased. “And move back to the States like Cruz and Stratton. You could have three children and buy a big ranch in Texas. You’d make lots of money, you know.”

“I need no more money,” he said, staring out into the night. “And I don’t want a wife and three children. Or a ranch in Texas.”

Finally sensing his mood, she spoke with a serious tone. “Then what do you want, Armando? Cruz has found his place in the world and Stratton has gotten himself straightened out. They seem happy. When are you going to give up being the broody Latin and do the same?”

“I’m thrilled for them,” he said. “But I’m not sure that condition will ever find me.”

“It doesn’t just fall into your lap,” she said sharply. “You have to search for it.”

“You’re correct as usual,” he said. “But I carry too many images of death. They visit me without invitation and linger in the corners. I don’t need to look for anything more, much less happiness. “

“We’ve done a lot of good, Armando.”

“I know that. I’m still a believer, don’t worry.”

“Then concentrate on that. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself insane.”

“Your advice is wise, Meredith, but it comes too late.” His voice went quiet and low with regret. “I’ve done things I shouldn’t have and left too many other things undone.”

They hung up without saying goodbye. A moment later, the fax on his desk rang shrilly. Armando walked to the machine and watched the picture of Lauren Stanley emerge, line by line. When the photo was complete, he continued to stare. Meredith had been correct. The little girl he’d seen had turned into a stunning woman. If she was anywhere near Rojo or even Aquas Caliente, the larger village upriver, he would have heard by now.

Picking up the fax, he crumpled it out of habit then put a match to the wad of paper. White ash fell like snow into the metal wastebasket at his feet.

He went back to bed but sleep didn’t join him.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW where she was.

Pain was her only constant. For days, she hadn’t been able to move without wanting to scream. When the aches had started to ease, the fever had begun. She’d lost track of time, the edge between darkness and day blurring until she no longer knew—or cared—if the sun or the moon shone.

The hut where she lay was thatched and a mosquito net covered the space above her. There was nothing in the room but her bed and a small table beside it. In contrast, a window opening to the right framed a scene that looked more like a Gauguin painting than any actual place she’d ever been.

A woman came in several times a day and checked on her. Sometimes in the middle of the night—or maybe the middle of the day, she wasn’t sure which—a man came, too. He was lean and gaunt with sunken eyes that frightened her. He never spoke. He did nothing but look at her.

She didn’t know where she was.

She didn’t know who she was.

THE DAY AFTER MEREDITH CALLED, Armando went into Rojo, but no one in the village had seen a gringa. He returned home and put the woman out of his mind. When Meredith called a week later, he told her he knew nothing.

“Dammit, I hate having to call Freeman Stanley and tell him that. Are you sure no one’s seen her?”

He let his silence answer the question.

“What should I do?” she asked in a worried voice.

He shook his head at her ploy. “Don’t try to pull one of your tricks on me, Meredith. You asked me to see if Lauren Stanley had been here and that is what I did. If this was a real assignment, I would stop and do anything you asked, you know that, but otherwise my days here are very full already. I have the clinic and the villages and the children. I did not join the Operatives to find missing daughters for worried daddies.”

“Stanley has called me too many times to count. He offered us a lot of money.”

“And I told you last time we spoke that I have no need of that.”

“Maybe you don’t,” she said, “but what about your clinic? When I saw you at Cruz’s wedding, you said the place continuously required new equipment and stronger drugs and more staff and better beds—”

He interrupted her as she had him. “The funds this man could give us wouldn’t make a dent in what we lack. And the time it would take to do the job, to find this woman, I do not have it, Meredith.”

“Your time I can’t replace,” she said. “But you’re wrong about the money.” She named a figure that shocked him. “You could buy a lot of aspirin with that, Armando. A donation that size could keep the clinic running for years. You could even hire another doctor.” She paused then added in a mocking voice, “A real doctor.”

Armando was a psychiatrist and Meredith liked to tease him about it. He ignored her taunt this time, however, and thought of the infant he’d seen yesterday. One listen through his stethoscope and he’d known that the child had a serious heart defect, probably congenital. Other symptoms had confirmed his suspicions—the pale skin, the wheezing breath, the lethargy. Any medium-size hospital in the States could have corrected the problem, but here the baby had no chance.

“I’ll call you in two days.” He made the promise abruptly then hung up.

Later that morning, his housekeeper, who also served as a nurse at the clinic, came to his study. Zue was Quechuan and eighty. She worked hard but her grandson, Beli, who also helped around the compound, did just the opposite. Knowing Armando would pay him regardless, he put out as little effort as possible.

“There are people here,” she sniffed. “From Qunico. I told them the clinic was closed but they won’t go away. They’re farmers.”

Armando had learned a long time ago not to point out what he thought were the discrepancies in Zue’s complicated class hierarchy. “Send them in,” he said.

Under Zue’s watchful eyes, the two men shuffled inside. Wrapped in woven blankets, they were exhausted and filthy. Qunico was fifty miles east of Rojo and even if they had had a vehicle, there was nothing but a rough path between the two. They’d either walked or ridden mules. Armando studied them but they both seemed healthy.

The taller of two spoke haltingly. “Señor Doctor, we have a woman in our village. She is hurt and very sick. She needs your help. You are the only one who can save her.”

Armando stilled. Something inside told him he knew the answer to his question, but he asked it anyway. “The woman is a gringa, no? With blond hair and ojos azules?”

The men exchanged a startled look and Armando realized he’d just added to the rumors that swirled about him. They came to him for help, but most of the villagers were frightened of him—they thought he could read their minds, disappear at will and heal with a touch. He didn’t like the mystery they’d built up around him, but sometimes it proved useful, he had to admit.

“What’s wrong with her?” Armando asked.

Their explanation came out in a jumble of Spanish and Quechuan but even if one language had prevailed, it wouldn’t have mattered. They were too overwhelmed to get the tale told in any kind of order. Armando held his hand up after a few moments and halted the flow.

“Por favor, amigos, one thing at a time. Start at the beginning.”

The taller man, clearly the leader, paused and tried to organize his thoughts. Finally he shook his head in a gesture of defeat. “We don’t know the beginning, señor.”

Armando frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t know where she came from or how she escaped, but Xuachoto had her in his arms for a very long time. We think maybe he wanted to claim her for a new bride, but Mariaita wouldn’t let him. He had to give her up.”

The locals followed a convoluted mixture of Catholicism and Inca myths that had evolved through the centuries, their leader, Manco, serving as both priest and mayor. Armando hadn’t bothered to study the intricacies of the system but some of his ignorance was not his own fault. When the clinic had opened and the locals had seen what Armando’s medicines could do, they’d begun to bypass the old man’s rites and gone directly to Armando’s clinic for healing. In return, Manco deliberately made things more difficult because he resented what he perceived to be Armando’s healing powers and was jealous of his abilities.

Armando knew enough to recognize the name of their water god, Xuachoto, though, and his jealous wife, Mariaita. A chill came over him despite the heat and he dreaded hearing the answer to his next question.

“Are you telling me the gringa was in the river when you found her?”

They nodded in unison, then the shorter man spoke reverently. “Xuachoto had her. Manco fought hard, but he couldn’t bring her back from the other side. We know you can do better.”

“She’s dead?” Armando asked in alarm.

“No, señor, she is not dead.” He sent an uneasy look to his companion then faced Armando again. “But she is not alive, either.”