Face, The (15 page)

He falls silent, and all I hear is the steady crashing of the waves against the rocky cliffs.

“Maybe I should have arranged a dead drop, but I wanted to get the intel and get out of there, so I told Alberto we’d do a brush pass outside a local warehouse. He completed the pass, but he didn’t know he’d picked up a tail. Long story short, a couple of bad guys snagged both of us and hauled us to a shack on the beach. Alberto, they killed right away. Me, they tortured. Shot me in both kneecaps, destroyed my eyes with some chemical they’d developed. They said I’d never see my family again…and they were more right than they realized.”

Despite my resolve to listen calmly, my stomach shrivels. The flat tone of Judson’s voice tells me he’s shared this story more than once, but it has not lost its power to move him…or to terrify a listener.

“I thought,” I whisper, “you were going to spare me the gory details.”

Judson chuffs. “Give yourself some credit, Doc. Not many people could make me spill my guts after ten minutes of small talk.”

The silence stretches between us until I ask what happened next.

“I never told them a thing,” he says, a hint of satisfaction returning to his voice. “And they left me for dead. I might have died on that beach, but some children found me after a few days. The police put me in a Spanish hospital, where I spent months in a coma as ‘John Doe.’ Because I’d been in a hurry and sloppy in my protocol, my handler didn’t find me until after the hospital had amputated both legs. By that time, CIA had told my wife and son I was missing, presumed dead, and washed out to sea. For a while, I wished that were true.”

I force words over the lump in my throat. “The agency brought you to this place?”

He nods. “I’ve been here ever since. While I was in the coma, my wife badgered the company to make my death official so she could marry my cousin. I’d been stationed overseas so long, I suppose our marriage died long before I did.”

“But…don’t you want to go back?”

He folds his hands across his chest. “My life insurance is going to pay for my son’s college. My wife is happy. And as far as anyone in Lubbock, Texas, knows, Judson Holmes passed away in a random mugging while he was making big bucks in Europe. Now I’m content to be the Candyman and do whatever I can to bring down some very bad people. And I hope—I hope that counts for something.”

I wait, recognizing that significant silence in which difficult words are pulled from deep wells of emotion and painstakingly linked together.

“I do miss my son something fierce. The last thing I wanted to do was abandon him, but that’s exactly what I did. And sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and think about Alberto Herrera. Am I to blame for his death? For his kids’ poverty? For his wife’s loneliness? And if I am, is there anything I can do to make amends? I’m still waiting to feel forgiveness.”

“Maybe forgiveness isn’t something you feel. Maybe it’s something you simply accept.”

Easy to say…harder to believe. I understand what Judson is feeling, because lately I’ve been beating myself up about leaving Sarah alone in this place for so many years.

We sit in the silence, each of us lost in thought, as the wind fills with chimes from the convent bell tower. As I reflect on Judson’s story, I can’t help thinking about the girl who has brought me to this moment…and the emptiness that compelled me to find her. If I’d been happily married with two or three children of my own, would I have risked so much to get here?

I don’t think so. Sarah is all I have in this world, my only remaining relative. Whether or not she’s willing to admit it, we are connected by far more than DNA. We share a history and a heritage.

When the bells fall silent, I place my hand on the man’s arm. “I don’t know what to tell you, Judson. No matter how much we regret it, we can’t erase the past. But, at least to some degree, we can determine our future.”

“Spoken like a true shrink,” he says. “Or a politician.”

I laugh softly. “But I’m glad you’re the kind of man who thinks about these things. And I’m grateful you’re Sarah’s friend.”

Sarah

T
he burka, I discover, is sky-blue, and my aunt laughs when I carry it down to her room and shake it out.

“It looks like a parachute,” she says, her eyes wide as she lifts an edge of the billowing fabric, “but it’s much more attractive than those black tents I’ve seen women wearing on CNN.”

I lift the burka and turn it, but all I see is a solid wall of fabric. No armholes, no opening for the neck. “How is it worn?”

“Here.” Renee plucks at an area of blue mesh not much bigger than the back of my hand. “I think this part goes over your eyes, the band behind it fits around your head. Everything else just…hangs.”

“At least the fabric’s not heavy.”

With Renee’s help, I pull the cotton garment over my head and let it fall to the floor. The fabric covers even the laces of my sneakers, and the headband feels tight around my skull.

My aunt’s face twists in a strange expression when she settles the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “I hate what these do to women,” she says in a voice so low I can barely hear it, “but today, maybe, I’ll learn to be grateful.”

Imprisoned in my blue tent, I feel strangely light-headed. Because my face is completely covered except for the mesh rectangle over my eyes, I have no peripheral vision. Fabric also covers my speech processor, so every sound seems muffled and indistinct.

Still, I’m excited at the prospect of leaving the convent. My pulse has increased, and so has my respiration rate. If I was hooked up to a polygraph at this moment, I could give the examiner my true name and he’d swear I was lying.

Eager and unsteady on my feet, I keep my eyes fixed on the back of Renee’s head as she leads me to the elevator. One of the guards is there—Mitch, I think—and he snaps to attention when he sees us approaching.

“Going down, ladies?”

Renee clings to her purse strap with both hands. “I trust Dr. Mewton has approved our departure?”

“Yes, ma’am, the boat and driver are here. I’ll escort you to the dock.”

We step into the elevator and I wonder if Mitch can sense my excitement. I must be exuding it like a scent, but he presses the D button as if he escorts disguised CIA employees out of the convent every night.

Mitch glances over his shoulder and smiles…at my aunt. “Nice night for a trip into town. Made any special plans?”

She returns his smile. “I thought we’d be impulsive.”

“I hear there’s a good Basque-style restaurant in the town center. Pintxos, they call it.”

I stare at the two of them, amazed at the ease they display with one another. Mitch doesn’t even know my aunt, but he is smiling and telling her about a restaurant without her even having to ask for a recommendation.

Is the entire world friendly, or are things this easy only for beautiful people?

I pause as the elevator door slides open. “Should we—is Dr. Mewton going to see us off?”

Renee smiles. “You don’t think they’d have a boat waiting without her approval, do you?”

“No, but—”

“It’s okay, Sarah. You’re a grown woman. You can come and go as you please.”

“In alias.”

“However you want to go out.”

I step onto the dock. Though I’ve seen this area many times through the security cams, I haven’t been down here in months. The place seems brighter than normal, and far more colorful. The wet wood beneath my feet is dark brown and the water the same color as my burka. The boat at the dock has a bright yellow stripe around its edge and the name
Banana Split
painted on the side.

I feel like Dorothy, who went to sleep in black-and-white Kansas and woke up in Technicolor Oz.

My aunt looks back at Mitch, who is waiting on the dock. “No Father Paul tonight?”

“Father Paul’s off duty,” Mitch says.

“He’s hearing confession,” the driver of the boat adds, and I’m not sure he’s joking until I hear Mitch laugh.

The man in the boat is not wearing clerical garb, but a short-sleeved shirt and a white cap. He extends his hand to help me into the boat. “Hello, ladies,” he says, smiling at Renee. He’s holding my hand but looking at her, which makes me wonder if the burka is some sort of invisibility cloak.

I don’t mind being invisible—the burka has given me freedom I’ve never known before. I am used to strangers who look at me and quickly turn away. I usually turn away, too, but behind this mesh wall, I am free to stare back.

When Renee and I are seated, the driver starts the engine and turns in his seat to guide the boat out of the cavern. I don’t watch him, but study Mitch instead, grateful for this opportunity to look without anyone—especially Mitch—noticing.

“I had forgotten how small this entrance is,” I shout over the growl of the engines. “It’s been a long time since I visited the dock.”

Because the tide is low, we are able to motor through the mouth of the cavern without any trouble. Within minutes, we’re on the open water, skimming the waves like a rocket. I hang on to the railing, the metal slippery beneath the thin fabric of the burka, and gasp when chilly spray splashes into my eyes. Beside me, Renee smiles and braces herself against the back of my seat. Our driver says nothing, but guides the boat toward a narrow strip of land that rises out of the sea.

Despite the warmth of the late-afternoon sun, shivers track down my spine like melting bits of ice. Judson and Renee keep telling me that the world is a wonderful place, but Dr. Mewton frequently points out horrible stories of cruelty, mayhem, and murder. Dorothy’s Oz was a beautiful emerald city, but it was also home to a malignant and treacherous witch.

Which will we discover on this trip? The denizens of a friendly coastal town, or people with malicious intent?

I glance at Renee, who has lifted her face to the sun as the wind streams through her short hair. She is smiling as if she hasn’t a care in the world, so I’ll try to follow her example.

Filled with anticipatory adrenaline, I breathe in the clean scent of unrestricted air and tremble beneath my blessed blue tent.

As we draw closer to shore, beyond the port I see orange tiled roofs, green terraces, and tan houses with many windows. Several of these buildings are as large as the Convent of the Lost Lambs, and for an instant I wonder if they are hospitals. Surely not. No single city could have so many sick people.

We are heading toward a marina filled with scores of smaller boats, many of them featuring tall masts that rise from their decks like toothpicks. The driver cuts the engine as we approach, then he glides up to a dock. The sun-spangled sea has shifted to the color of celery and is slapping rhythmically against the pilings.

The driver turns to my aunt. “You’ll call?”

“I have the number,” she says, standing. “And I know the return protocol.”

I’m glad she does, because Dr. Mewton didn’t tell me anything about how to get back home.

Renee reaches out as the boat sways on the water, and the man catches her hand, giving her a smile. When she looks at him, I sense that unspoken communication is passing between them.

“Miss?” After helping Renee onto the dock, the driver offers me his hand, too, but his eyes do not meet mine as he helps me step onto the dock. When I have safely joined my aunt, he waves at another man on the dock and helps the second man fasten the lines.

“Come.” Renee grips my elbow through the folds of fabric. “Let’s get away from the smell of saltwater and go into town. We’ll hail a taxi.”

I follow, but it’s hard to walk behind her and take in the sights through a four-by-six-inch mesh window. And there is so much to see—sleek sailing vessels, flat racers, commercial boats, extravagant yachts. Dark-skinned sailors, fair-haired men, and women—not many, but a few, most of them peering out from cabins in the sailboats or sunning themselves on the decks.

With a quick step, my aunt leads me onto a main street, then she drops my elbow and thrusts her hand into the air. I am swiveling from right to left, trying to scan my surroundings and decipher the Spanish street signs. Before I realize what has happened, a car stops at the curb. My aunt opens the back door, nudges me toward it, and bends to tell the driver that we want to go to Pintxos in the city center. He taps a meter, then Renee slides in behind me and we lurch forward.

I can’t believe it. I can barely sit still, for there is much to see and absorb, but the cab stops before I have begun to take in the city. My aunt hands the driver some money—euros, I think—and then pulls me from the cab.

I stand on the sidewalk and stare at the cobbled walkway before me, dazzled beyond belief. The slanting street opens to a row of buildings that hunch close together, their orange roofs tilting into one another, their porches festooned with fervid blossoms and bright-hued doors. Tufts of moss and greenery grow between the ancient stones beneath our feet, walkways that have been worn smooth by the passing of so many feet over the years.

Now
my
feet will walk over them, too.

“This way,” Renee says, and I allow myself to be tugged down the walkway. My aunt moves forward with fluid strides while I gape at store windows that overflow with colors and twinkling lights and jewels splashed over velvet cushions. Several windows feature statues arranged in awkward poses, their truncated bodies dressed in tunics bordered with sequins and beads and fuzzy feathers that are nothing like the stiff castoffs I occasionally find in the graveyard.

Must we be in such a hurry?

I’m about to ask, but Renee wraps her hands around my elbow, which she has again managed to find through the concealing folds of my disguise.

“What would you like to eat?” she asks, her gaze skimming the storefronts.

I hesitate. “Could I get a hamburger?”

She looks at me and laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

I shake my head.

“Is that a no?” She peers through my mesh veiling. “Well, we can probably get a hamburger…if we find a restaurant with an American menu. Maybe over there.”

The restaurant is not Pintxos, and for an instant I’m stunned that she’d be willing to deviate from her original plan. She’s frighteningly spontaneous, but if this other place has a hamburger…

She points across the street to a small courtyard filled with tables and potted trees. A chalkboard stands on the sidewalk, but I can’t read the language.

“Let’s check it out.” She drops my elbow and jogs across the road with a grace that leaves me breathless. Am I supposed to follow? Is she coming back? Did she mean for me to wait, or does she expect me to join her?

I hesitate, confused by the vast array of choices, then I lift my chin and move into the road. I haven’t taken two steps when the sharp blast of a horn rattles my speech processor. A car screeches to a halt, its bumper striking my thigh with the force of a blow. I duck to protect my leg, then a man begins to yell at me in a language I don’t recognize. A woman is shouting, too. I don’t know where all the noise is coming from, but finally I turn and see the man leaning out his car window, his face red, his fist pounding the air.

A woman grabs my shoulders and steers me out of the road. She is jabbering in Basque, which I don’t understand. When she releases me, I realize that Renee is awkwardly patting me through the burka. “Are you hurt? Is anything broken?”

I rub my injured thigh. “I’m okay. He only bumped my leg.”

“Are you sure? Can you walk?”

By this time the driver has come over. He is still yelling, though I can’t understand a word. Renee utters a curt
“¡Silencio!”
then she asks again if I’m all right. I straighten my spine and take three steps, then give an exaggerated nod to indicate that I’m uninjured. “See?” I wave my hands so the burka flaps in the breeze. “No blood. I’m okay.”

The driver flips the stub of his cigarette at my feet and stalks back to his car.

“Some men,” Renee says, her voice dry, “are still living in the dark ages. I’m sorry about that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have left you on the curb—I forgot you’re wearing a bedsheet. Those things are so unsafe, I can’t imagine why anyone believes they’re a reasonable idea.”

With a firm grip on my upper arm, she directs me toward a courtyard and says something to the waiter in stilted Spanish. He asks a question and Renee answers, her voice low and measured.

I had been hoping we could sit at a table near the sidewalk, but the host escorts us inside the building and leads us to a booth against the wall. It’s not until I slide onto the low bench that I realize what Renee has to be thinking—a burka is a good disguise, but it’s not good for eating. How do Muslim women do it?

“I know.” Renee catches my eye once the waiter is gone. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to take it off if you want to eat. Either that, or take your plate into the tent with you.”

“I can wait a while, can’t I?”

“Sure.”

A waitress comes up, offers us a stiff cardboard menu, and smiles at my aunt, ignoring me.

“Un vaso de agua, por favor,”
Renee says.
“Dos vasos.”